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HISTORY OF SCIENCE

HENRY SMITH WILLIAMS, M.D., LL.D.

ASSISTED BY

EDWARD H. WILLIAMS, M.D.

IN FIVE VOLUMES

VOLUME I.

THE BEGINNINGS OF SCIENCE

BOOK I.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. PREHISTORIC SCIENCE

CHAPTER II. EGYPTIAN SCIENCE

CHAPTER III. SCIENCE OF BABYLONIA AND ASSYRIA

CHAPTER IV. THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE ALPHABET

CHAPTER V. THE BEGINNINGS OF GREEK SCIENCE

CHAPTER VI. THE EARLY GREEK PHILOSOPHERS IN ITALY

CHAPTER VII. GREEK SCIENCE IN THE EARLY ATTIC PERIOD

CHAPTER VIII. POST-SOCRATIC SCIENCE AT ATHENS

CHAPTER IX. GREEK SCIENCE OF THE ALEXANDRIAN OR HELLENISTIC

PERIOD

CHAPTER X. SCIENCE OF THE ROMAN PERIOD

CHAPTER XI. A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE AT CLASSICAL SCIENCE

APPENDIX

A HISTORY OF SCIENCE

BOOK I

Should the story that is about to be unfolded be found to lack

interest, the writers must stand convicted of unpardonable lack

of art. Nothing but dulness in the telling could mar the story,

for in itself it is the record of the growth of those ideas that

have made our race and its civilization what they are; of ideas

instinct with human interest, vital with meaning for our race;

fundamental in their influence on human development; part and

parcel of the mechanism of human thought on the one hand, and of

practical civilization on the other. Such a phrase as

"fundamental principles" may seem at first thought a hard saying,

but the idea it implies is less repellent than the phrase itself,

for the fundamental principles in question are so closely linked

with the present interests of every one of us that they lie

within the grasp of every average man and woman--nay, of every

well-developed boy and girl. These principles are not merely the

stepping-stones to culture, the prerequisites of knowledge--they

are, in themselves, an essential part of the knowledge of every

cultivated person.

It is our task, not merely to show what these principles are, but

to point out how they have been discovered by our predecessors.

We shall trace the growth of these ideas from their first vague

beginnings. We shall see how vagueness of thought gave way to

precision; how a general truth, once grasped and formulated, was

found to be a stepping-stone to other truths. We shall see that

there are no isolated facts, no isolated principles, in nature;

that each part of our story is linked by indissoluble bands with

that which goes before, and with that which comes after. For the

most part the discovery of this principle or that in a given

sequence is no accident. Galileo and Keppler must precede Newton.

Cuvier and Lyall must come before Darwin;--Which, after all, is

no more than saying that in our Temple of Science, as in any

other piece of architecture, the foundation must precede the

superstructure.

We shall best understand our story of the growth of science if we

think of each new principle as a stepping-stone which must fit

into its own particular niche; and if we reflect that the entire

structure of modern civilization would be different from what it

is, and less perfect than it is, had not that particular

stepping-stone been found and shaped and placed in position.

Taken as a whole, our stepping-stones lead us up and up towards

the alluring heights of an acropolis of knowledge, on which

stands the Temple of Modern Science. The story of the building of

this wonderful structure is in itself fascinating and beautiful.

I. PREHISTORIC SCIENCE

To speak of a prehistoric science may seem like a contradiction

of terms. The word prehistoric seems to imply barbarism, while

science, clearly enough, seems the outgrowth of civilization; but

rightly considered, there is no contradiction. For, on the one

hand, man had ceased to be a barbarian long before the beginning

of what we call the historical period; and, on the other hand,

science, of a kind, is no less a precursor and a cause of

civilization than it is a consequent. To get this clearly in

mind, we must ask ourselves: What, then, is science? The word

runs glibly enough upon the tongue of our every-day speech, but

it is not often, perhaps, that they who use it habitually ask

themselves just what it means. Yet the answer is not difficult. A

little attention will show that science, as the word is commonly

used, implies these things: first, the gathering of knowledge

through observation; second, the classification of such

knowledge, and through this classification, the elaboration of

general ideas or principles. In the familiar definition of

Herbert Spencer, science is organized knowledge.

