Part 16

With regard to the spectre of rivalry among University teachers with which it is sometimes attempted to frighten public opinion, there can be none such if the students and their teachers are of the right kind. In the first place, it is only in large Universities that there are two to teach one and the same branch; and even if there is no difference in the official definition of the subject, there will be a difference in the scientific tendencies of the teachers; they will be able to divide the work in such a manner that each has that side which he most completely masters. Two distinguished teachers who are thus complementary to each other, form then so strong a centre of attraction for the students that both suffer no loss of hearers, though they may have to share among themselves a number of the less zealous ones.

The disagreeable effects of rivalry will be feared by a teacher who does not feel quite certain in his scientific position. This can have no considerable influence on the official decisions of the faculty when it is only a question of one, or of a small number, of the voters.

The predominance of a distinct scientific school in a faculty may become more injurious than such personal interests. When the school has scientifically out-lived itself, students will probably migrate by degrees to other Universities. This may extend over a long period, and the faculty in question will suffer during that time.

We see best how strenuously the Universities under this system have sought to attract the scientific ability of Germany when we consider how many pioneers have remained outside the Universities. The answer to such an inquiry is given in the not infrequent jest or sneer that all wisdom in Germany is professorial wisdom. If we look at England, we see men like Humphry Davy, Faraday, Mill, Grote, who have had no connection with English Universities. If, on the other hand, we deduct from the list of German men of science those who, like David Strauss, have been driven away by Government for ecclesiastical or for political reasons, and those who, as members of learned Academies, had the right to deliver lectures in the Universities, as Alexander and Wilhelm von Humboldt, Leopold von Buch, and others, the rest will only form a small fraction of the number of the men of equal scientific standing who have been at work in the Universities; while the same calculation made for England would give exactly the opposite result. I have often wondered that the Royal Institution of London, a private Society, which provides for its members and others short courses of lectures on the Progress of Natural Science, should have been able to retain permanently the services of men of such scientific importance as Humphry Davy and Faraday. It was no question of great emoluments; these men were manifestly attracted by a select public consisting of men and women of independent mental culture. In Germany the Universities are unmistakably the institutions which exert the most powerful attraction on the taught. But it is clear that this attraction depends on the teacher’s hope that he will not only find in the University a body of pupils enthusiastic and accustomed to work, but such also as devote themselves to the formation of an independent conviction. It is only with such students that the intelligence of the teacher bears any further fruit.

The entire organisation of our Universities is thus permeated by this respect for a free independent conviction, which is more strongly impressed on the Germans than on their Aryan kindred of the Celtic and Romanic branches, in whom practical political motives have greater weight. They are able, and as it would seem with perfect conscientiousness, to restrain the inquiring mind from the investigation of those principles which appear to them to be beyond the range of discussion, as forming the foundation of their political, social, and religious organisation; they think themselves quite justified in not allowing their youth to look beyond the boundary which they themselves are not disposed to overstep.

If, therefore, any region of questions is to be considered as outside the range of discussion, however remote and restricted it may be, and however good may be the intention, the pupils must be kept in the prescribed path, and teachers must be appointed who do not rebel against authority. We can then, however, only speak of free conviction in a very limited sense.

You see how different was the plan of our forefathers. However violently they may at times have interfered with individual results of scientific inquiry, they never wished to pull it up by the roots. An opinion which was not based upon independent conviction appeared to them of no value. In their hearts they never lost faith that freedom alone could cure the errors of freedom, and a riper knowledge the errors of what is unripe. The same spirit which overthrew the yoke of the Church of Rome, also organised the German Universities.

But any institution based upon freedom must also be able to calculate on the judgment and reasonableness of those to whom freedom is granted. Apart from the points which have been previously discussed, where the students themselves are left to decide on the course of their studies and to select their teachers, the above considerations show how the students react upon their teachers. To produce a good course of lectures is a labour which is renewed every term. New matter is continually being added which necessitates a reconsideration and a rearrangement of the old from fresh points of view. The teacher would soon be dispirited in his work if he could not count upon the zeal and the interest of his hearers. The estimate which he places on his task will depend on how far he is followed by the appreciation of a sufficient number of, at any rate, his more intelligent hearers. The influx of hearers to the lectures of a teacher has no slight influence upon his fame and promotion, and, therefore, upon the composition of the body of teachers. In all these respects, it is assumed that the general public opinion among the students cannot go permanently wrong. The majority of them--who are, as it were, the representatives of the general opinion--must come to us with a sufficiently logically trained judgment, with a sufficient habit of mental exertion, with a tact sufficiently developed on the best models, to be able to discriminate truth from the babbling appearance of truth. Among the students are to be found those intelligent heads who will be the mental leaders of the next generation, and who, perhaps, in a few years, will direct to themselves the eyes of the world. Occasional errors in youthful and excitable spirits naturally occur; but, on the whole, we may be pretty sure that they will soon set themselves right.

Thus prepared, they have hitherto been sent to us by the Gymnasiums. It would be very dangerous for the Universities if large numbers of students frequented them, who were less developed in the above respects. The general self-respect of the students must not be allowed to sink. If that were the case, the dangers of academic freedom would choke its blessings. It must therefore not be looked upon as pedantry, or arrogance, if the Universities are scrupulous in the admission of students of a different style of education. It would be still more dangerous if, for any extraneous reasons, teachers were introduced into the faculty, who have not the complete qualifications of an independent academical teacher.

Do not forget, my dear colleagues, that you are in a responsible position. You have to preserve the noble inheritance of which I have spoken, not only for your own people, but also as a model to the widest circles of humanity. You will show that youth also is enthusiastic, and will work for independence of conviction. I say work; for independence of conviction is not the facile assumption of untested hypotheses, but can only be acquired as the fruit of conscientious inquiry and strenuous labour. You must show that a conviction which you yourselves have worked out is a more fruitful germ of fresh insight, and a better guide for action, than the best-intentioned guidance by authority. Germany--which in the sixteenth century first revolted for the right of such conviction, and gave its witness in blood--is still in the van of this fight. To Germany has fallen an exalted historical task, and in it you are called upon to co-operate.

HERMANN VON HELMHOLTZ

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

_An Address delivered on the occasion of his Jubilee, 1891._

In the course of the past year, and most recently on the occasion of the celebration of my seventieth birthday, and the subsequent festivities, I have been overloaded with honours, with marks of respect and of goodwill in a way which could never have been expected. My own sovereign, his Majesty the German Emperor, has raised me to the highest rank in the Civil Service; the Kings of Sweden and of Italy, my former sovereign, the Grand Duke of Baden, and the President of the French Republic, have conferred Grand Crosses on me; many academies, not only of science, but also of the fine arts, faculties, and learned societies spread over the whole world, from Tomsk to Melbourne, have sent me diplomas, and richly illuminated addresses, expressing in elevated language their recognition of my scientific endeavours, and their thanks for those endeavours, in terms which I cannot read without a feeling of shame. My native town, Potsdam, has conferred its freedom on me. To all this must be added countless individuals, scientific and personal friends, pupils, and others personally unknown to me, who have sent their congratulations in telegrams and in letters.

But this is not all. You desire to make my name the banner, as it were, of a magnificent institution which, founded by lovers of science of all nations, is to encourage and promote scientific inquiry in all countries. Science and art are, indeed, at the present time the only remaining bond of peace between civilised nations. Their ever-increasing development is a common aim of all; is effected by the common work of all, and for the common good of all. A great and a sacred work! The founders even wish to devote their gift to the promotion of those branches of science which all my life I have pursued, and thus bring me, with my shortcomings, before future generations almost as an exemplar of scientific investigation. This is the proudest honour which you could confer upon me, in so much as you thereby show that I possess your unqualified favourable opinion. But it would border on presumption were I to accept it without a quiet expectation on my part that the judges of future centuries will not be influenced by considerations of personal favour.

My personal appearance even, you have had represented in marble by a master of the first rank, so that I shall appear to the present and to future generations in a more ideal form; and another master of the etching needle has ensured that faithful portraits of me shall be distributed among my contemporaries.

I cannot fail to remember that all you have done is an expression of the sincerest and warmest goodwill on your part, and that I am most deeply indebted to you for it.

