The Royal Society and Other Academies

The English had an Academy of Sciences many years before us, but then it is not under such prudent regulations as ours, the only reason of which very possibly is, because it was founded before the Academy of Paris; for had it been founded after, it would very probably have adopted some of the sage laws of the former and improved upon others.

The English had an Academy of Sciences many years before we did. But the English academy's rules are not as wise as ours. Quite possibly, the only reason is that the English academy was founded before the Academy of Paris. For if the English academy had been founded later, it would very probably have adopted some of Paris's wise rules. And it would have improved on others.

Two things, and those the most essential to man, are wanting in the Royal Society of London, I mean rewards and laws. A seat in the Academy at Paris is a small but secure fortune to a geometrician or a chemist; but this is so far from being the case at London, that the several members of the Royal Society are at a continual, though indeed small expense. Any man in England who declares himself a lover of the mathematics and natural philosophy, and expresses an inclination to be a member of the Royal Society, is immediately elected into it. But in France it is not enough that a man who aspires to the honour of being a member of the Academy, and of receiving the royal stipend, has a love for the sciences; he must at the same time be deeply skilled in them; and is obliged to dispute the seat with competitors who are so much the more formidable as they are fired by a principle of glory, by interest, by the difficulty itself; and by that inflexibility of mind which is generally found in those who devote themselves to that pertinacious study, the mathematics.

The Royal Society of London lacks two things, the most essential to humanity: rewards and rules. A seat in the Academy at Paris gives a mathematician or chemist a modest but secure income. But in London, far from receiving an income, members of the Royal Society face small but ongoing expenses. Any man in England who declares a love of mathematics and natural philosophy need only express a wish to join. He is immediately elected to the Royal Society. But in France, a love of science is not enough. A man seeking the honor of Academy membership and the royal stipend must also have deep scientific knowledge. He must compete for the seat against rivals made all the more formidable by their motives. They are driven by glory, financial interest, the difficulty itself, and a stubbornness generally found in those devoted to mathematics. Mathematics is a study that demands persistence.

The Academy of Sciences is prudently confined to the study of Nature, and, indeed, this is a field spacious enough for fifty or threescore persons to range in. That of London mixes indiscriminately literature with physics; but methinks the founding an academy merely for the polite arts is more judicious, as it prevents confusion, and the joining, in some measure, of heterogeneals, such as a dissertation on the head-dresses of the Roman ladies with a hundred or more new curves.

The Academy of Sciences wisely limits itself to studying Nature. Indeed, Nature offers enough scope for fifty or sixty people to explore. The academy in London mixes literature and physics without distinction. But I think founding an academy devoted solely to the fine arts is wiser, because it prevents confusion. It also avoids, to some extent, combining unrelated subjects, such as a study of Roman ladies’ headdresses with a hundred or more new curves.

As there is very little order and regularity in the Royal Society, and not the least encouragement; and that the Academy of Paris is on a quite different foot, it is no wonder that our transactions are drawn up in a more just and beautiful manner than those of the English. Soldiers who are under a regular discipline, and besides well paid, must necessarily at last perform more glorious achievements than others who are mere volunteers. It must indeed be confessed that the Royal Society boast their Newton, but then he did not owe his knowledge and discoveries to that body; so far from it, that the latter were intelligible to very few of his fellow members. A genius like that of Sir Isaac belonged to all the academies in the world, because all had a thousand things to learn of him.

The Royal Society has very little order or regularity and receives no encouragement at all. The Academy of Paris operates on a completely different basis. So it is no wonder that our proceedings are written more accurately and elegantly than those of the English. Well-disciplined, well-paid soldiers must eventually achieve greater glory than mere volunteers. Admittedly, the Royal Society can boast of Newton. But he did not owe his knowledge or discoveries to the Society. Far from it, very few of his fellow members could even understand his discoveries. A genius like Sir Isaac belonged to all the academies in the world, because all had a thousand things to learn from him.

The celebrated Dean Swift formed a design, in the latter end of the late Queen’s reign, to found an academy for the English tongue upon the model of that of the French. This project was promoted by the late Earl of Oxford, Lord High Treasurer, and much more by the Lord Bolingbroke, Secretary of State, who had the happy talent of speaking without premeditation in the Parliament House with as much purity as Dean Swift wrote in his closet, and who would have been the ornament and protector of that academy. Those only would have been chosen members of it whose works will last as long as the English tongue, such as Dean Swift, Mr. Prior, whom we saw here invested with a public character, and whose fame in England is equal to that of La Fontaine in France; Mr. Pope, the English Boileau, Mr. Congreve, who may be called their Molière, and several other eminent persons whose names I have forgot; all these would have raised the glory of that body to a great height even in its infancy. But Queen Anne being snatched suddenly from the world, the Whigs were resolved to ruin the protectors of the intended academy, a circumstance that was of the most fatal consequence to polite literature. The members of this academy would have had a very great advantage over those who first formed that of the French, for Swift, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Pope, Addison, &c. had fixed the English tongue by their writings; whereas Chapelain, Colletet, Cassaigne, Faret, Perrin, Cotin, our first academicians, were a disgrace to their country; and so much ridicule is now attached to their very names, that if an author of some genius in this age had the misfortune to be called Chapelain or Cotin, he would be under a necessity of changing his name.

The celebrated Dean Swift planned an academy for the English language near the end of the late Queen’s reign. It would follow the model of the French academy. The late Earl of Oxford, Lord High Treasurer, supported the project. Lord Bolingbroke, Secretary of State, supported it even more strongly. Bolingbroke had a gift for speaking in Parliament without preparation as flawlessly as Dean Swift wrote in his study. He would have brought distinction to the academy and protected it. Only writers whose works would last as long as the English language would have been chosen as members. Among them were Dean Swift and Mr. Prior, whom we saw here serving in an official role. Prior’s fame in England equals that of La Fontaine in France. Other members would have included Mr. Pope, the English Boileau, and Mr. Congreve, who may be called their Molière. Several other distinguished people, whose names I have forgotten, would also have joined. All these writers would have brought the academy great glory even at its beginning. But Queen Anne suddenly died, and the Whigs were determined to ruin the proposed academy’s protectors. Their determination had disastrous consequences for literature. The members of this academy would have had a great advantage over the founders of the French academy. Swift, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Pope, Addison, and others had established a standard for English through their writings. By contrast, Chapelain, Colletet, Cassaigne, Faret, Perrin, and Cotin, our first academy members, were a disgrace to their country. Their very names now attract so much ridicule that even a gifted writer today would suffer from bearing them. If such a writer had the misfortune to be called Chapelain or Cotin, he would have to change his name.

One circumstance, to which the English Academy should especially have attended, is to have prescribed to themselves occupations of a quite different kind from those with which our academicians amuse themselves. A wit of this country asked me for the memoirs of the French Academy. I answered, they have no memoirs, but have printed threescore or fourscore volumes in quarto of compliments. The gentleman perused one or two of them, but without being able to understand the style in which they were written, though he understood all our good authors perfectly. “All,” says he, “I see in these elegant discourses is, that the member elect having assured the audience that his predecessor was a great man, that Cardinal Richelieu was a very great man, that the Chancellor Seguier was a pretty great man, that Louis XIV. was a more than great man, the director answers in the very same strain, and adds, that the member elect may also be a sort of great man, and that himself, in quality of director, must also have some share in this greatness.”

The English Academy should have paid special attention to one point. Its members should have chosen work quite different from the amusements of our French academicians. A witty Englishman asked me for the published proceedings of the French Academy. I replied that the Academy had no proceedings, but had printed sixty or eighty large-format volumes of compliments. The gentleman read one or two volumes but could not understand their style, though he understood all our good authors perfectly. “All I see in these elegant speeches,” he said, “is that the newly elected member assures the audience of several things. His predecessor was a great man. Cardinal Richelieu was a very great man. Chancellor Seguier was a fairly great man. Louis XIV. was a more than great man. The director replies in exactly the same vein. He adds that the newly elected member may also be a sort of great man. And he himself, as director, must also have some share in this greatness.”

The cause why all these academical discourses have unhappily done so little honour to this body is evident enough. Vitium est temporis potiùs quam hominis (the fault is owing to the age rather than to particular persons). It grew up insensibly into a custom for every academician to repeat these elogiums at his reception; it was laid down as a kind of law that the public should be indulged from time to time the sullen satisfaction of yawning over these productions. If the reason should afterwards be sought, why the greatest geniuses who have been incorporated into that body have sometimes made the worst speeches, I answer, that it is wholly owing to a strong propension, the gentlemen in question had to shine, and to display a thread-bare, worn-out subject in a new and uncommon light. The necessity of saying something, the perplexity of having nothing to say, and a desire of being witty, are three circumstances which alone are capable of making even the greatest writer ridiculous. These gentlemen, not being able to strike out any new thoughts, hunted after a new play of words, and delivered themselves without thinking at all: in like manner as people who should seem to chew with great eagerness, and make as though they were eating, at the same time that they were just starved.

The reason all these academic speeches have unfortunately brought so little credit to the academy is clear enough. Vitium est temporis potiùs quam hominis (the fault lies with the age rather than with particular people). Gradually, every new member came to repeat these tributes on joining the academy. The custom became a kind of law. From time to time, the public had to be granted the dreary satisfaction of yawning over these speeches. If anyone later asks why the academy’s greatest minds have sometimes made the worst speeches, my answer is simple. The fault lies entirely in those gentlemen’s strong desire to shine. They wanted to present a tired, worn-out subject in a new and unusual light. Having to say something, struggling because you have nothing to say, and wanting to be witty are three dangerous circumstances. Together, those circumstances alone can make even the greatest writer ridiculous. Unable to come up with new thoughts, these gentlemen hunted for new wordplay and spoke without thinking at all. They resembled people chewing eagerly and pretending to eat while actually starving.

It is a law in the French Academy, to publish all those discourses by which only they are known, but they should rather make a law never to print any of them.

The French Academy has a rule requiring all its speeches to be published. These speeches are all the Academy is known for. But the Academy should instead make a rule never to print any of those speeches.

But the Academy of the Belles Lettres have a more prudent and more useful object, which is, to present the public with a collection of transactions that abound with curious researches and critiques. These transactions are already esteemed by foreigners; and it were only to be wished that some subjects in them had been more thoroughly examined, and that others had not been treated at all. As, for instance, we should have been very well satisfied, had they omitted I know not what dissertation on the prerogative of the right hand over the left; and some others, which, though not published under so ridiculous a title, are yet written on subjects that are almost as frivolous and silly.

But the Academy of the Belles Lettres has a more sensible and useful aim. It publishes a collection of proceedings full of intriguing research and critical studies for the public. These proceedings are already respected abroad. We can only wish that some subjects had been examined more thoroughly, and others had not been discussed at all. For example, we would have been quite content without some dissertation or other on the right hand’s superiority over the left. We could also have done without some other papers. Though their titles are less ridiculous, their subjects are almost as frivolous and silly.

The Academy of Sciences, in such of their researches as are of a more difficult kind and a more sensible use, embrace the knowledge of nature and the improvements of the arts. We may presume that such profound, such uninterrupted pursuits as these, such exact calculations, such refined discoveries, such extensive and exalted views, will, at last, produce something that may prove of advantage to the universe. Hitherto, as we have observed together, the most useful discoveries have been made in the most barbarous times. One would conclude that the business of the most enlightened ages and the most learned bodies, is, to argue and debate on things which were invented by ignorant people. We know exactly the angle which the sail of a ship is to make with the keel in order to its sailing better; and yet Columbus discovered America without having the least idea of the property of this angle: however, I am far from inferring from hence that we are to confine ourselves merely to a blind practice, but happy it were, would naturalists and geometricians unite, as much as possible, the practice with the theory.

In its more difficult and practically useful research, the Academy of Sciences studies nature and seeks to improve practical techniques. We may expect something beneficial to the world to come, at last, from such deep and sustained research. Such precise calculations, such subtle discoveries, and such broad and ambitious perspectives may eventually bear fruit. So far, as we have noted together, the most useful discoveries have been made in the most barbarous times. One might conclude that enlightened ages and learned institutions exist to debate things invented by ignorant people. We know exactly what angle a ship’s sail should make with its keel to help the ship sail better. Yet Columbus discovered America without the slightest knowledge of how this angle works. Still, I am far from concluding that we should limit ourselves to working blindly by trial and error. But it would be a welcome thing if natural scientists and mathematicians combined practice with theory as much as possible.

Strange, but so it is, that those things which reflect the greatest honour on the human mind are frequently of the least benefit to it! A man who understands the four fundamental rules of arithmetic, aided by a little good sense, shall amass prodigious wealth in trade, shall become a Sir Peter Delmé, a Sir Richard Hopkins, a Sir Gilbert Heathcote, whilst a poor algebraist spends his whole life in searching for astonishing properties and relations in numbers, which at the same time are of no manner of use, and will not acquaint him with the nature of exchanges. This is very nearly the case with most of the arts: there is a certain point beyond which all researches serve to no other purpose than merely to delight an inquisitive mind. Those ingenious and useless truths may be compared to stars which, by being placed at too great a distance, cannot afford us the least light.

Strange as it seems, the things that bring the greatest honor to the human mind often benefit it the least! A man who knows the four basic rules of arithmetic, with a little common sense, will make vast fortunes in trade. He will become a Sir Peter Delmé, a Sir Richard Hopkins, a Sir Gilbert Heathcote. Meanwhile, a poor algebraist spends his whole life searching for astonishing properties of numbers and relationships between them. Yet these discoveries are entirely useless and will teach him nothing about currency exchange. Much the same is true of most arts. Beyond a certain point, all research serves only to delight a curious mind. These ingenious but useless truths may be compared to stars too far away to give us any light.

With regard to the French Academy, how great a service would they do to literature, to the language, and the nation, if, instead of publishing a set of compliments annually, they would give us new editions of the valuable works written in the age of Louis XIV., purged from the several errors of diction which are crept into them. There are many of these errors in Corneille and Molière, but those in La Fontaine are very numerous. Such as could not be corrected might at least be pointed out. By this means, as all the Europeans read those works, they would teach them our language in its utmost purity—which, by that means, would be fixed to a lasting standard; and valuable French books being then printed at the King’s expense, would prove one of the most glorious monuments the nation could boast. I have been told that Boileau formerly made this proposal, and that it has since been revived by a gentleman eminent for his genius, his fine sense, and just taste for criticism; but this thought has met with the fate of many other useful projects, of being applauded and neglected.

What a service the French Academy would do for literature, the language, and the nation by changing its annual publications. Instead of publishing a collection of compliments each year, the Academy could publish new editions of valuable works from the age of Louis XIV. These editions would correct the errors of expression that have crept into those works. Corneille and Molière contain many such errors, but La Fontaine contains far more. Errors that could not be corrected could at least be pointed out. Since all Europeans read these works, such editions would teach them our language in its purest form. This would give the language a lasting standard. And valuable French books, printed at the King’s expense, would become one of the most glorious monuments the nation could boast of. I have been told that Boileau once made this proposal. A gentleman distinguished by his genius, sound judgment, and critical taste has since revived it. But the proposal has suffered the fate of many other useful projects: it has been praised and neglected.