Now it is patent enough, at first glance, that the veriest savage

must have been an observer of the phenomena of nature. But it may

not be so obvious that he must also have been a classifier of his

observations--an organizer of knowledge. Yet the more we consider

the case, the more clear it will become that the two methods are

too closely linked together to be dissevered. To observe outside

phenomena is not more inherent in the nature of the mind than to

draw inferences from these phenomena. A deer passing through the

forest scents the ground and detects a certain odor. A sequence

of ideas is generated in the mind of the deer. Nothing in the

deer's experience can produce that odor but a wolf; therefore the

scientific inference is drawn that wolves have passed that way.

But it is a part of the deer's scientific knowledge, based on

previous experience, individual and racial; that wolves are

dangerous beasts, and so, combining direct observation in the

present with the application of a general principle based on past

experience, the deer reaches the very logical conclusion that it

may wisely turn about and run in another direction. All this

implies, essentially, a comprehension and use of scientific

principles; and, strange as it seems to speak of a deer as

possessing scientific knowledge, yet there is really no absurdity

in the statement. The deer does possess scientific knowledge;

knowledge differing in degree only, not in kind, from the

knowledge of a Newton. Nor is the animal, within the range of its

intelligence, less logical, less scientific in the application of

that knowledge, than is the man. The animal that could not make

accurate scientific observations of its surroundings, and deduce

accurate scientific conclusions from them, would soon pay the

penalty of its lack of logic.

What is true of man's precursors in the animal scale is, of

course, true in a wider and fuller sense of man himself at the

very lowest stage of his development. Ages before the time which

the limitations of our knowledge force us to speak of as the dawn

of history, man had reached a high stage of development. As a

social being, he had developed all the elements of a primitive

civilization. If, for convenience of classification, we speak of

his state as savage, or barbaric, we use terms which, after all,

are relative, and which do not shut off our primitive ancestors

from a tolerably close association with our own ideals. We know

that, even in the Stone Age, man had learned how to domesticate

animals and make them useful to him, and that he had also learned

to cultivate the soil. Later on, doubtless by slow and painful

stages, he attained those wonderful elements of knowledge that

enabled him to smelt metals and to produce implements of bronze,

and then of iron. Even in the Stone Age he was a mechanic of

marvellous skill, as any one of to-day may satisfy himself by

attempting to duplicate such an implement as a chipped

arrow-head. And a barbarian who could fashion an axe or a knife

of bronze had certainly gone far in his knowledge of scientific

principles and their practical application. The practical

application was, doubtless, the only thought that our primitive

ancestor had in mind; quite probably the question as to

principles that might be involved troubled him not at all. Yet,

in spite of himself, he knew certain rudimentary principles of

science, even though he did not formulate them.

Let us inquire what some of these principles are. Such an inquiry

will, as it were, clear the ground for our structure of science.

It will show the plane of knowledge on which historical

investigation begins. Incidentally, perhaps, it will reveal to us

unsuspected affinities between ourselves and our remote ancestor.

Without attempting anything like a full analysis, we may note in

passing, not merely what primitive man knew, but what he did not

know; that at least a vague notion may be gained of the field for

scientific research that lay open for historic man to cultivate.

It must be understood that the knowledge of primitive man, as we

are about to outline it, is inferential. We cannot trace the

development of these principles, much less can we say who

discovered them. Some of them, as already suggested, are man's

heritage from non-human ancestors. Others can only have been

grasped by him after he had reached a relatively high stage of

human development. But all the principles here listed must surely

have been parts of our primitive ancestor's knowledge before

those earliest days of Egyptian and Babylonian civilization, the

records of which constitute our first introduction to the

so-called historical period. Taken somewhat in the order of their

probable discovery, the scientific ideas of primitive man may be

roughly listed as follows:

1. Primitive man must have conceived that the earth is flat and

of limitless extent. By this it is not meant to imply that he had

a distinct conception of infinity, but, for that matter, it

cannot be said that any one to-day has a conception of infinity

that could be called definite. But, reasoning from experience and

the reports of travellers, there was nothing to suggest to early

man the limit of the earth. He did, indeed, find in his

wanderings, that changed climatic conditions barred him from

farther progress; but beyond the farthest reaches of his

migrations, the seemingly flat land-surfaces and water-surfaces

stretched away unbroken and, to all appearances, without end. It

would require a reach of the philosophical imagination to

conceive a limit to the earth, and while such imaginings may have

been current in the prehistoric period, we can have no proof of

them, and we may well postpone consideration of man's early

dreamings as to the shape of the earth until we enter the

historical epoch where we stand on firm ground.

