“Science is measured knowledge, and the only measures we can apply are physical ones, and we can only apply them to physical phenomena. Slowly but surely, as we succeed in identifying these processes called mental with the processes of the brain-cells, we shall be enabled to reduce them to a plan, to evolve order out of confusion, and to regulate human passion and intelligence as we regulate the secretions of the stomach and the circulation of the blood, the alternation of the harvests, and the courses of the tides.”
Such thorough-going materialism shocked and terrified not a few readers, but the day was gone by for any objection to be raised on that score in scientific circles. Before the book had been out a year it was the recognized authority on the subject with which it dealt in every civilized country, and the London colleges were obliged to give it a place upon their shelves.
Honours and distinctions flowed in upon the author from abroad. Vienna was the first to offer him the honorary membership of her first learned society, and other capitals hastened to do the same. A great foreign ruler, who considered it a part of his own greatness to befriend greatness in others, sent his most coveted Order to the poor English doctor, of whom his Ambassador in London had never so much as heard till he was directed to call upon him with the decoration. Not content with that, the Emperor wrote privately to the English Court, remonstrating with it warmly on its neglect of so illustrious a subject.
The English Court took the hint, and Sir Bernard Vanbrugh figured in the next list of birthday honours. Then at last the sullen opposition of the profession gave way. His brethren realized that they were compromising their own reputation in the eyes of the world, and on the next vacancy Vanbrugh was offered, and he accepted, the Presidency of his College.
He was now sixty years of age; his appointment-book was filled up for weeks in advance, and his only child was an heiress.
The Duke of Trent, with all the prestige of his rank and office, yielded to the same involuntary fear that Vanbrugh always inspired, and sat down like a schoolboy in the master’s presence.
“I don’t think we have met very often,” he began, “but I dare say you know that Miss Vanbrugh is a great friend of my mother’s.”
At the mention of his daughter the scientist moved slightly, and his expression became less severe.
“I have had many opportunities of seeing her at Colonsay House,” the Minister pursued, his tone unconsciously betraying his intimate sense of a favour about to be conferred, “and, so far as I am able to judge, she is disposed to like me. I will come to the point at once, and say that the object of my visit is to ask you to give her to me. I don’t suppose it is necessary for me to say anything to you on the subject of my own feelings. I show them sufficiently by my proposal. I am not a sentimental schoolboy, but you may believe me when I say that, should your daughter honour me by becoming my wife, I shall do the utmost in my power to make her happy.”
Sir Bernard listened without any further sign of emotion to this speech, the formality of which did the wooer less harm in his eyes than it might have done in Hero’s.