The Story of Mankind [77]
Hippocrates, the great Greek doctor
who had practiced his art in ancient Hellas in the fifth
century before the birth of Christ.
Then there was Abelard, the young priest from Brittany,
who early in the twelfth century began to lecture on theology
and logic in Paris. Thousands of eager young men flocked
to the French city to hear him. Other priests who disagreed
with him stepped forward to explain their point of view. Paris
was soon filled with a clamouring multitude of Englishmen and
Germans and Italians and students from Sweden and Hungary
and around the old cathedral which stood on a little island in
the Seine there grew the famous University of Paris.
In Bologna in Italy, a monk by the name of Gratian had
compiled a text-book for those whose business it was to know
the laws of the church. Young priests and many laymen then
came from all over Europe to hear Gratian explain his ideas.
To protect themselves against the landlords and the innkeepers
and the boarding-house ladies of the city, they formed a corporation
(or University) and behold the beginning of the university
of Bologna.
Next there was a quarrel in the University of Paris. We do
not know what caused it, but a number of disgruntled teachers
together with their pupils crossed the channel and found a
hospitable home in n little village on the Thames called Oxford,
and in this way the famous University of Oxford came into
being. In the same way, in the year 1222, there had been a split
in the University of Bologna. The discontented teachers (again
followed by their pupils) had moved to Padua and their proud city
thenceforward boasted of a university of its own. And so it went
from Valladolid in Spain to Cracow in distant Poland and from
Poitiers in France to Rostock in Germany.
It is quite true that much of the teaching done by these
early professors would sound absurd to our ears, trained to
listen to logarithms and geometrical theorems. The point
however, which I want to make is this--the Middle Ages and
especially the thirteenth century were not a time when the
world stood entirely still. Among the younger generation,
there was life, there was enthusiasm, and there was a restless
if somewhat bashful asking of questions. And out of this
turmoil grew the Renaissance.
But just before the curtain went down upon the last scene
of the Mediaeval world, a solitary figure crossed the stage, of
whom you ought to know more than his mere name. This
man was called Dante. He was the son of a Florentine lawyer
who belonged to the Alighieri family and he saw the light of
day in the year 1265. He grew up in the city of his ancestors
while Giotto was painting his stories of the life of St. Francis
of Assisi upon the walls of the Church of the Holy Cross, but
often when he went to school, his frightened eyes would see the
puddles of blood which told of the terrible and endless warfare
that raged forever between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines,
the followers of the Pope and the adherents of the Emperors.
When he grew up, he became a Guelph, because his father
had been one before him, just as an American boy might become
a Democrat or a Republican, simply because his father
had happened to be a Democrat or a Republican. But after a
few years, Dante saw that Italy, unless united under a single
head, threatened to perish as a victim of the disordered jealousies
of a thousand little cities. Then he became a Ghilbeiline.
He looked for help beyond the Alps. He hoped that a
mighty emperor might come and re-establish unity and order.
Alas! he hoped in vain. The Ghibellines were driven out of
Florence in the year 1802. From that time on until the day
of his death amidst the dreary ruins of Ravenna, in the year
1321, Dante was a homeless wanderer, eating the bread of
charity at the table of rich patrons whose names would have
sunk into the deepest pit of oblivion but for
who had practiced his art in ancient Hellas in the fifth
century before the birth of Christ.
Then there was Abelard, the young priest from Brittany,
who early in the twelfth century began to lecture on theology
and logic in Paris. Thousands of eager young men flocked
to the French city to hear him. Other priests who disagreed
with him stepped forward to explain their point of view. Paris
was soon filled with a clamouring multitude of Englishmen and
Germans and Italians and students from Sweden and Hungary
and around the old cathedral which stood on a little island in
the Seine there grew the famous University of Paris.
In Bologna in Italy, a monk by the name of Gratian had
compiled a text-book for those whose business it was to know
the laws of the church. Young priests and many laymen then
came from all over Europe to hear Gratian explain his ideas.
To protect themselves against the landlords and the innkeepers
and the boarding-house ladies of the city, they formed a corporation
(or University) and behold the beginning of the university
of Bologna.
Next there was a quarrel in the University of Paris. We do
not know what caused it, but a number of disgruntled teachers
together with their pupils crossed the channel and found a
hospitable home in n little village on the Thames called Oxford,
and in this way the famous University of Oxford came into
being. In the same way, in the year 1222, there had been a split
in the University of Bologna. The discontented teachers (again
followed by their pupils) had moved to Padua and their proud city
thenceforward boasted of a university of its own. And so it went
from Valladolid in Spain to Cracow in distant Poland and from
Poitiers in France to Rostock in Germany.
It is quite true that much of the teaching done by these
early professors would sound absurd to our ears, trained to
listen to logarithms and geometrical theorems. The point
however, which I want to make is this--the Middle Ages and
especially the thirteenth century were not a time when the
world stood entirely still. Among the younger generation,
there was life, there was enthusiasm, and there was a restless
if somewhat bashful asking of questions. And out of this
turmoil grew the Renaissance.
But just before the curtain went down upon the last scene
of the Mediaeval world, a solitary figure crossed the stage, of
whom you ought to know more than his mere name. This
man was called Dante. He was the son of a Florentine lawyer
who belonged to the Alighieri family and he saw the light of
day in the year 1265. He grew up in the city of his ancestors
while Giotto was painting his stories of the life of St. Francis
of Assisi upon the walls of the Church of the Holy Cross, but
often when he went to school, his frightened eyes would see the
puddles of blood which told of the terrible and endless warfare
that raged forever between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines,
the followers of the Pope and the adherents of the Emperors.
When he grew up, he became a Guelph, because his father
had been one before him, just as an American boy might become
a Democrat or a Republican, simply because his father
had happened to be a Democrat or a Republican. But after a
few years, Dante saw that Italy, unless united under a single
head, threatened to perish as a victim of the disordered jealousies
of a thousand little cities. Then he became a Ghilbeiline.
He looked for help beyond the Alps. He hoped that a
mighty emperor might come and re-establish unity and order.
Alas! he hoped in vain. The Ghibellines were driven out of
Florence in the year 1802. From that time on until the day
of his death amidst the dreary ruins of Ravenna, in the year
1321, Dante was a homeless wanderer, eating the bread of
charity at the table of rich patrons whose names would have
sunk into the deepest pit of oblivion but for