2. Primitive man must, from a very early period, have observed

that the sun gives heat and light, and that the moon and stars

seem to give light only and no heat. It required but a slight

extension of this observation to note that the changing phases of

the seasons were associated with the seeming approach and

recession of the sun. This observation, however, could not have

been made until man had migrated from the tropical regions, and

had reached a stage of mechanical development enabling him to

live in subtropical or temperate zones. Even then it is

conceivable that a long period must have elapsed before a direct

causal relation was felt to exist between the shifting of the sun

and the shifting of the seasons; because, as every one knows, the

periods of greatest heat in summer and greatest cold in winter

usually come some weeks after the time of the solstices. Yet, the

fact that these extremes of temperature are associated in some

way with the change of the sun's place in the heavens must, in

time, have impressed itself upon even a rudimentary intelligence.

It is hardly necessary to add that this is not meant to imply any

definite knowledge of the real meaning of, the seeming

oscillations of the sun. We shall see that, even at a relatively

late period, the vaguest notions were still in vogue as to the

cause of the sun's changes of position.

That the sun, moon, and stars move across the heavens must

obviously have been among the earliest scientific observations.

It must not be inferred, however, that this observation implied a

necessary conception of the complete revolution of these bodies

about the earth. It is unnecessary to speculate here as to how

the primitive intelligence conceived the transfer of the sun from

the western to the eastern horizon, to be effected each night,

for we shall have occasion to examine some historical

speculations regarding this phenomenon. We may assume, however,

that the idea of the transfer of the heavenly bodies beneath the

earth (whatever the conception as to the form of that body) must

early have presented itself.

It required a relatively high development of the observing

faculties, yet a development which man must have attained ages

before the historical period, to note that the moon has a

secondary motion, which leads it to shift its relative position

in the heavens, as regards the stars; that the stars themselves,

on the other hand, keep a fixed relation as regards one another,

with the notable exception of two or three of the most brilliant

members of the galaxy, the latter being the bodies which came to

be known finally as planets, or wandering stars. The wandering

propensities of such brilliant bodies as Jupiter and Venus cannot

well have escaped detection. We may safely assume, however, that

these anomalous motions of the moon and planets found no

explanation that could be called scientific until a relatively

late period.

3. Turning from the heavens to the earth, and ignoring such

primitive observations as that of the distinction between land

and water, we may note that there was one great scientific law

which must have forced itself upon the attention of primitive

man. This is the law of universal terrestrial gravitation. The

word gravitation suggests the name of Newton, and it may excite

surprise to hear a knowledge of gravitation ascribed to men who

preceded that philosopher by, say, twenty-five or fifty thousand

years. Yet the slightest consideration of the facts will make it

clear that the great central law that all heavy bodies fall

directly towards the earth, cannot have escaped the attention of

the most primitive intelligence. The arboreal habits of our

primitive ancestors gave opportunities for constant observation

of the practicalities of this law. And, so soon as man had

developed the mental capacity to formulate ideas, one of the

earliest ideas must have been the conception, however vaguely

phrased in words, that all unsupported bodies fall towards the

earth. The same phenomenon being observed to operate on

water-surfaces, and no alteration being observed in its operation

in different portions of man's habitat, the most primitive

wanderer must have come to have full faith in the universal

action of the observed law of gravitation. Indeed, it is

inconceivable that he can have imagined a place on the earth

where this law does not operate. On the other hand, of course, he

never grasped the conception of the operation of this law beyond

the close proximity of the earth. To extend the reach of

gravitation out to the moon and to the stars, including within

its compass every particle of matter in the universe, was the

work of Newton, as we shall see in due course. Meantime we shall

better understand that work if we recall that the mere local fact

of terrestrial gravitation has been the familiar knowledge of all

generations of men. It may further help to connect us in sympathy

with our primeval ancestor if we recall that in the attempt to

explain this fact of terrestrial gravitation Newton made no

advance, and we of to-day are scarcely more enlightened than the

man of the Stone Age. Like the man of the Stone Age, we know that

an arrow shot into the sky falls back to the earth. We can

calculate, as he could not do, the arc it will describe and the

exact speed of its fall; but as to why it returns to earth at

all, the greatest philosopher of to-day is almost as much in the

dark as was the first primitive bowman that ever made the

experiment.

