In teaching and learning the dialectics, which embraced metaphysics, jurisprudence, political economy, and even claimed physics for its jurisdiction, the object seemed rather a victory in a war of words and ideas than discoveries of new truths or the establishment of old ones. Hair-splitting and sophistry flourished in all the contests. So useless and even criminal seemed this amazing waste of time to quiet-minded and earnest people, that a legend was current in the twelfth century of a dead scholar appearing to a comrade in a robe of hell all covered with sophisms. Another displayed himself wrapped round and oppressed with a heavy parchment all covered with closely written exercises in the dialectique. Both attributed their present sufferings to the sort of logic they had acquired in the Paris schools.
Irish students were as redoubtable in these witty duels in the Sorbonne and in Salamanca as Irish colonels and generals of later times in the armies of France and Spain and Austria. In metaphysics, the realists, with John Duns Scotus for leader, warred with the nominalists, using such arms as were supplied by substantial forms, quiddities, heccéites, polycarpéites, and other such chimeras, the result being nothing but obscurity of the understanding from these clashings in the dark. Sometimes the sharp-witted dialecticians intruded rashly on the domains of theology and morality, and were smartly pulled up, as in the case of the great interpreter of Aristotle, Nicolas d'Autrecourt, in 1348, for this ingenious proposition:
"A young man of good birth met with a sage who undertook to communicate the 'universal science' to him without delay, for a hundred crowns; but the young man had no other means to procure the money than by stealing it. Was he justified in this theft? Certainly; for we must do what is agreeable to God; but it was agreeable to God that this young man should get instruction, and he had no other means to get it than theft; ergo," etc.
A sharp condemnation by the Theological Faculty of Paris was all the honor awarded to Mr. Nicolas's plausible conclusion.
In physics and natural history, our philosophers of the middle ages were more prone to depend on Aristotle and Pliny, and later dreamy sages, than to resort to careful observation. Theory, not induction, was their darling mode of enlarging the domain of human knowledge, and no fact fitted comfortably in its place without being moralized. Far away in the realms of Prester John were to be found giants, pigmies, men with one eye in front and three behind, female warriors, griffins, licorns, and alerions, animals well adapted to point a moral.
The learned Pierre Bercheure, who translated Livy, informed his readers that the toad was mute in every country but France. Moral: The Frenchman, a babbler at home, is perforce mute when he goes abroad. The learned Bercheure either intended to hint that the Gaul too much neglected the study of foreign languages, or that, while vainglorious at home, he became meek and humble when he crossed the frontier.
Still proceeding in this moral strain, Dr. Bercheure asked, "Why, in the territory of Orange, was utterance by sound denied to all toads, one only excepted?" No answer being received, he gave this explanation: The holy bishop, Florent, being much disturbed in his meditations by the disagreeable songs of the toads, ordered them to be silent. They obeyed on the moment, and the good bishop was so touched by their prompt attention to his command that he revoked his order. However, the stupid messenger who brought the news, instead of using the plural form of the verb—cantate—merely said canta, and thus only one of the community ever after could avail itself of the privilege: nasty Mercury! say we. These additions to Pliny could scarcely be called improvements in the science of natural history.
For a long time the healing art was nearly monopolized by the religious houses, but it was not so without an occasional scruple of conscience on the part of the chiefs in the various orders. They feared that their art might too much engross the attention of the practitioners. To moderate their mere scientific ardor, the following legend was sent abroad among them: There was a skilful medical man among the monks of Citeaux, whose time was so much taken up in provincial excursions that he was not found in the convent unless at the great festivals. As he was employed on one of the feasts of the Blessed Virgin, singing in choir with the rest, he was favored with a vision of his heavenly patroness distributing a spoonful of elixir to every one of the singers, himself alone excepted. He made a gesture of supplication not to be treated to such an unenviable distinction, but this reply reached the recesses of his understanding without any action of the senses: "Physician, thou hast no need for my elixir, for you do not deny to yourself any consolation." A radical change was wrought in the man, and on the next solemnity he was favored as the rest. Such was the rapture into which he was thrown, that for the future his healing excursions were as short and as few as possible.
There was no college of physicians at Paris nor Montpellier in the beginning of the twelfth century, but considerable progress was made in founding medical establishments during the next two hundred years. Some enthusiastic pill-taker thus expanded in commendation of the faculty of Paris in 1323: