History of Universities:

History of Universities

VO L U M E X X / 2

2005

History of Universities is published bi-annually Editor: Mordechai Feingold (California Institute of Technology) Managing Editor: Jane Finucane (Trinity College, Dublin) Editorial Board: R. D. Anderson (University of Edinburgh) L. W. Brockliss (Magdalen College, Oxford) C. Toniolo Fascione (University of Rome, Tor Vergata) W. Frihoff (Erasmus Universiteit, Rotterdom) N. Hammerstein (University of Frankfurt) D. Julia (Institut Universitaire Européen, Florence) M. Nelissen (Leuven) H. de Ridder-Symoens (Ghent) S. Rothblatt (University of California, Berkeley) N. G. Siraisi (Hunter College, New York) A leaflet ‘Notes to OUP Authors’ is available on request from the editor. To set up a standing order for History of Universities contact Standing Orders, Oxford University Press, Saxon Way West, Corby, NN18 9ES; email: [email protected]; tel: 01536 741017.

History of Universities VO L U M E X X / 2 2005

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford OX2 6DP Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York © Oxford University Press 2005 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2005 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Data available Typeset by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by Biddles Ltd., King’s Lynn, Norfolk ISBN 0–19–928928–X

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Contents

Articles Collège des Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor at Paris William J. Courtenay What Was Natural Philosophy in the Late Middle Ages? Edward Grant

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The Preachers of Trinity College, Cambridge, 1552–1860: the Use and Abuse of a College Office Jonathan Smith

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From Oral to Written Examinations: Cambridge, Oxford and Dublin 1700–1914 Christopher Stray

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Review Essay Making Mathematicians at Cambridge Andrew Warwick, Masters of Theory: Cambridge and the Rise of Mathematical Physics Diane Greco Josefowicz

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Large and Complicated Universities: Toronto and Melbourne William Bruneau

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Book Reviews Neil Kenny, The Uses of Curiosity in Early Modern France and Germany (Richard Kirwan)

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Sarah Bendall, Christopher Brooke and Patrick Collinson, A history of Emmanuel College, Cambridge (Aidan Clarke)

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Hartmut Rüdiger Peter (ed.), Schnorrer, Verschwörer, Bombenwerfer? Studenten aus dem Russischen Reich an deutschen Hochschulen vor dem 1. Weltkrieg; Hartmut Rüdiger Peter & Natalia Tikhonov (eds.), Universitäten als Brücken in Europa/Les universités: des ponts à travers l’Europe. Studien zur Geschichte der studentischen Migration/Etudes sur l’histoire des migrations étudiantes (Helga Robinson-Hammerstein)

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Bibliography

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Collège des Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor at Paris William J. Courtenay

In his extensive study of the charitable foundations of Bons-Enfants, many or most of which provided training in grammar and the liberal arts, J. M. Reitzel regretted the absence of information about the background and careers of the boys who were actually housed or held burses in these institutions.1 He made this observation in the context of the houses of Bons-Enfants at Paris, which unlike their equivalents in other cities and towns throughout northern France and Belgium housed students preparing for the baccalaureate and master degrees in arts, having already completed their training in grammar.2 Information, however, on a few scholars who belonged to one of the Bons-Enfants at Paris is extant, and can, in some cases, be combined with other documentation to provide an enriched picture of their careers. This information also sheds light on the administrative structure and financial position of the foundation, its relation to the University of Paris, and the type of young person who belonged to Bons-Enfants. The information is contained in a document describing actions taken at the Collège des Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor in 1331. This college was the oldest of three houses in Paris that were called Bons-Enfants and was the one Parisians referred to by that name. The second oldest was the Parisian house of the BonsEnfants d’Arras, a foundation of the bishop of Arras that provided students from that diocese, many of whom were trained in a grammar school of the same name in Arras, with support needed for their subsequent study in the arts faculty at Paris.3 The third was the house of poor scholars of Saint-Honoré, whose foundation predated that of the Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor but which did not bear the title Bons-Enfants until the middle or second half of the fourteenth century.4 The document in question is one of two marking the end of a legal and financial dispute between the University of Paris and Hugh de Besançon, bishop of Paris, between 1329 and 1331.5 In judging guilty a student

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accused of rape in the summer of 1329, the bishop and his official, despite the long-standing immunity of Parisian scholars and masters from monetary fines, assessed a fine of 400 pounds. The University appealed against his action and the bishop eventually lost his case at the papal court. The 400 pounds was repaid in the summer of 1331, half to the house of Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor at Paris on July 17 and half to the Collège de la Sorbonne on July 23.6 The payment to BonsEnfants took place at their house, which was represented by its master, or governor general, Marinus de Marigniaco, also identified as a canon of the collegiate church of Saint-Honoré, the dispensor for the house, Theobaldus de Lagiis, and five scholars of the house: Andreas de Sancto Clodoaldo, Hugo de Castillione, Amelinus Laurentii de Ruterio, Johannes de Sancto Mederico, and Johannes Gorre. The last of these, Johannes Gorre, has wrongly been described as a fellow of the Sorbonne in this period—a mistake initiated by Denifle, who in this instance confused the content of the Bons-Enfants document with that of the Sorbonne document, and compounded by a typographical error in Glorieux’s work, where 1331 became 1321.7 Who were these individuals connected to the Domus scolarium bonorum puerorum iuxta portam Sancti Victoris in the summer of 1331? The document informs us that Marinus de Marigniaco held the title of magister in addition to being the ‘master’, or administrative head, of the House of Bons-Enfants. This means, at the very least, that he was a master of arts, probably from the University of Paris, but he may have held a higher degree as well. The fact that he was also a canon of the collegiate church of Saint-Honoré, which administered the house of poor scholars of Saint-Honoré near the Louvre, on the other side of Paris, suggests a tie between Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor and the house of young scholars at Saint-Honoré that came to be known as Bons-Enfants de Saint-Honoré before the end of the fourteenth century.8 Theobaldus de Lagiis, the dispensor in charge of the financial administration of the house, must also have been a master of arts by this time and active in the University if, as seems likely, he is to be identified with Theobaldus Rotarii de Laniis or Lagniis, a secular clerk from the diocese of Langres and a doctor of medicine at Paris by 1335.9 He received his first expectation of a benefice from the bishop of Orléans in 1335; this did not materialize, although he had, by 1342, obtained for a time the rectorship of the parish church of Mareil-Marly outside Paris. In 1349 he apparently held only two chaplaincies, one at Paris, in the gift of the University, and one in the diocese of Sens, along with

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several expectations. Since his position as dispensor at Bons-Enfants was not a benefice, this office is not mentioned in his supplications to the pope or the resulting letters of provision. He may in any case have ceased to hold the position by 1335. His appearance in the document of 1331, however, does show that the officers of Bons-Enfants included persons of note who held degrees from the University of Paris and, in Theobaldus’ case, were still active in the University. Andreas de Sancto Clodoaldo was the first of the scholars or bursarii to be mentioned in the document. He had one of the longest careers in the faculty of arts at Paris, since he is listed as dean of the Paris province of the French nation in the rotuli of both the French nation and the University in 1379.10 He was from Saint-Cloud, on the western edge of modern Paris, and first appears along with Theobaldus in the computus of 1329–30.11 The level of his payment at that time as well as his presence among the bursarii of Bons-Enfants means that he had not yet become master of arts and was probably in his late teens in 1331. He probably obtained that degree during the 1330s, certainly before 1342 when he was granted an expectation of a canonical prebend at Saint-Honoré in Paris.12 The degree in arts would have ended his entitlement to a burse at Bons-Enfants, but by seeking his first benefice at the collegiate church of Saint-Honoré he may have been using the connection of Bons-Enfants and that church, or the fact that one of the canons at Saint-Honoré, Marinus de Marigniaco, would have known him personally. His career developed slowly but well. He was rector of the parish church of Champigny-sur-Marne by 1349, which had a value of 30 pounds parisian, and still awaiting a prebend at Saint-Honoré.13 He became chaplain of the altar of Saint-Julien at Notre-Dame in Paris and, through the support of the bishop of Châlons-sur-Marne, a prebendary canon in the chapter of Saint-Honoré by 1352.14 He went on to become a royal chaplain by 1362, to be appointed rector of Saint-Germain-leVieux in Paris by 1362, probably in exchange for his previous rectorship of the same value, and to attain the degree of bachelor of theology by 1371 (but as far as we know, never the doctorate in theology).15 The next three scholars mentioned in the document, Hugo de Castillione, Amelinus Laurentii de Ruterio, and Johannes de Sancto Mederico, have yet to be traced outside this text. Johannes Gorre of Paris, however, became as prominent as Andreas de Sancto Clodoaldo. Gorre would also have been in his late teens in 1331 and became a master of arts by 1335, when he is mentioned as representative or proctor for the Paris province of the French nation in the faculty of arts,

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a position Andreas de Sancto Clodoaldo was to hold much later.16 From January to March 1345 he served as rector of the University, by which time he had been ordained deacon and held the chaplaincy of the altar of Saint-Jacques at Notre-Dame in Paris.17 In July 1348 he acquired books in natural philosophy from the English nation.18 By May 1349 he had been ordained priest and had again served as rector of the University.19 At the time of his death, around 1360 or 1362, he left several books to the library of the Sorbonne, suggesting that he had been a fellow of that college and thus pursued a degree in theology, probably during the 1350s. One office or officer not mentioned in this document is the chaplain of the college. Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor received papal permission to have a chapel in November 1248.20 In some of the Bons-Enfants foundations the chaplain was also the head of the college, but at Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor in this period these were separate offices. In October 1328 the office of college chaplain, which had a tithe value of 15 pounds, was held by Johannes Pipe, master of arts, regent master in the faculty of medicine at Paris, and dean of that faculty.21 In February 1335 he was still chaplain at Bons-Enfants.22 Pipe had close ties with the bishop of Arras, Thierry d’Hérisson, whom he served as physician, probably in Paris at the episcopal town house close to the Collège des Bons-Enfants d’Arras as well as Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor.23 It is likely that Pipe came from the diocese of Arras, and although he petitioned and received a canonry with expectation of a prebend in the cathedral at Arras, it is not known if he attained that position. Jean Pipe’s connection with Arras as well as with Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor raises the possibility that the two colleges of Bons-Enfants in Paris in the early fourteenth century may have had more in common than simply their physical proximity. If Pipe received his training in grammar at Bons-Enfants in Arras, he may have continued his education in arts at the Collège des Bons-Enfants d’Arras in Paris and perhaps came to Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor by way of that neighboring foundation. Unfortunately, reference to this possibility must remain conjectural, since we know nothing about Jean Pipe’s family background and early education.24 Beyond what Reizel has been able to piece together about the house or college of Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor, what has this document added? I have already noted the possible administrative connection with the collegiate chapter of Saint-Honoré and thus a connection with a similar institution, the house of poor scholars of Saint-Honoré that

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eventually also bore the title of Bons-Enfants. Moreover, if the topographical background of Johannes Gorre and Andreas de Sancto Clodoaldo is indicative—and the place name of Johannes de Sancto Mederico could well be connected with the district of the Parisian church of that name—then students appointed to Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor may have been predominantly or exclusively chosen among candidates from Paris and the nearby region. While it is impossible on present evidence to know the social and financial background of Andreas de Sancto Clodoaldo or Johannes Gorre, their subsequent careers inside and outside the University denote persons of talent, and suggest that those chosen to be scholars at Bons-Enfants were students skilled in grammar who were likely to succeed in the arts faculty at Paris. What proportion of the membership of the Bons-Enfants was constituted by the scholars mentioned in this document? Usually, students resident in these houses numbered between ten and fifteen, but there is no way of knowing the size of the community of the Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor in 1331, and whether those named were the senior group of bursarii or simply those in residence at the end of the academic year and the beginning of the period of vacation. The parallel document for the Sorbonne, however, may provide a clue. That document lists sixteen fellows and officers of the college out of a total which, at that time, would have numbered between twenty and twenty five.25 Some of those listed in the Sorbonne document were, or would soon be, prominent in the life of the college and University. They were all masters of arts and students in the faculty of theology. Pierre du Cros was also the nephew of the provisor of the Sorbonne, Pierre Roger, who later became Pope Clement VI.26 Bertrand of Constance would be prior of the college in 1333.27 By 1342 Jean de Warnierrua was a doctor of theology and Elias de Corso a bachelor of theology.28 By September 1335 Hugues Fabri had completed one year as biblical cursor in theology, and Robert Villeta, Jean de Louvain, Guillaume de Yurea (Yvrea, or Yureceyo) had reached that stage by 1343.29 The others, Guillaume Sinay, Guillaume de Marsilio, Jean de Akandria, Gerard de Ungalis, Pierre d’Aisy, Gonsalve Petri, and Firmin d’Abbeville are only known from this document. It thus appears that those mentioned in the Sorbonne document, apart from the officers of the college, are a mixed group, many of them at the beginning of their theological studies in 1331. This suggests that those present at the ceremony of receiving half of the 400 pounds on behalf of the Sorbonne were those in residence at the beginning of the vacation period. The same may well apply to those named in the Bons-Enfants document.

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Finally, why was it that, of the various colleges and convents connected with the University of Paris, the Collège des Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor and the Collège de la Sorbonne were the two chosen to accept the restoration of funds from the bishop of Paris? It is unclear from the documents of the case how the money was raised to pay the 400-pound fine in the first place. The University’s complaint against the bishop in the autumn of 1329 states that Jean Le Fourbeur paid the fine in money and cash pledges.30 But where would a student in the faculty of arts, who does not appear to have come from a family of means, have been able to raise such an enormous sum while in prison? And if the money that released him from prison was raised among Le Fourbeur’s friends, why was it repaid to two Parisian colleges rather than to Le Fourbeur and his supporters? These questions cannot at present be answered, but one possibility is worth exploring, namely that the University itself paid the money knowing that the bishop had acted in violation of a papal privilege and that the money could be recovered through legal action, which the University pursued immediately after Jean Le Fourbeur’s release from the episcopal prison. The financial assessment of 1329–1330, which the University collected from its members, appears to have been used to pay the legal expenses of its case against the bishop, not the fine itself.31 Is it possible therefore that the 400 pounds was raised not by Jean Le Fourbeur, either by himself or through his friends, but from institutions in the university community that were sufficiently cash-rich to assemble a substantial payment on short notice? The Collège de la Sorbonne is precisely such an institution, owning as it did many rental properties that brought in a large monthly income.32 Similarly, the Collège des Bons-Enfants, which was a recipient of numerous financial legacies from Parisians, was well-endowed and therefore might have been in a position to provide part of the money needed. The alternative picture would be that the money refunded by the bishop was not returned to those who had paid it but was arbitrarily given by the pope to two Parisian colleges that had played no part in raising the money to pay the fine. If the hypothesis that the money came from and was returned to these two colleges is accepted, it suggests that Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor as well as the Sorbonne may have played a role as sources of funding for the University of Paris in addition to their role as residential colleges for undergraduates in arts and for students in theology, respectively. This would also mean that Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor was a wealthier college than has been realized, and that the numerous charitable legacies

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it received throughout the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries (the best documented part of its history) had provided an endowment that exceeded its expenditures and put it in a position to lend money for causes related to the University. The document and the events behind it confirm that the Collège des Bons-Enfants de Saint-Victor was a college for undergraduates at Paris, not a school for grammar students as Hastings Rashdall and others maintained, and demonstrate that it played an important role in the life of the University of Paris.33 Department of History University of Wisconsin 455 N. Park St. Madison, Wisconsin 53706

Instrumentum for the Payment to the Collège des Bons-Enfants, 17 July 1331 Paris, Archives Nationales, L 427, #76 In nomine domini Amen. Anno eiusdem millesimo tricesimo primo, indictione xiiii, die xvii Julii, pontifici sanctissimi patris et domini nostri, domini Johannis divina providentia pape xxii anno 15, in domo scolarium Bonorum Puerorum iuxta portam Sancti Victoris Parisius congregatis inibi ad infrascripta discretis viris magistris Marino de Marignyaco canonico ecclesie Sancti Honorati Parisien., magistro seu gub[er]natore generali domus et scolarium predictorum, et Theobaldo de Lagiis dispensatore, ac Andrea de Sancto Clodoaldo et Hugone de Castillione, Amelino Laurentii de Ruterio, Johanne de Sancto Mederico, ac Johanne Gorre scolaribus dicte domus, venerabilis et discretus vir dominus Johannes Marinus canonicus ecclesie Sancti Germani Autissiodorensis Parisius, receptor reverendi in Christo patris domini H[ugonis] Dei gratia Parisiensis episcopi, in presentia etiam venerabilis patris domini [Alberti] abbatis monasterii Sancti Victoris [Parisiensis], ac mei notarii et testium infrascriptorum dixit et exposuit magistro et scolaribus antedictis qualiter prefatus sanctissimus pater dominus noster summus pontifex de quadringenta libris paris. flebilis (sic) monete currentis anno domini ccc.xxix. quas ipse dominus episcopus seu eius officialis pro ipso habuerat seu exegerat a Johanne le fourbeur de Rosato clerico Meldensis diocesis, ratione cuiusdam emende ab ipso Johanne suis culpis exigentibus levate et pro quibus

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dudum orta fuit discordia inter prefatum dominum episcopum ex una parte et Universitatem Parisiensem, cuius universitatis scolarem prefatum Johannem ipsa universitas esse dicebat, ex altera, pro bono pacis et concordie ordinaverat in hunc modum, videlicet quod medietas ipsarum quadringentarum librarum scolaribus supradictis et alia medietas scolaribus de Serbona Parisius convertendas in utilitatem eorum per eundem episcopum traderetur. Et ideo ipse dominus receptor nomine et de speciali mandato prefati domini Parisiensis episcopi volens ordinationi predicte obedire firmiter ut tenetur medietatem ipsarum quadringentarum librarum eisdem magistro et scolaribus tradidit et assignavit ibidem in pluribus et diversis pecuniarum summis, videlicet quinquagintaquinque regales aureos, item quinque parisenses aureos, item vigintiseptem florenos auri de Florentia, item quinquagintasex florenos ad agnum, et xvi grossos turonenses de sancto Ludovico; quas monetas sic numeratas et traditas iidem vicesgerens, prior, procurator et alii magistri et scolares prefati recognoscentes se prefatam pecuniam recepisse, eosdem dominum episcopum et receptorem et quoscunque alios officiales, procuratores et familiares eiusdem, de omni eo quod ab eis vel eorum aliquo petere possent ratione ordinationis predicte nomine ipsius domus et pro ipsis plenarie quittaverunt. Promittentes per fidem eorum et ipsorum quemlibet inibi prestitam nunquam contra huiusmodi quittationem per se vel alios facere vel venire, renunciando omni exceptioni non recepte dicte pecunie quantitatis et non facte dicte quittationis et obligationis et omni alii exceptioni iuris et facti per quas contra premissa vel premissorum aliquod possent facere vel verire. Actum ut supra presentibus religiosis viris dominis Pontio prebendario, Regnaudo subcamerario et Egidio sacrista monasterii Sancti Victoris predicti, domino Johanne Godet cantore de Lynais, Parisien. dioc., Bertaudo Heron et Nicholao Belle maniere domicellis ipsius domini abbatis, testibus in premissis. Et ego Jacobus Frassus clericus Mediolanensis, publicus apostolica et imperiali auctoritate notarius, premissis omnibus et singulis sic factis et actis ut predicitur presens fui et rogatus ea scribi feci et in hanc publicam formam redegi, ac meo signo consueto una cum sigillo ipsius domini abbatis Sancti Victoris signavi in testimonium premissorum. Et nos frater Albertus humilis abbas monasterii Sancti Victoris Parisius, quia contentis in huiusmodi instrumento dum sic fierent presens fuimus, ideo hic sigillum nostrum rogati apponi fecimus.

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REFERENCES 1. M. Reitzel, ‘The Medieval Houses of Bons-Enfants,’ Viator, 11 (1980), 179–207, 191: ‘we would wish to know whether the boys chosen to be BonsEnfants were genuinely in need and, if so, how many subsequently improved in social position. Unfortunately, these questions are unanswerable.’ 2. Ibid., 190: ‘The great need at Paris was not so much to find housing for needy grammar-school boys, but for large numbers of slightly older adolescents, those working for their first degree in the arts faculty. . . . Thus, these Parisian Bons-Enfants were probably undergraduates.’ 3. A. Guesnon, ‘Un collège inconnu des Bons-Enfants d’Arras, à Paris, du XIIIe au XIVe siècle,’ Mémoires de la Société de l’histoire de Paris et de l’Île-de-France, 42 (1915), 1–37; see also G. Coolen, ‘Le collège d’Arras à Paris,’ Bulletin de la Société des antiquaires de la Morinie, 14 (1929), 696–707. 4. The house was still referred to in 1371 as ‘domus pauperum scolarium s. Honorati prope Parisius’; see Rotuli Parisienses, vol. II: 1352–1378, ed. W. J. Courtenay and E. D. Goddard (Leiden, 2004), 421. On Bons-Enfants de Saint-Honoré see Reitzel, ‘Medieval Houses,’ 202–6. 5. The document was initially edited by C. E. Du Boulay, Historia Universitatis Parisiensis (6 vols, Paris, 1665–1673), IV. 228–9; it has been re-edited from Paris, Archives Nationales, L 427, #76, in the version appended to this article. On the dispute, see W. J. Courtenay, Parisian Scholars in the Early Fourteenth Century (Cambridge, 1999), 49–56. 6. The Sorbonne document was also edited by Du Boulay, Historia Universitatis Parisiensis, IV. 229–231, and republished by P. Glorieux, Aux Origines de la Sorbonne, vol. II: Le Cartulaire (Paris, 1965), #428, 553–56. The original document is not extant. 7. Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis (hereafter cited as CUP), ed. H. Denifle and É. Châtelain, vol. II (Paris, 1891), 446n; Glorieux, Aux Origines de la Sorbonne, vol. I: Robert de Sorbon (Paris, 1966), 315. 8. See the discussion in Reitzel, ‘Medieval Houses of Bons-Enfants,’ 202–5. 9. Rotuli Parisienses, vol. I: 1316–1349, ed. W. J. Courtenay (Leiden, 2003), 72, 103, 294–5. The identification is confirmed by the names of Theobaldus de Laniis and Andreas de Sancto Clodoaldo appearing together in the same order in the computus of 1329–1330; see Courtenay, Parisian Scholars, 232, and the biographical sketch of Theobaldus, 213–214; see also Ernest Wickersheimer, Dictionnaire biographique des médecins en France au Moyen Age (Paris, 1936; repr. Geneva, 1979), 752. His place name may correspond to Laignes, west of Châtillon-sur-Seine, or to Lannes, north of Langres. 10. For his listing in the rotulus of the French nation, see Vatican City, Archivio Segreto Vaticano, Reg. Suppl. 53, f. 141v; and in the rotulus of the University, see Reg. Suppl. 55, f. 139r. 11. Courtenay, Parisian Scholars, 232, and the biographical sketch, 132–3. 12. Rotuli Parisienses, vol. I, 112.

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13. Ibid., 329. 14. Pouillés de la Province de Sens, ed. A. Longnon, Recueil des historiens de la France. Pouillés, vol. IV (Paris, 1904), 373, 377; for the renewal in 1351of his expectation at Saint-Honoré, see Archivio Segreto Vaticano, Reg. Suppl. 23, f. 95v. 15. Rotuli Parisienses, vol. II, 106, 364n. 16. CUP II, #989, 444. He also held this same position in August 1336 and October 1339 (CUP II, #1004, 467; #1028, 489). 17. Rotuli Parisienses, vol. I, 200; CUP II, #1101, 559. 18. Auctarium Chartularii Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. H. Denifle and É. Châtelain, vol. I (Paris, 1894), col. 123. 19. Rotuli Parisienses, vol. I, 329; as first in the list for the province of Paris, three places above Andreas de Sancto Clodoaldo, Gorre was probably the procurator or dean of that subsection of the French nation in the rotulus of the faculty of arts in 1349. 20. Paris, Arch. Nat. L 422, n.37; CUP I, #184, 214. 21. Rotuli Parisienses, vol. I, 42; Courtenay, Parisian Scholars, 181. The tithe value for the chaplain of Bons-Enfants at Paris in 1352 is listed as 15 pounds in Pouillés de la Province de Sens, 397, thus the same as the tithe value stated for that office in the letters of provision to Jean Pipe. 22. Rotuli Parisienses, vol. I, 71. 23. Wickersheimer, Dictionnaire biographique, 464. 24. The same possibility exists for another famous master from the diocese of Arras, Jean Buridan, about whose early educational route into Paris we also know nothing. Buridan may, however, have followed a different educational path to Paris. In the early stages of his career as a master of arts, Buridan received support from the monastery of Saint-Vaast at Arras, which was often in an adversarial relationship with the bishop and cathedral canons, who oversaw the colleges of Bons-Enfants at Arras and its daughter foundation at Paris. On Buridan’s career and benefice support, see W. J. Courtenay, ‘Philosophy’s Reward: The Ecclesiastical Income of Jean Buridan, Recherches de Théologie et Philosophie Médiévales, 68 (2001), 163–9. 25. The document is edited in Du Boulay, Hist. Univ. Paris., IV, 229–31, and in Glorieux, Aux origines de la Sorbonne, vol. II, 553–56. Those listed were the vicegerent Germanus Cellati, DTh from the diocese of Narbonne, the prior Guillelmus de Sinay, the procurators Robertus de Villeta and Johannes de Lovanio, dominus Guillelmus de Marsilio, and masters Petrus de Croso, Bertrandus de Constancia, Hugo Fabri, Elias de Corso, Johannes de Akandria, Gerardus de Ungulis, Johannes Warenrue, Petrus de Aisy, Guillelmus de Yurea, Gonzalvus Petri, and Firminus de Abbatisvilla. 26. Glorieux, Aux origines de la Sorbonne, vol. I, 322. 27. Ibid., 298. 28. Rotuli Parisienses, vol. I, 98–99, 166. 29. Ibid., 131n, 193–94.

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30. CUP II, #899, 334: ‘Qua gagiata, eumdem in quatercentum libris parisien. pro emenda condemnarunt, ad quam solvendam eumdem ante exitum carceris compulerunt; et sic compulsus in pecunia et pignoribus argenteis, integre de eadem eisdem satisfecit.’ The document of 1331 edited at the end of this article is similarly vague: ‘de quadringenta libris paris. flebilis monete currentis anno domini ccc.xxix. quas ipse dominus episcopus seu eius officialis pro ipso habuerat seu exegerat a Johanne le fourbeur de Rosato clerico Meldensis diocesis, ratione cuiusdam emende ab ipso Johanne suis culpis exigentibus levate. . . .’ 31. The record of the assessment of 1329–1330 is edited and analyzed in Courtenay, Parisian Scholars. 32. On the properties of the Sorbonne, see Glorieux, Aux origines, esp. vol. II. 33. H. Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, rev. ed. F. M. Powicke and A. B. Emden (Oxford, 1936), 505.

What Was Natural Philosophy in the Late Middle Ages? Edward Grant

If by natural philosophy we understand everything relevant to nature and natural phenomena, it seems plausible to infer that the subject matter of natural philosophy embraces all inquiries and questions about the physical world. The first humans must have been aware of nature, which was all around them and involved in everything they did. Nature was not invented. It was a given.1 Long before the Greeks, the ancient civilizations of Egypt and Mesopotamia had already learned much about nature and its actions. But the ancient Greeks brought something new to the study of nature: they invented instructive ways of talking about it. During the period 600 to 400 BC, the foundations of Greek natural philosophy were laid by a group of thinkers known collectively as the Presocratics, who no longer explained natural phenomena, such as earthquakes, lightning, storms, and eclipses, as the actions of happy or angry gods, but as the actions of natural forces that regularly produced such effects. Not only did the Presocratics eliminate the gods as the causes of natural phenomena and replace them with natural causes, but they also devised a number of different approaches to explain the apparent diversity and change they observed in the world around them. In the process, they enunciated some of the most basic problems that would shape the discipline that would eventually be known as physics, or natural philosophy. The problems that Presocratic philosophers identified, and with which they grappled, largely by abstract, rational arguments, ranged over the whole of what we might plausibly regard as natural philosophy. But there is no evidence that they reflected on the essential structure of natural philosophy and how it fitted into the overall scheme of knowledge. These important tasks were left to Aristotle (384–322), who was the first to describe the role of natural philosophy in the overall scheme of natural knowledge. His analysis shaped that discipline for approximately

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two thousand years, from the fourth century BC to the seventeenth century AD.

Aristotle

The concept of natural philosophy that reached the Latin Middle Ages in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries was embodied in the works of Aristotle, works that had been translated into Latin from Greek and Arabic. Aristotle distinguished three broad categories of knowledge that he regarded as scientific: the productive sciences, the practical sciences, and the theoretical sciences. Among the subdivisions of the theoretical sciences, Aristotle placed metaphysics first, then mathematics, and finally, physics, or natural philosophy. In contrast to metaphysics and mathematics, which were concerned with unchangeable entities, natural philosophy was concerned only with things that are changeable, exist separately, and also have within themselves an innate source of movement and rest.2 From Aristotle’s standpoint, natural philosophy embraces both animate and inanimate bodies and is applicable to the whole physical world, that is, to both the terrestrial and celestial regions. To derive knowledge about the ever-changing natural world, Aristotle believed that we must begin with sense perception, from which we rise to universal propositions. He emphasized the role of causes because nature operates by causes. An investigation of nature by means of physics, or natural philosophy, involved a study and analysis of those causes and the motions and changes they produce. Almost all the topics Aristotle seriously pursued in natural philosophy appear in a collection of his treatises that came to be known as the ‘natural books’ (libri naturales), which include Physics, On the Heavens (De caelo), On the Soul (De anima), On Generation and Corruption (De generatione et corruptione), Meteorology, The Short Physical Treatises (Parva naturalia), which consists of a number of brief treatises,3 and his biological works. Although, strictly speaking, Aristotle’s Metaphysics and logical works were not classified as part of natural philosophy, they were always regarded as highly relevant to that discipline. Just as important as his delineation of the scope of natural philosophy was Aristotle’s style of doing natural philosophy. Above all else, Aristotle had the scientific temperament, constantly emphasizing the application

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of reason to the problems of natural philosophy. In the Nicomachean Ethics (10.7.1178a.5–8), Aristotle declares ‘that which is proper to each thing is by nature best and most pleasant for each thing; for man, therefore, the life according to intellect is best and pleasantest, since intellect more than anything else is man’. Aristotle frequently emphasizes reasoned discourse and accords it the highest place.4

Characteristic Features of the New Europe that Emerged at the End of the Barbarian Invasions in the Eleventh Century

To appreciate the developments and influence of natural philosophy in the late Middle Ages, one must understand that it developed in a vibrant, societal context that is contrary to common assumptions made about the Middle Ages, a period often described as the ‘Dark Ages’ and usually regarded as a backwash of superstition and stupidity, or as a nineteenth century historian put it: ‘a thousand years without a bath’.5 After the nadir of Western Civilization was reached between 500 and 1000 AD, a new people emerged who differed greatly from their predecessors in the Roman Empire period. As soon became apparent, the medley of peoples that had intermingled with the inhabitants of the Roman Empire formed a new and vibrant society that was unusually creative and inventive. One of the most distinctive features of this new society was its desire to utilize human reason for the proper understanding of the physical and spiritual worlds. This did not emerge full blown, but it was there from the beginning in embryonic form until it reached virtual maturity by the end of the Middle Ages, around 1500. Significant advances were made in technology (the invention of eyeglasses, magnetic compass, mechanical clock, firearms and cannon, ship’s rudder, cranks to convert continuous rotary motion to reciprocating motion); higher education (the invention of universities), and banking (bills of exchange, checks, marine insurance). Medieval medical schools were the first to dissect human cadavers for teaching purposes. In government, the Middle Ages can lay claim to the development of the nation state; Magna Carta; and the English Parliament (the first representative government). Other momentous achievements include the invention of the basis of the modern corporation and polyphonic music; and, in law, the Middle Ages laid the foundation of the Western legal system. The

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Arabic number system was first adopted in the West during the Middle Ages. And, finally, Johannes Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press in the 1450s may well represent the most revolutionary change made during the second millennium. We cannot leave unmentioned the important fact that medieval explorers expanded the horizons of Europe as never before. The Vikings reached the shores of Newfoundland around 1000. Before 1500, European explorers (Bartholomew Diaz and Vasco da Gama) reached India by rounding the Cape of Good Hope followed, a few years later, by Christopher Columbus, who reached the New World and began the long period of European imperialism and colonization. These, and numerous other accomplishments, form the great beginnings of the uninterrupted development of Western Civilization, from around 1100 or 1200 to the present.

The University in the Middle Ages

One of the most important medieval achievements was the development, or even invention, of the university.6 By 1200 at least three famous universities were in existence: the Universities of Paris, Bologna, and Oxford; by 1500, there were approximately seventy-five universities in Western Europe, all of which had at least one faculty, the faculty of arts. Some also had one or more of the higher faculties: law, medicine, and theology. The Universities of Paris and Oxford served as the basic models for most of the later universities, with Paris perhaps the most famous, largely because of its renowned school of theology. The university as we know it today is an uninterrupted, evolutionary development from approximately 1200 to the present.7 The legal and structural organization of the university derived from a unique Western conception: the corporation, or universitas, a fictional entity to which various legal rights were assigned. Members of various professions, crafts, or merchant guilds were eligible to form corporations, including masters and students at the recently formed universities. Each corporation had the legal right to elect its own officers and to run its own affairs, as long as its actions did not conflict directly with Church or State. There were numerous corporations within a given university. For example, the students and masters in the arts faculty formed a corporation, as did

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the students and masters of each of the other faculties: law, theology, and medicine. Each faculty corporation had rights and privileges that enabled it to control its own internal affairs, and to preserve the integrity and relative freedom of its members. By the middle of the thirteenth century, the aggregate of all corporate entities within a given university was known as the studium generale. As more universities came into being, the term studium generale was usually reserved for those that had at least three of the four basic faculties (arts, theology, law, and medicine). Thus masters and students at a studium generale were not only members of their respective corporations, but also members of the studium generale. Graduates of a recognized studium generale were automatically eligible—that is, were licensed—to teach at any other European university. Most universities were urban institutions, and the greatest of them (Paris, Oxford, and Bologna) were international in scope. The students who were enrolled came from towns and cities scattered over all parts of Western Europe. They were non-citizens residing in foreign cities and needed some protection from municipal authorities and townspeople who might take advantage of them. It was the task of university corporations to protect, as much as possible, the well-being of their members. Although most students and masters were not members of the clergy, they were given clerical status while at their universities. This protected them while travelling and gave them an option of being tried in more lenient ecclesiastical courts than in the more uncertain civil courts. There were no official requirements for admission to a university. Students who sought entry to universities were usually around fourteen or fifteen years of age. If the university rector approved, they were admitted, subject to the taking of an oath and the payment of a fee. Upon entry to the university, new students were required to attach themselves to a university master, who functioned as teacher and advisor, and undoubtedly played a major role in formulating a course of study. Of the four faculties that comprised a full studium generale, the arts faculty was the filter through which all students passed prior to entering one of the three graduate programmes in theology, law, or medicine. Before entering any of the specialized higher faculties, all students followed a common course of study in the arts faculty, which largely consisted of Aristotle’s logic and natural philosophy. After fulfilling their course requirements and other obligations as undergraduates, students earned the Bachelor of Arts degree. If they wished to become teachers

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in an arts faculty, they were expected to continue studying for approximately two more years after which they were granted the Master of Arts degree. If a student then desired to become a theologian, lawyer, or physician, he had to seek admission to the relevant school and study for six or seven more years. Because the arts faculty provided a common, basic curriculum for all students who attained graduate degrees in theology, law, or medicine, it is apparent that theologians, lawyers, and physicians, who had all begun their studies in the arts faculty, were reasonably knowledgeable about logic and natural philosophy. Many utilized that knowledge in their written works. We may rightly conclude that during the period 1150 to around 1500, natural philosophy was institutionalized throughout Europe. Indeed, it was transformed in ways that Aristotle would probably have disapproved.

The Latin Translations of Greco-Arabic Natural Philosophy and their Reception

The emergence of the university in the late twelfth century was accompanied by another major phenomenon that greatly facilitated its creation: the influx of a large body of Greco-Arabic literature in science and natural philosophy that was previously unknown in the West and which was destined to transform its intellectual life. In the twelfth century, Western European scholars discovered the treasures of Greco-Arabic science and natural philosophy and immediately sought to translate them into Latin. They found Greek and Arabic treatises in the Arabic language in areas of Muslim Spain and Sicily that had been re-conquered in the late eleventh century; and in Northern Italy, especially Venice, they discovered texts in science and natural philosophy in the Greek language by Greek authors ranging from the classical period to the end of antiquity. Most of what would be known of Greek and Arabic science and natural philosophy in the late Middle Ages was translated into Latin in these areas. For the history of natural philosophy, the translation of the works of Aristotle and his numerous commentators, both Greek and Arabic, was of fundamental significance. These works were new to the West and marked an explosive expansion of knowledge in that region. The most important of all commentators on Aristotle’s natural philosophy in any language was Averroes (Ibn Rushd) (1126–1198), who

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lived in Muslim Spain and wrote in Arabic; among the Greek commentators of late antiquity, the most important were Alexander of Aphrodisias (fl. 198–209), Themistius (fl. late 340s-384/385), Simplicius (c 500-d. after 533), and John Philoponus (c 490–570s). Translations were made from the mid-twelfth century to the end of the thirteenth century. The numerous translations into Latin of Aristotle’s works on natural philosophy provided the newly awakened West with a corpus of treatises that met the most basic needs of the arts faculties in the new universities that had taken root by 1200. Aristotle’s natural books came to serve as the basic curriculum for students studying natural philosophy in the arts faculties. But the introduction—and eventual acceptance—of Aristotle’s works as the basis for the arts curriculum in the medieval university did not occur without a considerable degree of hostility from various theological authorities in the course of the thirteenth century. The reaction against Aristotle was concentrated at the University of Paris, where as early as 1210, an order was issued that forbade, under penalty of excommunication, the reading of Aristotle’s natural books in public or in secret. The ban was repeated in 1215, but proved of no avail. In 1231, Pope Gregory IX established a three-man commission to ‘correct’ Aristotle’s texts—that is, make them compatible with Christian teaching. This command was apparently never executed, because by 1255, the unexpurgated texts of Aristotle were being taught at the University of Paris. By the 1270s, some theologians, including Saint Bonaventure (John of Fidanza (1221–1274)), instituted a new tactic: they condemned ideas they thought dangerous to the faith. Conservative theologians prevailed upon the bishop of Paris, Etienne Tempier, to issue a condemnation of 13 articles in 1270; and in 1277, he cooperated with a condemnation of 219 articles. The 219 articles condemned in 1277 were repetitious and listed in no particular order. Many of them, however, were relevant to Aristotle’s natural philosophy. A number of articles were directed against Aristotle’s arguments for the eternity of the world, while others sought to condemn those ideas and arguments in which Aristotle claimed that some action, or other, was impossible, as, for example, the creation of the world; or the simultaneous existence of more than one world, and so on. These claims were condemned because, by calling such actions impossible, Aristotle was effectively saying that not even God could do those things. Hence those Aristotelian arguments were regarded as denials of God’s absolute power to do whatever He wished, short of a logical contradiction. As we shall see, problems relevant to God’s

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absolute power played a significant role in the substantive development of medieval natural philosophy. By the end of the thirteenth century, however, despite perennial problems with Aristotle’s ideas about the physical world that conflicted with the Christian religion, Aristotle’s natural philosophy was fully accepted and integrated, not only into the curriculum of the arts faculties of European universities, but into the whole domain of European intellectual life. Indeed, it is ironic that in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the Church and many of its theologians fought doggedly to save Aristotle’s natural philosophy from the unrelenting assaults on it by numerous rival philosophies that had emerged after the Protestant Reformation. But what was the natural philosophy that dominated medieval thought and which endured for some four centuries?

The Subject Matter of Natural Philosophy

More to the point: what did university natural philosophers regard as the subject matter of their discipline? In the most general sense, scholastic natural philosophers identified ‘mobile being’ (ens mobile) as the basic subject matter of natural philosophy. Mobile being included not only bodies, but also the motion of immaterial substances, such as angels. All things in motion, not just bodies, are the province of natural philosophy, or, as an anonymous fourteenth-century author put it, ‘the whole of movable being is the proper subject of natural philosophy’.8 Although natural philosophy was primarily about the entire physical universe, it also included all immaterial substances, such as angels or intelligences that were capable of motion.

The Literature of Natural Philosophy

Natural philosophy was the subject of university lectures which frequently came to be embodied in written texts. By the late thirteenth century, three major literary forms had evolved: (1) commentaries on the natural books of Aristotle, the most famous being the Aristotelian

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commentaries by Averroes and St. Thomas Aquinas; (2) treatises comprised solely of questions on Aristotle’s natural books, say a Questions on Aristotle’s Physics, or Questions on Aristotle’s On the Heavens, or Questions on Aristotle’s On Generation and Corruption, and so on; and (3) thematic treatises, or tractates, in each of which a particular theme or subject area is discussed systematically and at considerable length, as, for example, Nicole Oresme’s Treatise on the Uniformity and Difformity of Intensities known as ‘Tractatus de configurationibus qualitatum et motuum’, or Thomas Bradwardine’s Treatise on Proportions or Ratios.9 Of these three categories, the most commonly used type was the questions format, which more than anything else shaped the medieval perception of the world. By virtue of this questioning approach to the world many interesting, and even strange, questions were formulated. Most of them were about problems in Aristotle’s works. Scholastic commentators inquired about all kinds of natural phenomena, prefacing their questions with the interrogative ‘whether’, as, for example, whether the whole earth is habitable; whether spots appearing in the moon arise from differences in parts of the moon or from something external; whether the earth is spherical; whether a comet is of a celestial nature or [whether it is] of an elementary nature, say of a fiery exhalation; whether lightning is fire descending from a cloud; whether there are four elements, no more nor less; whether it is possible for an actual infinite magnitude to exist; whether the existence of a vacuum is possible.10

The structure of these questions, and all others in medieval natural philosophy, was remarkably constant. Every question began with an enunciation of the problem (step 1), usually asking whether (utrum was the Latin term) this or that is the case. For example, ‘whether there could be an infinite dimension’, or ‘whether the earth always is at rest in the centre of the universe’.11 As in a university disputation, which was the basis of the written medieval question, arguments were presented for or against the enunciated thesis (step 2). If the author offered a series of affirmative arguments, anywhere from one to ten, or even more, he would usually end up defending a version of the negative side. Or, the reverse might obtain: the author presents a sequence of negative arguments, from which it could usually be inferred that he would ultimately defend the affirmative side. These initial arguments were called the ‘principal arguments’ (rationes principales). They were followed by a

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statement of the opposite position (step 3), which might take the form ‘Aristotle says the opposite’, or ‘Aristotle determines the opposite’, or ‘The Commentator [Averroes] affirms the opposite’, and so on. After presenting the opposite opinion, the author might then explain his understanding of the question, raise doubts about it, and even define ambiguous terms in the question (step 4). The author was now ready to express his own opinions, usually by way of distinct, numbered conclusions (step 5). When this task was completed, the author took the final step (step 6): a brief point-by-point response to each of the principal arguments enunciated at the outset of the question.12 This six-step format was used in the formulation of hundreds of questions during the course of the late Middle Ages. In every question, the objective was to present the affirmative and negative arguments and to choose, or ‘determine’, the correct response. Aristotelian natural philosophy was comprised of hundreds of questions that were largely unrelated. Occasionally, an author referred from one question to another, and thereby linked one or more questions. Most questions, however, were left isolated and unconnected. As a result of this customary approach, medieval natural philosophers did not present an integrated, overall picture of the cosmos, but one that was highly fragmented. In the late Middle Ages, natural philosophy is found not only in standard questions on this or that treatise of Aristotle’s, but it turns up with great frequency in theological commentaries, most notably in commentaries on the four books of Sentences of Peter Lombard, a twelfth-century theological text on which, for more than four centuries, theological students were required to lecture and write commentaries. When natural philosophy entered the Christian West in the thirteenth century, it caused theologians some concern, but by the 1250s it had become an integral part of the university curriculum. Natural philosophy formed a link between the arts masters in the arts faculties and the theologians in the theology faculties. In order to enter a graduate school of theology, a potential student was expected to have the equivalent of a Master of Arts degree. To obtain a Master of Arts degree one had to be proficient in natural philosophy as taught in the arts faculty. Virtually every theologian was well versed in natural philosophy, a state of affairs that had monumental consequences for the development of that subject. A theologian could freely apply natural philosophy to theological problems, whereas an arts master could not. Theologians expanded the range of natural philosophy from questions on the physical world to questions on the nature of God, the Eucharist, and other articles of faith. But they

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did not stop there. In their theological commentaries on the Sentences of Peter Lombard, they also included straightforward questions on traditional themes in Aristotelian natural philosophy. Thus not only did theologians expand the horizons of natural philosophy, but, in applying natural philosophy to theology, theologians transformed theology into an analytical discipline, virtually devoid of religious content. Popes complained about the extensive use of natural philosophy in theology and tried to curtail it, but failed utterly, as we can see from a remark by John Major, an eminent theologian in the sixteenth century, who declared that ‘for some two centuries now, theologians have not feared to work into their writings questions which are purely physical, metaphysical, and sometimes purely mathematical’.13 As if to support John Major’s opinion, John Murdoch declares that ‘genuine parts of fourteenth-century theological tracts . . . successfully masqueraded as straightforward tracts in natural philosophy’.14 It is no exaggeration to claim that theologians contributed more to the development and advance of natural philosophy than did masters in the arts faculty.

The Substantive Nature of Medieval Natural Philosophy

Whether we study natural philosophy in the commentaries and questions treatises on Aristotle’s books on natural philosophy, or whether we study natural philosophy as it was used and applied in theological commentaries, we will find that the substantive content of it is essentially the same. In the arts faculty of universities, the masters, who were not theologians, sought to keep theology and natural philosophy distinct. Indeed, they had special incentive to do this at the University of Paris, which, beginning in 1272, required arts masters to take an oath that they would not introduce theology into their questions, but if perchance they did, they were required to resolve any issues in favour of the faith. But arts masters were likely to have excluded theology and matters of faith from natural philosophy by the very nature of things. They assiduously avoided the intrusion of theology into their arguments, because they knew they were dealing with natural philosophy, not supernatural philosophy. To invoke religious or theological arguments to resolve problems in natural philosophy would be to invoke supernatural explanations rather than

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natural explanations. No Aristotelian natural philosopher could have accepted that, and none did in the Middle Ages. To see how medieval natural philosophers viewed the world and its operations and avoided theological entanglements, one would do well to examine the attitudes of John Buridan, a fourteenth century scholastic, who was not a theologian, but was probably the greatest natural philosopher among medieval arts masters in the entire Middle Ages; and Nicole Oresme, who was a theologian-natural philosopher and Buridan’s younger contemporary, perhaps even Buridan’s student at the University of Paris.

Buridan

In his Questions on Aristotle’s De caelo, Buridan asks whether something exists beyond the world and declares that: ‘Thirdly, I say that there is no body beyond the heaven or world, namely beyond the outermost heaven. And Aristotle obviously assumes this. But what must be said about this according to the truth or constancy of faith, you ought to refer to the theologians’.15 Buridan obviously regarded theological pronouncements as irrelevant to the question, and chose to avoid them. Elsewhere in his Questions on De caelo, Buridan presents an argument for believing that in an infinite future time, the world will have the potentiality for not-being. ‘As to this argument’, he explains, it must be noted that this argument is not about natural powers, but it is about supernatural power, because it was not by nature that the world was created, nor is it by nature that the world could be annihilated, but [rather] by supernatural power. And so what the argument concludes might well be conceded. But now the question is restricted in the way we speak about what is sought: having assumed that the world is eternal and incorruptible in the way that Aristotle imagined it, and assuming that something could not be made from nothing, but that it is necessary that everything that exists be made from preassumed matter, just as is true [for] that which cannot be made otherwise than in a natural way.16

Buridan sought to defend Aristotelian natural philosophy as the best means of understanding the physical world. Readily conceding—as all medieval natural philosophers did—that God could interfere at any time and alter the natural course of events, or the ‘common course of nature’

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(communis cursus nature), as it was frequently expressed, Buridan nevertheless assumed that ‘in natural philosophy we ought to accept actions and dependencies as if they always proceed in a natural way’.17 Should a conflict arise between the Catholic faith and Aristotle’s arguments, which, after all, are based only on sensation and experience, it is not necessary to believe Aristotle, as, for example, in the doctrine of the eternity of the world. And yet, if we wish to confine ourselves to a consideration of natural powers only, it is appropriate to accept Aristotle’s opinion on the eternity of the world, as if it were true. Generally, Buridan was interested in arriving at truths about the regular operations of the physical world in the ‘common course of nature’. Buridan differed radically from Nicholas of Autrecourt (ca. 1300— d. after 1350), who was a sceptic arguing that scientific knowledge is impossible. He rejected Aristotle’s concept of substance and believed that the concept of causality is fallacious. Buridan, however, argued that fundamental and indemonstrable principles of natural science need not be absolute, but can be derived by inductive generalization—that is, ‘they are accepted’, he says, ‘because they have been observed to be true in many instances and to be false in none’.18

Oresme

Nicole Oresme is a far more complex scholar than Buridan, in part, perhaps, because he was both a natural philosopher and a theologian. Oresme is well known as one who, in his writings, rejected the discipline of astrology and was very critical of magical claims and procedures. In contrast to Buridan, however, Oresme was somewhat sceptical about the knowledge we could derive from natural philosophy. He was convinced on mathematical grounds that celestial motions were probably incommensurable and that precise data about them was unobtainable. Not only was nature’s behaviour necessarily approximative by virtue of the mathematics that described it, but Oresme was often enough dubious about human explanations of large cosmic problems. He was frequently content to propose alternative explanations for traditionally accepted Aristotelian conceptions of the cosmos, as he did for the problem of a plurality of worlds and the possible daily axial rotation of the earth. In these instances, Oresme was content to show that neither

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reason nor experience could demonstrate the truth. The arguments for a single world were no better than those for a plurality of worlds; and those in defense of the earth’s immobility were no better—indeed in some ways they seemed less impressive—than those in favor of its axial rotation. Although Oresme eventually opted for the traditional opinions and therefore denied a plurality of worlds as well as the earth’s axial rotation, he did so for theological, rather than scientific, reasons. Oresme was convinced that human knowledge is uncertain. Only faith could furnish us with certainty. What is most noteworthy, however, is that although Oresme erodes confidence in human ability to determine natural causal truths with precision, he refrained from invoking God and theology to discredit arguments in natural philosophy. Rather, he used his profound knowledge of Aristotelian science and his considerable knowledge of mathematics to undermine the claims for certainty in natural philosophy. Thus he used reason to confound reason. For Oresme, theology could not decide an issue in natural philosophy; most theologians in the late Middle Ages would have agreed.