Other physical facts going to make up an elementary science of

mechanics, that were demonstratively known to prehistoric man,

were such as these: the rigidity of solids and the mobility of

liquids; the fact that changes of temperature transform solids to

liquids and vice versa--that heat, for example, melts copper and

even iron, and that cold congeals water; and the fact that

friction, as illustrated in the rubbing together of two sticks,

may produce heat enough to cause a fire. The rationale of this

last experiment did not receive an explanation until about the

beginning of the nineteenth century of our own era. But the

experimental fact was so well known to prehistoric man that he

employed this method, as various savage tribes employ it to this

day, for the altogether practical purpose of making a fire; just

as he employed his practical knowledge of the mutability of

solids and liquids in smelting ores, in alloying copper with tin

to make bronze, and in casting this alloy in molds to make

various implements and weapons. Here, then, were the germs of an

elementary science of physics. Meanwhile such observations as

that of the solution of salt in water may be considered as giving

a first lesson in chemistry, but beyond such altogether

rudimentary conceptions chemical knowledge could not have

gone--unless, indeed, the practical observation of the effects of

fire be included; nor can this well be overlooked, since scarcely

another single line of practical observation had a more direct

influence in promoting the progress of man towards the heights of

civilization.

4. In the field of what we now speak of as biological knowledge,

primitive man had obviously the widest opportunity for practical

observation. We can hardly doubt that man attained, at an early

day, to that conception of identity and of difference which Plato

places at the head of his metaphysical system. We shall urge

presently that it is precisely such general ideas as these that

were man's earliest inductions from observation, and hence that

came to seem the most universal and "innate" ideas of his

mentality. It is quite inconceivable, for example, that even the

most rudimentary intelligence that could be called human could

fail to discriminate between living things and, let us say, the

rocks of the earth. The most primitive intelligence, then, must

have made a tacit classification of the natural objects about it

into the grand divisions of animate and inanimate nature.

Doubtless the nascent scientist may have imagined life animating

many bodies that we should call inanimate--such as the sun,

wandering planets, the winds, and lightning; and, on the other

hand, he may quite likely have relegated such objects as trees to

the ranks of the non-living; but that he recognized a fundamental

distinction between, let us say, a wolf and a granite bowlder we

cannot well doubt. A step beyond this--a step, however, that may

have required centuries or millenniums in the taking--must have

carried man to a plane of intelligence from which a primitive

Aristotle or Linnaeus was enabled to note differences and

resemblances connoting such groups of things as fishes, birds,

and furry beasts. This conception, to be sure, is an abstraction

of a relatively high order. We know that there are savage races

to-day whose language contains no word for such an abstraction as

bird or tree. We are bound to believe, then, that there were long

ages of human progress during which the highest man had attained

no such stage of abstraction; but, on the other hand, it is

equally little in question that this degree of mental development

had been attained long before the opening of our historical

period. The primeval man, then, whose scientific knowledge we are

attempting to predicate, had become, through his conception of

fishes, birds, and hairy animals as separate classes, a

scientific zoologist of relatively high attainments.

