In the case of medicine, and physics generally, the learned were, in some essential points, more rational than many of their present impugners. They pass for having put a priori obstacles in the way of progress: they might rather be reproved for too much belief in progress obtained by a priori means. They would have shouted with laughter at a dunce who—in a review I read, but without making a note—declared that he would not believe his senses except when what they showed him was capable of explanation upon some known principle. I have seen such stuff as this attributed to the schoolmen; but only by those who knew nothing about them. The following, which I wrote some years ago, will give a notion of a distinction worth remembering. It is addressed to the authorities of the College of Physicians.
"The ignominy of the word empiric dates from the ages in which scholastic philosophy deduced physical consequences a priori;—the ages in which, because a lion is strong, rubbing with lion's fat would have been held an infallible tonic. In those happy days, if a physician had given decoction of a certain bark, only because in numberless instances that decoction had been found to strengthen the patient, he would have been a miserable empiric. Not that the colleges would have passed over his returns because they were empirical: they knew better. They were as skilful in finding causes for facts, as facts for causes. The president and the elects of that day would have walked out into the forest with a rope, and would have pulled heartily at the tree which yielded the bark: nor would they ever have left it until they had pulled out a legitimate
reason. If the tree had resisted all their efforts, they would have said, 'Ah! no wonder now; the bark of a strong tree makes a strong man.' But if they had managed to serve the tree as you would like to serve homœopathy, then it would have been 'We might have guessed it; all the virtus roborativa has settled in the bark.' They admitted, as we know from Molière, the virtus dormitiva[[343]] of opium, for no other reason than that opium facit dormire.[[344]] Had the medicine not been previously known, they would, strange as it may seem to modern pharmacopœists, have accorded a virtus dormitiva to the new facit dormire. On this point they have been misapprehended. They were prone to infer facit from a virtus imagined a priori; and they were ready in supplying facit in favor of an orthodox virtus. They might have gone so far, for example, under pre-notional impressions, as the alliterative allopath, who, when maintenance of truth was busy opposing the progress of science called vaccination, declared that some of its patients coughed like cows, and bellowed like bulls; but they never refused to find virtus when facit came upon them, no matter whence. They would rather have accepted Tenterden steeple than have rejected the Goodwin Sands. They would have laughed their modern imitators to scorn: but as they are not here, we do it for them.
"The man of our day—the a priori philosopher—tries the question whether opium can cause sleep by finding out in the recesses of his own noddle whether the drug can have a dormitive power: Well! but did not the schoolman do the same? He did; but mark the distinction. The schoolman had recourse to first principles, when there was no opium to try it by: our man settles the point in the same way with a lump of opium before him. The schoolman shifted his principles with his facts: the man of our drawing-rooms will fight facts with his principles, just as an old
physician would have done in actual practice, with the rod of his Church at his back.
"The story about Galileo—which seems to have been either a joke made against him, or by him—illustrates this. Nature abhors a vacuum was the explanation of the water rising in a pump: but they found that the water would not rise more than 32 feet. They asked for explanation: what does the satirist make the schoolmen say? That the stoppage is not a fact, because nature abhors a vacuum? No! but that the principle should be that nature abhors a vacuum as far as 32 feet. And this is what would have been done.
"There are still among us both priests and physicians who would have belonged, had they lived three or four centuries ago, to the glorious band of whom I have spoken, the majority of the intelligent, working well for mankind out of the professional pursuit. But we have a great many who have helped to abase their classes. Go where we may, we find specimens of the lower orders of the ministry of religion and the ministry of health showing themselves smaller than the small of other pursuits. And how is this? First, because each profession is entered upon a mere working smack of its knowledge, without any depth of education, general or professional. Not that this is the whole explanation, nor in itself objectionable: the great mass of the world must be tended, soul and body, by those who are neither Hookers[[345]] nor Harveys[[346]]: let such persons not venture ultra crepidam, and they are useful and respectable. But, secondly, there is a vast upheaving of thought from the depths of commonplace learning. I am a clergyman! Sir! I am a medical man! Sir! and forthwith the nature of things is picked to pieces, and there is a race, with the last the winner, between Philosophy mounted on Folly's donkey, and Folly mounted on Philosophy's donkey. How fortunate
it is for Law that her battles are fought by politicians in the Houses of Parliament. Not that it is better done: but then politics bears the blame."
I now come to the medical review. After a quantity of remark which has been already disposed of, the writer shows Greek learning, a field in which the old physician would have had a little knowledge. A. B., for the joke's sake, had left untranslated, as being too deep, a remarkably easy sentence of Aristotle, to the effect that what has happened was possible, for if impossible it would not have happened. The reviewer, in "simple astonishment,"—it was simple—at the pretended incapacity—I was told by A. B. that the joke was intended to draw out a reviewer—translates:—He says that this sentence is A. B.'s summing up of the evidence of Spiritualism. Now, being a sort of alter ego[[347]] of A. B., I do declare that he is not such a fool as to rest the evidence of Spiritualism—the spirit explanation—upon the occurrence of certain facts proving the possibility of those very facts. In truth, A. B. refuses to receive spiritualism, while he receives the facts: this is the gist of his whole preface, which simply admits spiritualism among the qualified candidates, and does not know what others there may be.
The reviewer speaks of Aristotle as "that clear thinker and concise writer." I strongly suspect that his knowledge of Aristotle was limited to the single sentence which he had translated or got translated. Aristotle is concise in phrase, not in book, and is powerful and profound in thought: but no one who knows that his writing, all we have of him, is the very opposite of clear, will pretend to decide that he thought clearly. As his writing, so probably was his thought; and his books are, if not anything but clear, at least anything good but clear. Nobody thinks them clear except a person who always clears difficulties: which I have no doubt was the reviewer's habit; that is, if he ever took the field