The Range of Medieval Natural Philosophy

The natural philosophy in a straightforward questions treatise on a book of Aristotle’s natural philosophy was no different than the natural philosophy in a theological commentary. But what was natural philosophy in the Middle Ages? Was it science? Because the domain of natural philosophy was the whole of nature, it could not represent any single science, but it could, and did, embrace bits and pieces of all sciences. In this sense, natural philosophy was ‘The Mother of all Sciences’. If you were to write the history of any particular science, and wished to cover its history from its earliest beginnings, you would have to range over many treatises in natural philosophy. For example, John Buridan offered an interesting and important explanation of mountain formation in his questions on Aristotle’s On the Heavens and in his Questions on the first Three Books of the Meteors.19 Anyone writing a history of geology would be obligated to include Buridan’s opinions and assessments as part of the overall history of the subject. And yet there was no discipline of geology until the eighteenth or nineteenth century. Aristotle’s Meteorology, for example, was a focal point for numerous scientific questions, such

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as possible motions of the earth, the ebb and flow of oceans, the nature of lightning, and others. These questions were discussed in natural philosophy long before any specific sciences emerged to claim one or another of these subjects. To truly appreciate the richness and diversity of medieval natural philosophy, one must get a sense of the range of questions that were posed on themes in Aristotle’s natural books, as well as the natural philosophy that was employed in questions embedded in theological commentaries. Certain categories of questions take us into subject areas whose very existence Aristotle denied as naturally impossible, and others that would have been utterly alien to him. Many of these questions derive from the medieval concept of God’s absolute power to do anything short of a logical contradiction, a concept that emerged in the aftermath of the condemnation of 219 articles by the bishop of Paris in 1277, a condemnation that was primarily directed against the masters of arts in the University of Paris. The impact on natural philosophy was most pronounced with respect to the belief in the eternity of the world, against which the Church authorities directed some 27 of the 219 condemned articles. Other significant themes that were affected by the Condemnation of 1277, and about which medieval natural philosophers posed questions, concerned the possibility of other worlds and the existence of void spaces.

On the Eternity of the World

Numerous questions were proposed about the possible eternity of the world. It was a central theme in medieval natural philosophy because Aristotle had argued for the eternity of the world. He could not find any good reasons for believing that our world had come into being naturally from any previous material entities. As the centre-piece of Aristotle’s natural philosophy, the eternity of the world posed a direct threat to the creation account in Genesis. The perceived threat to the Christian faith from Aristotle’s belief in the eternity of the world is reflected in the 27 articles that condemned it. These vary greatly, attacking the doctrine from a variety of perspectives. The questions that were posed by natural philosophers on the possible eternity of the world exemplify this diversity, as can be seen from the following list of questions that were

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frequently posed by scholastic natural philosophers and theologians in the late Middle Ages. 1. Whether the universe could have existed from eternity. 2. Whether there is eternal motion. 3. Whether generations could have proceeded from eternity without a first generation. 4. Whether the world will end at sometime. 5. Whether the world is generable and corruptible or ungenerable and incorruptible. 6. Whether the sky [or heaven] is generable and corruptible, augmentable and diminishable, and alterable. 7. Whether God could create a motion anew before which there was neither a motion nor a mutation. 8. Whether something created anew could be perpetuated; and whether something eternal could be corrupted. 9. Whether, on the assumption of eternity, it could be demonstrated that every uncreated thing is incorruptible and that every incorruptible thing is ungenerated.20 Although some theologians—most notably St Bonaventure—sought to demonstrate the absurdity of an eternal world, most were prepared to argue that neither the eternity nor the creation of the world were demonstrable, but that one had to accept the creation of the world as an article of faith. As Thomas Aquinas put it: ‘That the world had a beginning . . . is an object of faith, but not of demonstration or science’.21

Are Other Worlds Possible?

If the creation account in Genesis strongly suggested a temporal beginning for the world, it also seemed to signify its uniqueness. Here, at least, Aristotle and Christianity seemed in agreement: there is only one world. This apparent unanimity of opinion was, however, deceptive. Although Aristotle’s conclusion might be applauded, his derivation of it was offensive because he had argued that the existence of another world was impossible, or, as he put it, ‘there is not now a plurality of worlds, nor has there been, nor could there be’.22 To argue that creation of other worlds was impossible, even for God, was viewed as a restriction

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on God’s absolute power to do as He pleased. Indeed, the response to article 34, one of the 219 condemned in 1277, required natural philosophers to concede that God could create as many other worlds as He pleased. Despite a virtually unanimous conviction that God had not actually created other worlds, the condemnation of article 34 in 1277 stimulated significant discussions in which scholastic theologians and natural philosophers contemplated the consequences of a plurality of worlds for Aristotelian natural philosophy. To grapple with this problem, they asked questions such as: 1. Whether there are, or could be, more worlds. 2. Whether beyond this world, God could make another earth of the same species as this world. 3. If there were several worlds, whether the earth of one would be moved naturally to the middle [or centre] of another. A general consideration involved the kind of plurality of worlds an author wished to discuss. Almost all who included a question on the plurality of worlds assumed a plurality of simultaneous worlds, which were but replicas of our own world. But they also recognized that the existence of other worlds might take other forms. The worlds might be successive, rather than simultaneous; or, they might be concentric to one another and lie within our world, or they might be concentric to our world and, therefore, encircle our world. Nicole Oresme considered all three kinds of worlds and concluded that: ‘the contrary cannot be proved by reason nor by evidence from experience, but also I submit that there is no proof from reason or experience or otherwise that such worlds do exist. Therefore, we should not guess nor make a statement that something is thus and so for no reason or cause whatsoever against all appearances; nor should we support an opinion whose contrary is probable; however, it is good to have considered whether such an opinion is possible’.23 Most scholastic natural philosophers came to believe that that if God created other worlds, each of these worlds would be self-contained and operate independently of all other worlds. Thus, contrary to Aristotle’s central argument that only one centre and circumference could exist and, therefore only one world, scholastics believed that it was at least possible that many worlds could coexist simultaneously, and, consequently, so also could many centres and circumferences. Various hypothetical situations were imagined in which many of Aristotle’s cosmological and physical principles were subjected to analysis in other worlds, producing

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significant hypothetical departures from Aristotle, departures that were not used to reform the Aristotelian worldview.

Void Space Within and Beyond our World

If our world is truly unique and created in the manner described in Genesis, scholastics inquired whether our created cosmos occupied all the space in existence? Does any kind of space lie beyond our world? Secular natural philosophers in the arts faculties of the Universities of Paris and Oxford were reluctant to concede such a possibility that would have been so devastating in its implications for Aristotle’s natural philosophy. Some theologians, however, assumed the existence of an infinite void space beyond our world. This assumption was not by way of a counterfactual, but was proposed as reality. Its most important proponent was Thomas Bradwardine, an eminent theologian who also attained fame as a mathematician and natural philosopher. Bradwardine became Archbishop of Canterbury and died in 1349. In a treatise titled In Defense of God against the Pelagians, written around 1344, Bradwardine presented five corollaries, by means of which he depicts God as immutable and omnipresent. In the second corollary, Bradwardine declares that God is ‘also beyond the real world in a place, or in an imaginary infinite void’; and in the final corollary, he explains that ‘it also seems obvious that a void can exist without body, but in no manner can it exist without God’.24 For Bradwardine, God’s infinite omnipresence implies that He is infinitely immense. Does this mean that God is an extended being, spread out over an infinite extension? Since all extended things are divisible, it would follow that God would be a divisible being, a consequence that was unacceptable in the Middle Ages. Bradwardine resolves this dilemma by simply declaring that God ‘is infinitely extended without extension and dimension’. Bradwardine’s infinite void space was therefore a dimensionless space. Nicole Oresme also reveals his firm conviction that a space exists beyond our world. In rejecting Aristotle’s argument that no place or void could exist beyond our world, Oresme proclaims that ‘the human mind consents naturally . . . to the idea that beyond the heavens and outside the world, which is not infinite, there exists some space whatever it may be, and we cannot easily conceive

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the contrary’.25 By identifying this space with God’s real, infinite immensity, there is no doubt that Oresme regarded this space as an actually existent infinite void. By identifying God’s infinite immensity with the infinite void, it is likely that Oresme agreed with Bradwardine that this infinite space is dimensionless. In the seventeenth century, Thomas Compton-Carleton (1599–1666), a scholastic theologian, broke with his medieval predecessors and took the dramatic step of attributing dimensionality to infinite space, which he still regarded as God’s infinite immensity, although we do not know whether he also assumed that God is a dimensional being. If there is one area in which medieval ideas had a significant impact on seventeenth century thought, it is in the realm of infinite void space. Medieval scholastics were the first to divinize infinite void space. Henry More and Isaac Newton adopted that idea, but made God a three dimensional extended being by assuming that an extended infinite void space was God’s three-dimensional attribute. Other medieval discussions about void space found a place in the natural philosophy of the seventeenth century. Scholastics conjectured what would happen if God decided to move the whole world with a rectilinear motion. They allowed that a void space would be left behind when the world moved out of its initial place. Nicole Oresme regarded such a motion as an absolute motion, since there would be no other body to which its motion could be compared.26 Scholastic authors also assumed that God could annihilate matter within part, or all, of our world. He might, for example, destroy all matter below the convex surface of the moon; or all the matter in the entire world by annihilating everything within the concave surface of the outermost sphere. Once God had annihilated part, or all, of the matter of the world, while preventing the remaining shell-like spheres from collapsing to prevent formation of any vacuum, scholastics then imagined a variety of scenarios in which bodies were assumed to move in various ways and under various conditions. For example, in a question inquiring ‘whether if a vacuum did exist, a heavy body could move in it’, Albert of Saxony imagines that God creates a vacuum by annihilating all matter within the concave surface of the lunar sphere and then inquires how a body would fall through this vacuum: whether it would fall instantaneously with an infinite speed, because there is no medium to resist it; or whether it would fall in a finite time, however small.27 Much of this found more than an echo in the seventeenth century when natural philosophers assumed that God annihilated matter, or

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substituted the human imagination for God and simply imagined that this or that part of the world is annihilated; or that the world moves with a rectilinear motion; or that other worlds exist. The invocation of God’s absolute power to annihilate all matter below the moon, or anywhere in the world, proved to be a powerful methodological tool, as is evident by its adoption in the seventeenth century by non-scholastics who undoubtedly derived it, without acknowledgement, from their scholastic predecessors. Pierre Gassendi (1592–1655) appealed to repeated supernatural annihilations of parts of our world and of other imagined worlds, in order to demonstrate that an infinite three-dimensional space existed. Gassendi imagines that God destroys all matter and body below the lunar sphere but leaves the sphere itself intact. That God can do this ‘no one would deny, except a man who denies God’s power’. The annihilation of matter was a methodological tool Gassendi derived from the Middle Ages, as he illustrates when he declares that there is nothing that prevents us from supposing that the entire region contained under the moon or between the heavens is a vacuum, and once this assumption is made, I do not believe that there is anyone who will not easily see things my way.28

Gassendi also argued that infinite space is immobile, because if God were to move the world through that space, the space would remain motionless. Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679), an admirer of Gassendi, also made the annihilation of matter a principle of analysis, although he did not invoke God as the annihilator, choosing to assume that matter was simply annihilated. But Hobbes, who loathed scholastics, paid unwitting tribute to them when he declared that In the teaching of natural philosophy, I cannot begin better (as I have already shewn, than from privation; that is, from feigning the world to be annihilated.29

By means of this technique, Hobbes formulated his concepts of space and time. In his famous Essay Concerning Human Understanding, John Locke based his argument for the existence of a three-dimensional void space on the assumption that God could annihilate any part of matter. Should God do so, a vacuum would remain, ‘for it is evident’, Locke explains, ‘that the Space, that was filled by the parts of the annihilated Body, will still remain, and be a Space without Body’.30 We see that while Gassendi and Locke invoked God to annihilate the matter in question, Hobbes did not. He chose to ‘feign’ it. It was easy

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to eliminate God and simply imagine hypothetical conditions for all ‘natural impossibilities’, as did Walter Charleton, an English follower of Gassendi, when he summarized Gassendi’s annihilation argument and explained that ‘nothing is more usual, nor laudable amongst the noblest order of Philosophers’ than the assumption of ‘natural impossibilities’.31 But the inspiration ‘for the noblest order of Philosophers’ to imagine all manner of ‘natural impossibilities’ was clearly derived from the way medieval scholastics had used God’s absolute power to imagine various natural impossibilities in order to see how a world would, or could, function under such conditions. We should recognize, however, that medieval appeals to God’s absolute power had little, if any, religious motivation or content. Wherever we find it used in Aristotelian treatises, it is almost never intended to make a religious point. It simply became a convenient vehicle for the introduction of highly imaginative questions, the responses to which compelled natural philosophers to apply Aristotelian natural philosophy to situations and conditions that were impossible in Aristotle’s natural philosophy. In the process, some of Aristotle’s fundamental principles were challenged. The invocation of God’s absolute power made many aware that things might be quite otherwise than were dreamt of in Aristotle’s philosophy. By the seventeenth century, it did not much matter whether God’s absolute power was made the causal agent of some hypothetical condition, or whether it was the human imagination. The medieval emphasis on the analysis of imaginary conditions had been assimilated into mainstream seventeenthcentury philosophy.