In the practical field of medical knowledge, a certain stage of

development must have been reached at a very early day. Even

animals pick and choose among the vegetables about them, and at

times seek out certain herbs quite different from their ordinary

food, practising a sort of instinctive therapeutics. The cat's

fondness for catnip is a case in point. The most primitive man,

then, must have inherited a racial or instinctive knowledge of

the medicinal effects of certain herbs; in particular he must

have had such elementary knowledge of toxicology as would enable

him to avoid eating certain poisonous berries. Perhaps, indeed,

we are placing the effect before the cause to some extent; for,

after all, the animal system possesses marvellous powers of

adaption, and there is perhaps hardly any poisonous vegetable

which man might not have learned to eat without deleterious

effect, provided the experiment were made gradually. To a certain

extent, then, the observed poisonous effects of numerous plants

upon the human system are to be explained by the fact that our

ancestors have avoided this particular vegetable. Certain fruits

and berries might have come to have been a part of man's diet,

had they grown in the regions he inhabited at an early day, which

now are poisonous to his system. This thought, however, carries

us too far afield. For practical purposes, it suffices that

certain roots, leaves, and fruits possess principles that are

poisonous to the human system, and that unless man had learned in

some way to avoid these, our race must have come to disaster. In

point of fact, he did learn to avoid them; and such evidence

implied, as has been said, an elementary knowledge of toxicology.

Coupled with this knowledge of things dangerous to the human

system, there must have grown up, at a very early day, a belief

in the remedial character of various vegetables as agents to

combat disease. Here, of course, was a rudimentary therapeutics,

a crude principle of an empirical art of medicine. As just

suggested, the lower order of animals have an instinctive

knowledge that enables them to seek out remedial herbs (though we

probably exaggerate the extent of this instinctive knowledge);

and if this be true, man must have inherited from his prehuman

ancestors this instinct along with the others. That he extended

this knowledge through observation and practice, and came early

to make extensive use of drugs in the treatment of disease, is

placed beyond cavil through the observation of the various

existing barbaric tribes, nearly all of whom practice elaborate

systems of therapeutics. We shall have occasion to see that even

within historic times the particular therapeutic measures

employed were often crude, and, as we are accustomed to say,

unscientific; but even the crudest of them are really based upon

scientific principles, inasmuch as their application implies the

deduction of principles of action from previous observations.

Certain drugs are applied to appease certain symptoms of disease

because in the belief of the medicine-man such drugs have proved

beneficial in previous similar cases.

All this, however, implies an appreciation of the fact that man

is subject to "natural" diseases, and that if these diseases are

not combated, death may result. But it should be understood that

the earliest man probably had no such conception as this.

Throughout all the ages of early development, what we call

"natural" disease and "natural" death meant the onslaught of a

tangible enemy. A study of this question leads us to some very

curious inferences. The more we look into the matter the more the

thought forces itself home to us that the idea of natural death,

as we now conceive it, came to primitive man as a relatively late

scientific induction. This thought seems almost startling, so

axiomatic has the conception "man is mortal" come to appear. Yet

a study of the ideas of existing savages, combined with our

knowledge of the point of view from which historical peoples

regard disease, make it more probable that the primitive

conception of human life did not include the idea of necessary

death. We are told that the Australian savage who falls from a

tree and breaks his neck is not regarded as having met a natural

death, but as having been the victim of the magical practices of

the "medicine-man" of some neighboring tribe. Similarly, we shall

find that the Egyptian and the Babylonian of the early historical

period conceived illness as being almost invariably the result of

the machinations of an enemy. One need but recall the

superstitious observances of the Middle Ages, and the yet more

recent belief in witchcraft, to realize how generally disease has

been personified as a malicious agent invoked by an unfriendly

mind. Indeed, the phraseology of our present-day speech is still

reminiscent of this; as when, for example, we speak of an "attack

of fever," and the like.

When, following out this idea, we picture to ourselves the

conditions under which primitive man lived, it will be evident at

once how relatively infrequent must have been his observation of

what we usually term natural death. His world was a world of

strife; he lived by the chase; he saw animals kill one another;

he witnessed the death of his own fellows at the hands of

enemies. Naturally enough, then, when a member of his family was

"struck down" by invisible agents, he ascribed this death also to

violence, even though the offensive agent was concealed.

Moreover, having very little idea of the lapse of time--being

quite unaccustomed, that is, to reckon events from any fixed

era--primitive man cannot have gained at once a clear conception

of age as applied to his fellows. Until a relatively late stage

of development made tribal life possible, it cannot have been

usual for man to have knowledge of his grandparents; as a rule he

did not know his own parents after he had passed the adolescent

stage and had been turned out upon the world to care for himself.