I must, however, be excused if the first effect of these abundant honours is rather surprising and confusing to me than intelligible. My own consciousness does not justify me in putting a measure of the value of what I have tried to do, which would leave such a balance in my favour as you have drawn. I know how simply everything I have done has been brought about; how scientific methods worked out by my predecessors have naturally led to certain results, and how frequently a fortunate circumstance or a lucky accident has helped me. But the chief difference is this--that which I have seen slowly growing from small beginnings through months and years of toilsome and tentative work, all that suddenly starts before you like Pallas fully equipped from the head of Jupiter. A feeling of surprise has entered into your estimate, but not into mine. At times, and perhaps even frequently, my own estimate may possibly have been unduly lowered by the fatigue of the work, and by vexation about all kinds of futile steps which I had taken. My colleagues, as well as the public at large, estimate a scientific or artistic work according to the utility, the instruction, or the pleasure which it has afforded. An author is usually disposed to base his estimate on the labour it has cost him, and it is but seldom that both kinds of judgment agree. It can, on the other hand, be seen from incidental expressions of some of the most celebrated men, especially of artists, that they lay but small weight on productions which seem to us inimitable, compared with others which have been difficult, and yet which appear to readers and observers as much less successful. I need only mention Goethe, who once stated to Eckermann that he did not estimate his poetical works so highly as what he had done in the theory of colours.

The same may have happened to me, though in a more modest degree, if I may accept your assurances and those of the authors of the addresses which have reached me. Permit me, therefore, to give you a short account of the manner in which I have been led to the special direction of my work.

In my first seven years I was a delicate boy, for long confined to my room, and often even to bed; but, nevertheless, I had a strong inclination towards occupation and mental activity. My parents busied themselves a good deal with me; picture books and games, especially with wooden blocks, filled up the rest of the time. Reading came pretty early, which, of course, greatly increased the range of my occupations. But a defect of my mental organisation showed itself almost as early, in that I had a bad memory for disconnected things. The first indication of this I consider to be the difficulty I had in distinguishing between left and right; afterwards, when at school I began with languages, I had greater difficulties than others in learning words, irregular grammatical forms, and peculiar terms of expression. History as then taught to us I could scarcely master. To learn prose by heart was martyrdom. This defect has, of course, only increased, and is a vexation of my mature age.

But when I possessed small mnemotechnical methods, or merely such as are afforded by the metre and rhyme of poetry, learning by heart, and the retention of what I had learnt, went on better. I easily remembered poems by great authors, but by no means so easily the somewhat artificial verses of authors of the second rank. I think that is probably due to the natural flow of thought in good poems, and I am inclined to think that in this connection is to be found an essential basis of æsthetic beauty. In the higher classes of the Gymnasium I could repeat some books of the Odyssey, a considerable number of the odes of Horace, and large stores of German poetry. In other directions I was just in the position of our older ancestors, who were not able to write, and hence expressed their laws and their history in verse, so as to learn them by heart.

That which a man does easily he usually does willingly; hence I was first of all a great admirer and lover of poetry. This inclination was encouraged by my father, who, while he had a strict sense of duty, was also of an enthusiastic disposition, impassioned for poetry, and particularly for the classic period of German Literature. He taught German in the upper classes of the Gymnasium, and read Homer with us. Under his guidance we did, alternately, themes in German prose and metrical exercises--poems as we called them. But even if most of us remained indifferent poets, we learned better in this way, than in any other I know of, how to express what we had to say in the most varied manner.

But the most perfect mnemotechnical help is a knowledge of the laws of phenomena. This I first got to know in geometry. From the time of my childish playing with wooden blocks, the relations of special proportions to each other were well known to me from actual perception. What sort of figures were produced when bodies of regular shape were laid against each other I knew well without much consideration. When I began the scientific study of geometry, all the facts which I had to learn were perfectly well known and familiar to me, much to the astonishment of my teachers. So far as I recollect, that came out incidentally in the elementary school attached to the Potsdam Training College, which I attended up to my eighth year. Strict scientific methods, on the contrary, were new to me, and with their help I saw the difficulties disappear which had hindered me in other regions.

One thing was wanting in geometry; it dealt exclusively with abstract forms of space, and I delighted in complete reality. As I became bigger and stronger I went about with my father and my schoolfellows a great deal in the neighbourhood of my native town, Potsdam, and I acquired a great love of Nature. This is perhaps the reason why the first fragments of physics which I learned in the Gymnasium engrossed me much more closely than purely geometrical and algebraical studies. Here there was a copious and multifarious region, with the mighty fulness of Nature, to be brought under the dominion of a mentally apprehended law. And, in fact, that which first fascinated me was the intellectual mastery over Nature, which at first confronts us as so unfamiliar, by the logical force of law. But this, of course, soon led to the recognition that knowledge of natural processes was the magical key which places ascendency over Nature in the hands of its possessor. In this order of ideas I felt myself at home.