Theology and Natural Philosophy

Natural philosophy was not just a discipline to be applied to natural phenomena. It was also regarded as an invaluable tool for explicating and analyzing theological questions. Considerable intellectual energy was expended on imaginary problems about God and God’s powers. Indeed, questions about what God could or could not do preoccupied theological commentators in the late Middle Ages. The questions had little to do with religion and everything to do with logic and natural philosophy. Indeed such questions transformed medieval theology into an analytic discipline.

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The Infinite and Infinity

Theologians had a special interest in the actual infinite, probably because God is conceived as an infinite being. Aristotle had regarded the existence of an actual infinite as impossible, though he assumed the possibility of a potential infinite based on the concept of infinite divisibility. Although most scholastics agreed with Aristotle that a potential infinite was possible, they disagreed among themselves as to whether it is possible for an actual infinite to exist that is distinct from God, whose infinite omnipresent immensity was accepted by all. Scholastics were divided about this. Some were convinced that God could not create an actual infinite, because if He did, He would be unable to create anything larger, because there is nothing larger than an actual infinite. To assume that God could create something larger than an actual infinite magnitude would be a contradiction.32 In arguing against the eternity of the world, St. Bonaventure had denied the possibility of eternity by arguing that one consequence of an eternal world would be unequal infinites, which he regarded as absurd. Other scholastic authors were called infinitists because they believed that God could indeed create an actual infinite. The infinites that Bonaventure regarded as unequal and absurd were deemed by others, for example, Robert Holkot, to be equal and by no means absurd. Gregory of Rimini may have produced the most significant result among those who grappled with problems of the infinite. In inquiring ‘whether God could make some actual infinite’, Gregory concluded that God could make three different kinds of actual infinite: infinite multitude, infinite magnitude, and an infinitely intense quality. In the course of his discussion, Gregory had occasion to discuss such terms as ‘part’, ‘whole’, ‘greater than’ and ‘less than’. He argued that these terms were also applicable to infinites in a special sense. Gregory had arrived at a momentous idea about the relationship between infinites, an idea that lies at the heart of the modern theory of infinite sets. He argues that one infinite can be part of another infinite, but that the infinite that is part is nevertheless equal to the infinite of which it is a part. Gregory concedes that ‘some infinite is less than some [other] infinite because the infinite which is the part does not contain all the things which the infinite that is the whole contains’. Gregory provides no example, but setting the even numbers in one-to-one correspondence with the infinite set of natural numbers would illustrate his point, since there are as many

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even numbers as natural numbers. Thus the two infinite sets are equal, or, to use modern terminology, they have the same cardinality. Thus Gregory discovered the counterintuitive idea that in the domain of the infinite, a part can equal the whole.33 Henry of Harclay, also in the fourteenth century, carried it a step further when, as John Murdoch reports, he ‘firmly believed that infinites can be, and often are, unequal’.34 Henry, however, did not develop the idea that one infinite can be greater than another. He left that to Georg Cantor in the nineteenth century.

Angels in Natural Philosophy

Because they were immaterial substances capable of motion, angels could be studied in the domain of natural philosophy. It fell to the theologians to perform this function. When angels were capable of performing an act that physical bodies could also perform, it was usually the case that angels did it differently. Theologians were expected to explain the differences. They usually compared the behaviour of angels and material bodies in questions specifically about angels. For example, all acknowledged that when a physical body moves from A to B, it passes through all the intermediate places. Is this true for immaterial angels? For the most part, it is true. An angel, like a body, may traverse a divisible distance between two places by passing through all the points continuously and successively. Thus Aquinas argued that angels do not traverse distances instantaneously. Most, though not all (e.g. Gregory of Rimini), theologians agreed. Their arguments often lead into the domain of instants. Richard of Middleton, for example, argued that, since an instant is the smallest measure of time, it follows that if an angel moved through some medium in an instant, God could not move that angel through the same medium in any time less than an instant. But surely God, the strongest force of all, ought to be able to move an angel some distance in less time than an instant? But that is impossible, because there is no temporal measure smaller than an instant. It therefore followed that an angel could not move through a medium in an instant. This argument is analogous to one in which God is said to be incapable of creating an infinite world, because He would then be unable to create a greater world, since there can be nothing greater than an infinite. This is treated as a contradiction; from which it follows that God cannot create an infinite world.

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Under the guise of considering the behaviour of angels, theologians, like Gregory of Rimini, for example, included extensive discussions of mathematics, physics, and logic, often ignoring the angels, although the questions were ostensibly about angels. In a fifty-three page discussion that was supposed to be about angels, Gregory discourses at great length on the nature of instants and the mathematical continuum. He cites Euclid’s Elements a number of times and includes fourteen elaborate geometrical diagrams. In all the fifty-three pages, the word ‘angel’ (angelus) occurs only once, on the very last page of Gregory’s discussion.

Why Did Theologians Raise Unusual Questions?

Why did medieval theologians think it important to know ‘whether God could make some actual infinite’ or how angels would move by comparison to physical bodies? What did they hope to achieve by inquiring ‘whether God could make a creature exist for only an instant’; or ‘whether angels could have foreknowledge of their fall in the first instant of their existence’; or ‘whether God could make the future not to be?’ And why would they ask whether God can speak falsely or whether God could erase the past, or whether God could make someone sin?35 Theologians were eager to raise such questions because the responses required them to use logico-mathematical techniques they had learned in their university courses on natural philosophy. For example, Robert Holkot used the concept of infinite divisibility of a continuum and the doctrine of first and last instants to determine the limits of an imaginary theological problem: can God always reward the meritorious and punish the unmeritorious? Holkot imagines a situation in which a man is alternately meritorious and sinful during the final hour of his life. Thus he is meritorious during the first proportional part of his last hour and sinful in the second proportional part; he is again meritorious in the third proportional part, and again sinful in the fourth proportional part, and so on through the infinite series of decreasing proportional parts up to the last instant, when death occurs. Because the instant of death does not form part of the infinite series of decreasing proportional parts of the man’s final hour, it follows that there is no last instant of his life and, therefore, no last instant in which he could be either meritorious or sinful. Since the man was neither meritorious nor sinful in his last instant

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of life, God cannot judge him.36 By this example, Holkot shows that God could be in ignorance about a person’s state of grace or sin in the last moment of life and thus, indirectly, sets limits on God’s ability to make just rewards and punishments. Holkot follows this example with eight others. In all of them he uses the concept of first and last instants applied to the infinite divisibility of a continuum, as in the article just described. Indeed, one wonders what theologians themselves thought about their efforts to do theology by the application of logic and natural philosophy to ostensible theological problems. Did they believe that they were contributing positively to knowledge and understanding about God and the faith? Did they regard the application of quantitative and analytic methods to theological problems as, in some sense, enhancing their spiritual understanding of the faith? And did they regard it as important to determine what God could or could not do, or what He could or could not know? The theologians themselves fail to shed light on such questions. But somehow in addition to the personal pleasure they may have derived from the effort to resolve challenging, if bizarre, questions, by analytical means, we must, I believe, assume that medieval theologians regarded their efforts as in some sense advancing and buttressing their faith. To think otherwise would signify that they knowingly engaged in meaningless and empty puzzle-solving, analytic exercises that had no relevance to their faith. But in what sense they may have regarded their contributions as meaningful for the faith escapes my understanding. By the fourteenth century, medieval theologians were as much logicians and natural philosophers as they were theologians. They made theology a mixture of logic and natural philosophy. Consequently, the theology they produced was virtually unintelligible to those who lacked training in logic and natural philosophy. Nothing like the theology of the late Middle Ages had ever been seen before; and after its demise in the seventeenth century, nothing like it has been seen since.

Reason in Natural Philosophy

The most important aspect of medieval natural philosophy was its emphasis—perhaps even overemphasis—on reason. Aristotle’s works were, of course, a great model for reasoned exposition. But reason had

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begun to challenge authority more than a century before the translation of Aristotle’s works into Latin. The emphasis on reason was further reinforced when the questions format was used to organize medieval natural philosophy. In each question, as we saw, natural philosophers had to consider the pros and cons and subject both sides to careful scrutiny and analysis. In the Middle Ages, when such powerful tools for scientific research as systematic observation, controlled experiments, and the regular application of mathematics to physical phenomena were largely absent, how could nature be interpreted and analyzed so that scholars could arrive at some understanding of a world that would otherwise be unknowable and inexplicable? The most powerful available instrument was human reason, employed in the manner in which Aristotle had used it. The idea was to come to know what things seemed to be, which could be done by empirical means, and then to determine what made them that way, a process that was largely guided by metaphysical considerations. Although, as Jonathan Barnes has explained, ‘Aristotle was an indefatigable collector of facts—facts zoological, astronomical, meteorological, historical, sociological’,37 he, nevertheless, relied essentially on a priori reasoning to form a picture of the structure and operation of the cosmos. Logic and reason were the basic means for understanding the way the world had to be in order to appear and function the way it does. This was the indispensable first major phase in the process that would eventually produce early modern and modern science. The role of reason is dramatically highlighted when we examine its relationship to empiricism. Following Aristotle, numerous scholastics emphasized the central importance of experience and observation. In his Opus Majus (Part VI, ch. 1), Roger Bacon stressed the importance of experience when he declared ‘Reasoning draws a conclusion and makes us grant the conclusion, but does not make the conclusion certain, nor does it remove doubt so that the mind may rest on the intuition of truth, unless the mind discovers it by the path of experience’. Bacon invokes fire as his basic example, asserting that ‘if a man who has never seen fire should prove by adequate reasoning that fire burns and injures things and destroys them, his mind would not be satisfied thereby, nor would he avoid fire, until he placed his hand or some combustible substance in the fire, so that he might prove by experience that which reasoning taught. But when he has had the actual experience of combustion his mind is made certain and rests in the full light of truth. Therefore reasoning does not suffice, but experience does’.38

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Despite these sentiments, which were also held by other medieval natural philosophers, and despite Aristotle’s emphasis on observation and experience, it was relatively rare that observation or experience determined the resolution of any physical question. Aristotle himself provides the reason for this when he declares that our senses ‘give the most authoritative knowledge of particulars. But they do not tell us the ‘why’ of anything—e.g. why fire is hot; they only say that it is hot’. (Aristotle, Metaphysics 1.1.981b.10–11) Aristotle and his medieval followers were primarily interested in the ‘why’ of things, but paid lip service to the observational basis of knowledge about the physical world. In the core treatises of his natural philosophy, Aristotle constructed a picture of the cosmos that was far removed from its alleged observational foundation. Aristotle’s world was one that conformed to his preconceived ideas of what the universe had to be like in order to function in a manner worthy of a divine cosmos. His medieval followers did likewise, but they added dimensions that Aristotle could not have foreseen and they came to regard various aspects of Aristotle’s physics and cosmology as unsound. They admired Aristotle but they were not his slavish followers, as is evident from their numerous and significant departures from Aristotle’s explanations of various phenomena.