If, then, certain of his fellow-beings showed those evidences of

infirmity which we ascribe to age, it did not necessarily follow

that he saw any association between such infirmities and the

length of time which those persons had lived. The very fact that

some barbaric nations retain the custom of killing the aged and

infirm, in itself suggests the possibility that this custom arose

before a clear conception had been attained that such drags upon

the community would be removed presently in the natural order of

things. To a person who had no clear conception of the lapse of

time and no preconception as to the limited period of man's life,

the infirmities of age might very naturally be ascribed to the

repeated attacks of those inimical powers which were understood

sooner or later to carry off most members of the race. And

coupled with this thought would go the conception that inasmuch

as some people through luck had escaped the vengeance of all

their enemies for long periods, these same individuals might

continue to escape for indefinite periods of the future. There

were no written records to tell primeval man of events of long

ago. He lived in the present, and his sweep of ideas scarcely

carried him back beyond the limits of his individual memory. But

memory is observed to be fallacious. It must early have been

noted that some people recalled events which other participants

in them had quite forgotten, and it may readily enough have been

inferred that those members of the tribe who spoke of events

which others could not recall were merely the ones who were

gifted with the best memories. If these reached a period when

their memories became vague, it did not follow that their

recollections had carried them back to the beginnings of their

lives. Indeed, it is contrary to all experience to believe that

any man remembers all the things he has once known, and the

observed fallaciousness and evanescence of memory would thus tend

to substantiate rather than to controvert the idea that various

members of a tribe had been alive for an indefinite period.

Without further elaborating the argument, it seems a justifiable

inference that the first conception primitive man would have of

his own life would not include the thought of natural death, but

would, conversely, connote the vague conception of endless life.

Our own ancestors, a few generations removed, had not got rid of

this conception, as the perpetual quest of the spring of eternal

youth amply testifies. A naturalist of our own day has suggested

that perhaps birds never die except by violence. The thought,

then, that man has a term of years beyond which "in the nature of

things," as the saying goes, he may not live, would have dawned

but gradually upon the developing intelligence of successive

generations of men; and we cannot feel sure that he would fully

have grasped the conception of a "natural" termination of human

life until he had shaken himself free from the idea that disease

is always the result of the magic practice of an enemy. Our

observation of historical man in antiquity makes it somewhat

doubtful whether this conception had been attained before the

close of the prehistoric period. If it had, this conception of

the mortality of man was one of the most striking scientific

inductions to which prehistoric man attained. Incidentally, it

may be noted that the conception of eternal life for the human

body being a more primitive idea than the conception of natural

death, the idea of the immortality of the spirit would be the

most natural of conceptions. The immortal spirit, indeed, would

be but a correlative of the immortal body, and the idea which we

shall see prevalent among the Egyptians that the soul persists

only as long as the body is intact--the idea upon which the

practice of mummifying the dead depended--finds a ready

explanation. But this phase of the subject carries us somewhat

afield. For our present purpose it suffices to have pointed out

that the conception of man's mortality--a conception which now

seems of all others the most natural and "innate"--was in all

probability a relatively late scientific induction of our

primitive ancestors.

5. Turning from the consideration of the body to its mental

complement, we are forced to admit that here, also, our primitive

man must have made certain elementary observations that underlie

such sciences as psychology, mathematics, and political economy.

The elementary emotions associated with hunger and with satiety,

with love and with hatred, must have forced themselves upon the

earliest intelligence that reached the plane of conscious

self-observation. The capacity to count, at least to the number

four or five, is within the range of even animal intelligence.

Certain savages have gone scarcely farther than this; but our

primeval ancestor, who was forging on towards civilization, had

learned to count his fingers and toes, and to number objects

about him by fives and tens in consequence, before be passed

beyond the plane of numerous existing barbarians. How much beyond

this he had gone we need not attempt to inquire; but the

relatively high development of mathematics in the early

historical period suggests that primeval man had attained a not

inconsiderable knowledge of numbers. The humdrum vocation of

looking after a numerous progeny must have taught the mother the

rudiments of addition and subtraction; and the elements of

multiplication and division are implied in the capacity to carry

on even the rudest form of barter, such as the various tribes

must have practised from an early day.

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