I plunged then with great zeal and pleasure into the study of all the books on physics I found in my father’s library. They were very old-fashioned; phlogiston still held sway, and galvanism had not grown beyond the voltaic pile. A young friend and myself tried, with our small means, all sorts of experiments about which we had read. The action of acids on our mothers’ stores of linen we investigated thoroughly; we had otherwise but little success. Most successful was, perhaps, the construction of optical instruments by means of spectacle glasses, which were to be had in Potsdam, and a small botanical lens belonging to my father. The limitation of our means had at that time the value that I was compelled always to vary in all possible ways my plans for experiments, until I got them in a form in which I could carry them out. I must confess that many a time when the class was reading Cicero or Virgil, both of which I found very tedious, I was calculating under the desk the path of rays in a telescope, and I discovered, even at that time, some optical theorems, not ordinarily met with in text-books, but which I afterwards found useful in the construction of the ophthalmoscope.

Thus it happened that I entered upon that special line of study to which I have subsequently adhered, and which, in the conditions I have mentioned, grew into an absorbing impulse, amounting even to a passion. This impulse to dominate the actual world by acquiring an understanding of it, or what, I think, is only another expression for the same thing, to discover the causal connection of phenomena, has guided me through my whole life, and the strength of this impulse is possibly the reason why I found no satisfaction in apparent solutions of problems so long as I felt there were still obscure points in them.

And now I was to go to the university. Physics was at that time looked upon as an art by which a living could not be made. My parents were compelled to be very economical, and my father explained to me that he knew of no other way of helping me to the study of Physics, than by taking up the study of medicine into the bargain. I was by no means averse from the study of living Nature, and assented to this without much difficulty. Moreover, the only influential person in our family had been a medical man, the late Surgeon-General Mursinna; and this relationship was a recommendation in my favour among other applicants for admission to our Army Medical School, the Friedrich Wilhelms Institut, which very materially helped the poorer students in passing through their medical course.

In this study I came at once under the influence of a profound teacher--Johannes Müller; he who at the same time introduced E. Du Bois-Reymond, E. Brücke, C. Ludwig, and Virchow to the study of anatomy and physiology. As respects the critical questions about the nature of life, Müller still struggled between the older--essentially the metaphysical--view and the naturalistic one, which was then being developed; but the conviction that nothing could replace the knowledge of facts forced itself upon him with increasing certainty, and it may be that his influence over his students was the greater because he still so struggled.

Young people are ready at once to attack the deepest problems, and thus I attacked the perplexing question of the nature of the vital force. Most physiologists had at that time adopted G. E. Stahl’s way out of the difficulty, that while it is the physical and chemical forces of the organs and substances of the living body which act on it, there is an indwelling vital soul or vital force which could bind and loose the activity of these forces; that after death the free action of these forces produces decomposition, while during life their action is continually being controlled by the soul of life. I had a misgiving that there was something against nature in this explanation; but it took me a good deal of trouble to state my misgiving in the form of a definite question. I found ultimately, in the latter years of my career as a student, that Stahl’s theory ascribed to every living body the nature of a _perpetuum mobile_. I was tolerably well acquainted with the controversies on this latter subject. In my school days I had heard it discussed by my father and our mathematical teachers, and while still a pupil of the Friedrich Wilhelms Institut I had helped in the library, and in my spare moments had looked through the works of Daniell, Bernouilli, D’Alembert, and other mathematicians of the last century. I thus came upon the question, ‘What relations must exist between the various kinds of natural forces for a perpetual motion to be possible?’ and the further one, ‘Do those relations actually exist?’ In my essay, ‘On the Conservation of Force,’ my aim was merely to give a critical investigation and arrangement of the facts for the benefit of physiologists.

I should have been quite prepared if the experts had ultimately said, ‘We know all that. What is this young doctor thinking about, in considering himself called upon to explain it all to us so fully?’ But, to my astonishment, the physical authorities with whom I came in contact took up the matter quite differently. They were inclined to deny the correctness of the law, and in the eager contest in which they were engaged against Hegel’s Natural Philosophy were disposed to declare my essay to be a fantastical speculation. Jacobi, the mathematician, who recognised the connection of my line of thought with that of the mathematicians of the last century, was the only one who took an interest in my attempt, and protected me from being misconceived. On the other hand, I met with enthusiastic applause and practical help from my younger friends, and especially from E. Du Bois Reymond. These, then, soon brought over to my side the members of the recently formed Physical Society of Berlin. About Joule’s researches on the same subject I knew at that time but little, and nothing at all of those of Robert Mayer.