Departures from Aristotle’s Physics and Cosmology

Aristotle’s explanations of natural and violent motion were either abandoned or considerably modified. His explanation of the natural up and down motion of a material body required that a moment of rest occur at the precise instant of transition between its upward and downward movements. Without the moment of rest, the two contrary motions would be one continuous motion, which Aristotle regarded as absurd. Scholastics used a crucial thought experiment, which was of Arabic origin, to reject Aristotle’s view. They imagined a bean thrown upward while a millstone descended. When the millstone struck the bean, there could be no moment of rest before the bean reversed its direction and descended with the millstone.39 Aristotle’s explanation of projectile motion was also rejected. Aristotle held that when a body lost contact with its initial mover, the air, or the medium, caused its motion to continue. Most scholastic natural

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philosophers disagreed, arguing that the motive force transmitted an impressed force, or impetus (impetus) into the moving body, or projectile, thereby causing its continuous motion. The motion would continue until the moving body met another force that either prevented its motion, or, as in some explanations, until the impressed force expended itself, at which point the body would fall with a natural motion. Those who used the latter explanation opted for a self-expending impressed force, rather than a permanent impetus that could only be dissipated by forces external to the body.40 Aristotle had located the earth at the centre of the world where it lay immobile. But Nicole Oresme argued that the alternative—the daily axial rotation of the earth—was as plausible as the earth’s immobility. Indeed, his arguments for the earth’s daily axial rotation seem more powerful than those in favor of the earth’s total immobility. Oresme believed there were no good evidential arguments for choosing either alternative. In the absence of compelling evidence for either explanation, Oresme opted for a motionless earth because it was consonant with Biblical texts.41 The major departures from Aristotle’s views about the infinite, the possible existence of other worlds, extracosmic void space, and motion in void spaces within our cosmos were discussed earlier. All of the departures from Aristotle mentioned here were significant and show that medieval natural philosophers took seriously the remarks about Aristotle by Albertus Magnus, who declared: ‘if . . . one believes him to be but a man, then without doubt he could err just as we can too’.42

Conclusion

What was the legacy of medieval natural philosophy to the modern world? Before 1500, the exact sciences in Islam had reached lofty heights, greater than they achieved in medieval Western Europe, but they did so without a vibrant natural philosophy. By contrast, in Western Europe natural philosophy was highly developed, whereas the exact sciences were merely absorbed (from the body of Greco-Arabic scientific literature) and maintained at a modest level. After 1500, Islamic science effectively ceased to advance, but Western science entered upon a revolution that would culminate in the seventeenth century. What can we learn from this state of affairs?

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Let me propose the following: that the exact sciences are unlikely to flourish in isolation from a well-developed natural philosophy, whereas natural philosophy is apparently sustainable at a high level even in the absence of significant achievements in the exact sciences. One or more of the exact sciences, especially mathematics, was practised in a number of societies that never had a fully developed, broadly disseminated natural philosophy. In none of these societies had scientists attained as high a level of competence and achievement as they had in Islam. Was the subsequent decline of science in Islam perhaps connected with the relatively diminished role of natural philosophy in that society and to the fact that it was never institutionalized in higher education? This is a distinct possibility. In Islamic society, where religion was so fundamental, the absence of support for natural philosophy from theologians, and, more often, their open hostility toward that discipline, might have proved fatal to it and, eventually, to the exact sciences as well. In retrospect, what legacy, if any, did medieval natural philosophers pass on to their non-Aristotelian, and largely anti-Aristotelian, successors in the early modern period? The answer, I am convinced, lies in a pervasive and deep-seated spirit of inquiry that was a natural consequence of the widespread and intensive emphasis on reason that began in the Middle Ages. With the exception of revealed truths, reason was the ultimate arbiter for most intellectual arguments and controversies in medieval universities. It was quite natural for scholars immersed in a university environment to employ reason to probe into subject areas that had not been explored before, as well as to discuss possibilities that had not previously been seriously entertained. Reason and the spirit of inquiry appear to be natural companions. The spirit of inquiry that took hold in the Middle Ages may be aptly described as the spirit of ‘probing and poking around’, a spirit that manifests itself through an urge to apply reason to almost every kind of question and problem which confront scholars of any particular period. Indeed, a vital aspect of ‘probing and poking around’ involves an irresistible urge to raise new questions, which eventually give rise to even more questions. The spirit of ‘probing and poking around’ may be appropriately characterized as nothing less than the spirit of scientific inquiry. In the Middle Ages, reason was joined to an analytic questioning technique that was ubiquitous in university education and therefore widespread among the literate class. Questions were posed in natural philosophy that asked about the structure and operation of the physical world that Aristotle had described. Questions were also posed in theology

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about every aspect of faith and revelation. But the probing character of medieval questions went far beyond the straightforward and routine. Scholastic natural philosophers and theologians asked questions not only about what is, but also about what could be, but probably wasn’t. Theologians exercised their logical talents by inquiring about what God could and could not do, or what He could and could not know. The criterion for judging God’s infinite power was simple: if the claim or action led to a contradiction, God could not do it; if no contradiction was involved, God could do it. Every question in the scholastic arsenal produced pro and contra arguments that were intended to include all plausible and feasible positions. What makes the ‘probing and poking around’ approach so important is the fact that it was institutionalized in the medieval universities where it was the modus operandi for more than four centuries. Thus a spirit of inquiry took deep and extensive root in Western Europe. The myriad questions that were raised reflected the desires of an intellectual class that sought to know as much as it could by reason alone. The structural form of the question as it was used in the medieval universities was meant to provide a definitive answer to each question raised, although scholars might arrive at different, and conflicting, answers. Even if modern critics judge the questions and their responses to be trivial, or of little utility, those who posed the questions and answered them regarded their efforts as of great importance. They were, after all, solving questions that ostensibly informed their contemporaries about the inner and outer workings of the world, as these were understood at the time. Not only did they provide their audience with answers to such questions, but they also included refutations of the arguments they found wanting. And yet, despite the ‘probing and poking around’ that produced numerous departures from Aristotle’s natural philosophy, the intense questioning and probing did not transform medieval Aristotelian natural philosophy into a new way of doing science. The thought experiments, hypothetical questions and the questions about what God could or could not do, or what He knows or does not know, which were so characteristic of the Middle Ages, were largely abandoned by the natural philosophers who produced the Scientific Revolution. The numerous departures from Aristotle’s physics and cosmology by medieval natural philosophers were never incorporated into Aristotle’s natural philosophy. No serious effort was ever made to transform and update the Aristotelian worldview. The numerous medieval departures and innovations were left as part of an unwieldy mass of unintegrated and conflicting ideas.

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The hundreds of medieval questions on the works of Aristotle were left as a mass of independent, but unrelated conclusions. If progress was to be made, the Aristotelian worldview had to be abandoned, as it was in the seventeenth century. But if they abandoned Aristotle’s explanations of cosmic operations, nonscholastic natural philosophers also proceeded by way of questions. But the questions were now often only in their minds to guide them in their research and inquiries. The literary tradition of explicating a text by questions came to an end. The results nonscholastic researchers published might not explicitly include the questions that guided the researcher and led to those results. Moreover, the questions they posed to themselves and to others were rarely about hypothetical, or imaginary, conditions, or about God’s power to do or not to do some particular act, but were about the real world. Also noteworthy is the fact that natural philosophers in the seventeenth century answered the questions they posed to nature by appeals to observation, or by means of experiments, or by the application of mathematics. This became the way scientists would proceed to the present day. Nonscholastic natural philosophers and scientists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries devised superior methods and techniques for resolving the problems that their scholastic predecessors and contemporaries had grappled with. Although scientists in the various sciences have evolved different techniques and procedures for answering the never-ending parade of questions they generate, and without which modern science could not exist, the spirit of inquiry remains essentially what it was in the Middle Ages: an effort to advance a subject by probing and poking around with one or more questions to which answers are sought, after which more questions are posed, in a process that never ends. We are a questioning society that constantly seeks answers to queries about virtually everything, especially about nature, religion, government, and society. The questioning method is the driving force in science, social science, and technology. Ironically, it is absent from modern theology, which no longer raises the kinds of questions that theologians in the Middle Ages characteristically posed. It would be difficult to imagine modern theologians asking about the limits of God’s power and determining those limits by application of the law of non-contradiction. Not only did the scholars in the Middle Ages lay the basis for our probing society by means of an unending stream of questions, but they used reason as the fundamental criterion for arriving at their answers. By the seventeenth

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century, natural philosophers saw that ‘pure’ reason alone was often inadequate, and they devised the experimental method to furnish evidence that reason alone could not provide. It was in this spirit that Isaac Newton began his work on the Opticks by proclaiming to his readers: ‘My Design in this Book is not to explain the Properties of Light by Hypotheses, but to propose and prove them by Reason and Experiments’.43 If modern science has progressed unrecognizably beyond anything known or contemplated in the natural philosophy and science of the Middle Ages, modern scientists are, nonetheless, heirs to the remarkable achievements of their medieval predecessors. The idea, and the habit, of applying reason to resolve the innumerable questions about our world, and of always raising new questions, did not come to modern science from out of the void. Nor did it originate with the great scientific minds of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, from the likes of Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, Descartes, and Newton. It came out of the Middle Ages from many faceless scholastic logicians, natural philosophers and theologians, in the manner I have described. If you are sceptical about the medieval role in the advent of early modern science, I ask you to consider this question: Could a scientific revolution have occurred in the seventeenth century if the level of science and natural philosophy in Western Europe had remained what it was in the first half of the twelfth century? That is, could the dramatic changes in science and natural philosophy have occurred in the seventeenth century if medieval natural philosophers had not absorbed and developed the new Greco-Arabic science and natural philosophy that had been translated into Latin in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries? The response is obvious: no, it could not have occurred. We ought, therefore, to conclude that something important occurred between approximately 1200 and 1600 that proved conducive to the emergence of a scientific revolution. Without the level that medieval natural philosophy attained, with its overwhelming emphasis on reason and analysis, and without the important questions that were first raised in the Middle Ages about other worlds, space, motion, the infinite, and without the kinds of answers they gave, we might, today, still be waiting for Galileo and Newton. Department of History and Philosophy of Science Indiana University 1011 E. Third Street Bloomington, Indiana 47405–7005

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REFERENCES 1. See G. E. R. Lloyd, ‘The Invention of Nature’, in ibid (ed.), Methods and Problems in Greek Science (Cambridge, 1991), 41. 2. For Aristotle’s division of the sciences, see his Metaphysics, bk. 6, ch. 1. 3. They are titled: Sense and Sensibilia; On Memory; On Sleep; On Dreams; On Divination in Sleep; On Length and Shortness of Life; On Youth; Old Age; Life and Death; and Respiration. These, and all the rest of Aristotle’s treatises, are printed in The Complete Works of Aristotle, The Revised Oxford Translation, ed. by Jonathan Barnes (2 vols, Princeton, 1984). 4. For instances of Aristotle’s use of the term reason, see Troy W. Organ, An Index to Aristotle in English Translation (New York, 1966), 138. 5. Cited by C. Warren Hollister, Medieval Europe: A Short History, 7th edn, (New York, 1994), 1. 6. For a standard, lengthy history of medieval universities, see Hastings Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, ed. F. M. Powicke and A. B. Emden (3 vols, Oxford, 1936, reprint, 1988); for a more recent study, see Hilde de Ridder-Symoens (ed.), A History of the University in Europe, vol. 1: Universities in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1992). For a brief, readable account, see Charles H. Haskins, The Rise of Universities (Ithaca, 1957). 7. I rely here on my earlier account in The Foundations of Modern Science in the Middle Ages: Their Religious, Institutional, and Intellectual Contexts (Cambridge, 1996), 34–51. 8. The anonymous treatise appears in Bibliothèque Nationale 6752 and consists of 236 folios written in a clear hand. The treatise has never been edited or translated, although it has been briefly discussed by Lynn Thorndike, ‘An Anonymous Treatise in Six books on Metaphysics and Natural Philosophy’, in A History of Magic and Experimental Science (8 vols, New York, 1923–1958), iii. 568–84. On 761–6, Thorndike gives the Latin text of all chapter titles in BN 6752. 9. A detailed description of the three types of literature in natural philosophy appear in Edward Grant, The Foundations of Modern Science in the Middle Ages, 127–133 and God and Reason in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 2001), 103–8. 10. The questions cited above were drawn from the fourteenth-century questions on Aristotle’s works by John Buridan, Albert of Saxony, and Themon Judaeus. For these questions, and many more, see Edward Grant, A Source Book in Medieval Science (Cambridge, Mass., 1974), 199–210. 11. The first question is from Albert of Saxony’s Questions on the Physics, bk. 3, qu. 11; the second is from John Buridan’s Questions on De caelo, bk. 2, qu. 22. Translations of the enunciations of these questions appear in Grant, A Source Book in Medieval Science, 201, 205. 12. For an illustration of the formal structure of a medieval question, see Grant, God and Reason in the Middle Ages, 153–60. The question is by Nicole Oresme (in his Questions on Aristotle’s On the Heavens) and asks ‘whether it is possible that other worlds exist’.

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13. Translated by Walter Ong, Ramus, Method, and the Decay of Dialogue: From the Art of Discourse to the Art of Reason (Cambridge, Mass., 1958), 144; also cited in Grant, God and Reason, 281–2. 14. John E. Murdoch, ‘From Social into Intellectual Factors: An Aspect of the Unitary Character of Late Medieval Learning’, in John E. Murdoch and Edith Dudley Sylla, eds. The Cultural Context of Medieval Learning (Dordrecht, Holland, 1975), 276. 15. My translation from Ioannis Buridani Quaestiones super libris quattuor De caelo et mundo, ed. Ernest A. Moody (Cambridge, Mass, 1942), bk. 1, qu. 20, 93. 16. My translation from ibid., bk. 1, qu. 23, 112. 17. My translation from ibid., bk. 2, qu. 9, 164. 18. Translated by Ernest A. Moody in his article ‘Buridan, Jean’, Dictionary of Scientific Biography (16 vols, 1970–1980), ii. 605. The passage is from Buridan’s Questions on the Metaphysics (1518), bk. 2, qu. 2, fol. 9v, col. 2. 19. For Buridan’s question in his Questions on the Four Books of Aristotle’s On the Heavens, see Grant, A Source Book in Medieval Science, 621–4. The question in which Buridan discusses earthquakes is titled ‘Whether the whole earth is habitable’. 20. For the names of those who discussed these questions, and the places where they discussed them, see Edward Grant, Planets, Stars, and Orbs: The Medieval Cosmos, 1200–1687 (Cambridge, 1994), 682–6. Brief treatises were also written on the eternity of the world, among which those by St. Bonaventure and St. Thomas Aquinas were the most prominent. 21. From Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, pt. 1, qu. 46, art. 1 in St. Thomas Aquinas, Siger of Brabant, St. Bonaventure, On the Eternity of the World (De aeternitate mundi) translated from the Latin with an introduction by Cyril Vollert, Lottie H. Kendzierski, and Paul M. Byrne (Milwaukee, 1964), 66. 22. Aristotle, On the Heavens, 1.9.279a.7–11; from Aristotle On the Heavens with an English translation by W. K. C. Guthrie (London, 1960), 91. 23. Oresme discussed a plurality of worlds in his French translation and commentary on Aristotle’s On the Heavens. See Nicole Oresme: Le Livre du ciel et du monde, ed. Albert D. Menut and Alexander J. Denomy; translated with an Introduction by Albert D. Menut (Madison, Wis., 1968), bk. 1, ch. 24, 171. 24. For the five corollaries, see Grant, A Source Book in Medieval Science, 556–7. For Bradwardine’s discussion of the corollaries, see 557–60. 25. Oresme, Le Livre du ciel et du monde, 177. 26. For a brief discussion, see Grant, The Foundations of Modern Science in the Middle Ages, 125. 27. For a translation of Albert’s question, see Grant, A Source Book in Medieval Science, 337–8. For a further discussion, see Edward Grant, Much Ado About Nothing: Theories of Space and Vacuum from the Middle Ages to the Scientific Revolution (Cambridge, 1981), 47–9. 28. See Craig B. Brush, ed. and tr., The Selected Works of Pierre Gassendi (New York, 1972), 386.

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29. From Hobbes’ De corpore (1655) as it appears in The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, ed. William Molesworth (16 vols, London, 1839–1845), i. 91. For a discussion of Gassendi and Hobbes, see Grant, Much Ado about Nothing, 390 n. 169. 30. John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, ed. with an introduction, critical apparatus, and glossary by Peter H. Nidditch (Oxford, 1975), 177–8. 31. Walter Charleton, Physiologia Epicuro-Gassendo-Charltoniana (London, 1654), 63–4, article 5. 32. John Buridan argued this way, as did Richard of Middleton and Durandus de Sancto Porciano. See Grant, God and Reason in the Middle Ages, 232–3. 33. For a full discussion, see Grant, ibid., 244–8. 34. John E. Murdoch, ‘Mathesis in Philosophiam Scholasticam Introducta: The Rise and Development of the Application of Mathematics in Fourteenth Century Philosophy and Theology’, in Arts Libéraux et Philosophie au Moyen Age (Montreal, 1969), 223. 35. For most of these questions, and others as well, see Grant, God and Reason in the Middle Ages, 251–2, 359. 36. Robert Holkot, In quattuor libros Sententiarum quaestiones (Lyon, 1518), bk. 1, qu. 3, fol. Biiiiv, col. 2. The Latin text is reproduced by Murdoch, ‘From Social into Intellectual Factors’, 327 n. 101. For a summary of the argument, see Grant, The Foundations of Modern Science in the Middle Ages, 154. 37. Jonathan Barnes, Aristotle (Oxford, 1982), 17. 38. See The Opus Majus of Roger Bacon, a translation by Robert Belle Burke (2 vols, New York, 1962), I. 583. 39. For a discussion of the ‘moment of rest’, see Grant, God and Reason, 170–2. 40. Impetus theory is discussed in Grant, The Foundations of Modern Science in the Middle Ages, 93–8. 41. For medieval discussions of the earth’s possible axial rotation, see Grant, ibid, 112–116. 42. Translated from Albertus’s Commentary on the Physics, bk. 8, tract 1, ch. 14 by Edward A. Synan, ‘Albertus Magnus and the Sciences’, Albertus Magnus and the Sciences: Commemorative Essays 1980, edited by James A. Weisheipl (Toronto, 1980), 11. 43. Quoted by Westfall, Never at Rest: A Biography of Isaac Newton (Cambridge, 1980), 642.

The Preachers of Trinity College, Cambridge, 1552–1860: the Use and Abuse of a College Office* Jonathan Smith

On 11 May 1817, James Henry Monk, fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge and Regius Professor of Greek, wrote one of his weekly letters to Jane Smart Hughes, the woman who was to become his wife. Amongst other details of life at Trinity, he writes of the vacant college living of Roxton with Grendon, thus: Mr Wiles, it is thought, will take the Bedfordshire living—but some of the College Preachers have got a notion that it is within 20 miles of Cambridge & may therefore be held with a Fellowship. They have therefore had the nearest road to it measured, & find it above 21 miles, they are however now endeavouring to make out that it does not exceed 20 miles in a straight line.1

In order to satisfy the demands of the preachers, the college had engaged the surveyor Alexander Watford to measure the distance by road from Trinity to Roxton church by not one, but two different routes— the detailed document showing his measurements is preserved in the college archive.2 Watford discovered that the shorter route was indeed more than twenty-one miles, and it was he who put it in the fellowship’s mind that the distance between Roxton and the college might be less than twenty miles as the crow flies. The effort and expense that college went to to ascertain the distance that lay between it and one of its Bedfordshire parishes, and the fact that it was clearly being discussed with some interest within the house, suggests that it was a matter of some importance, especially to the officers who initiated the survey, the college preachers. College preachers at Trinity are recorded from the first college statutes of 1552.3 They were required to undertake a number of duties that included preaching both within and without Trinity, for which they were rewarded with a stipend and the opportunity of holding one church

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living together with their college fellowships. A similar arrangement existed at St John’s. The preachers of Trinity and John’s—by far the largest Cambridge colleges—were placed in an advantageous position among college fellows in the post-medieval era in being allowed to hold a church living,4 as fellows who were not preachers were required to vacate their fellowship within one year of taking a living. The office seems to stem from the ideal of introducing learned, English-speaking priests into each parish in the land, and thus it is one of the many aspects linking the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge with the Church of England, which they supplied with the vast majority of its priests. Many early college preachers held the office for only a few years before moving on to better positions in the church. However, the opportunity to hold a living in common with a fellowship had financial implications which induced an increasing number of fellows to hold the office of preacher for many years, often while holding a prime college living. Indeed the preachership became an expected perquisite for the more senior fellows. In consequence, the succession not only to fellowships but also to college livings began to stagnate as the number of viable opportunities each year for new blood to move into either a fellowship or college living decreased. What I aim to do in this paper is to chart the history of the preachership over three hundred years. I do not consider the abilities of college preachers as incumbents, but I hope to show how an office created with all good intentions to assist the Reformation church became one which an eighteenth-century senior bursar described as ‘an evil which has long cal’d for redress’, and to demonstrate how important the status of this office became in terms of college politics.5

Origins of the Preachership

Trinity College may have been founded by Henry VIII, but the origins of the office of college preacher in Cambridge lie with his grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, and with John Fisher, whom Erasmus had singled out as promoting preachers ‘ad populo tradendam philosophiam evangelicam’,6 specifying preachers who took to the populace not only the faith, but also scriptural wisdom. The powerful alliance of the king’s mother and Fisher had a huge influence on the evolution of the Cambridge college through their re-foundation of Godshouse as Christ’s

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College in 1506 and the establishment in 1511 of St John’s. In both, the education of clergy to preach to the people was central. There were to be two preacher-fellows at Christ’s, while John’s was created very much with the priesthood in mind ‘so the theologians might come from the college and give to the people the fruit of their studies’.7 As Wabuda tells us, St John’s under Fisher’s statutes became the closest thing to a seminary for secular priests that England had seen.8 This is reflected, inter alia, by the important role given to the office of college preacher. According to the Johnian statutes, a quarter of the fellowship were designated preachers and were required to preach one sermon each year in the college chapel and eight sermons a year wherever they wished. The language of these sermons was not to be Latin, but English, rendering them to some extent accessible, if not necessarily fully intelligible, to the people as a whole.9 The office seems to have been popular, as while the statutory number of preachers allowed at John’s at any time was seven, the college seems to have taken a delight in appointing supernumerary preachers, so that for most of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries they exceeded this number and it was not usual to grant stipendiary payments for fourteen preachers per annum. When Trinity College was founded in 1546, the crown looked to its neighbouring college for an exemplar from which to construct a new set of statutes, and thus the office of preacher was included in Trinity’s constitution. Henry VIII died before he could present Trinity with a body of statutes. This was left to his son Edward VI, who in 1552 gave the college its first codified regulations. Chapter 9 of the Edwardian statutes deals with the office of preacher or concionator. As in the Johnian statutes, the office of college preacher was to be held by one quarter of the fellowship at all times. This resulted in a considerable increase of college-attached preachers in Cambridge as Trinity boasted sixty fellows at its foundation, though the Edwardian Statutes allow for only fifty. The method of election of qualified preachers was also similar to the practice at John’s. Preachers were required to be at least Bachelors of Divinity. Those wishing to become college preachers were required to give on Sundays and Holy Days a series of lectures in chapel on aspects of the catechism: catechistical lectures. Five or six fellows were to be nominated for this task each year. Those who completed such a series of lectures were eligible to fill any vacancies for the office of preacher that might arise; the seniority or senior fellows would choose the most suitable candidate, who was to be elected preacher provided that he preached a probation sermon of sufficient quality. These lectures were also intended to be

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instructive. All scholars were required to attend: the late and absent were to be punished. Each preacher was required to preach twelve times each year, within the college and without. The penalty for dereliction was harsh. Any preacher failing to give an external sermon was to be fined a month’s commons, which was doubled for any college sermon omitted, a stiff punishment as commons were one of the main benefits of college life in the years before an annual dividend was awarded. In addition, preachers were to take turns at the biblical readings during dinner, and were given a disciplinary role. The two senior preachers were responsible for ensuring that the college officers undertook their duties according to the statutes and for monitoring their righteousness. The four next in seniority were responsible for exhorting the rest of the fellowship to be diligent in their studies. The remaining preachers had a similar jurisdiction over the scholars, who were yearly divided into groups by the Master and senior fellows, each group being placed under the supervision of a preacher. Preachers were awarded benefits over and above those of ordinary fellows. They were given a subsidy of 40s, granted seven weeks’ extra annual leave, and had their choice of rooms. Like Johnian preachers, they were also allowed to retain their fellowship while holding a living. The Edwardian statutes remained in force for only eight years. In 1560, Trinity received the Elizabethan statutes by which it was to be governed for the next three hundred years.10 The new statutes made a number of changes to the office of Preacher. There were to be a maximum of twelve, a figure which James I would increase to sixteen, and a minimum of eight preachers. Their remuneration was formalized at 26s 8d per annum over and above the fellow’s stipend of 13s 4d per quarter. Preachers were to be allowed eleven weeks absence from college per year in addition to the fellow’s allowance of nine weeks. So that they might be better provided for, each college preacher was allowed to hold in addition to his fellowship a prebend or a parish, as long as the sum to be gained from it once the salary of a curate and other dues were subtracted was less than £30. The statutes of both 1552 and 1560 had were issued against a troubled ecclesiastical background in the aftermath of the split from Rome. The Elizabethan statutes were issued in the early years of her reign, which featured the interlinked complications of establishing the queen’s credentials as ruler and re-establishing the Protestant faith following the reign of the Catholic Mary. While they reflect the concerns of Margaret

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Beaufort and mimic Fisher’s designs, they are also relevant to the challenges the church faced in mid-century. The early Elizabethan church had a severe personnel crisis. In most bishoprics there were many parishes without a priest of any sort, so that parishioners were deprived of moral as well as spiritual guidance: O’Day suggests that these amounted to ten to fifteen per cent; Morgan estimates twenty-two per cent in 1558.11 The Church attempted to fill the shortfall of ministers in the short term through mass ordination, but many of the men ordained were minimally qualified. In the long–term, however, its leaders realised that they needed to produce men who were both acceptable to the Crown and close to fulfilling the Protestant ideal. The role of the priest had changed after the split from Rome. Reflecting the increasing educational standard of the laity, who were beginning to be taught to read the scriptures in schools, the Elizabethan church required priests who were ‘scripture-wise models of Christian life’.12 The church needed preaching ministers and the college preachers were in an ideal position to fill this void and spearhead a new, educated clergy. Given the fact that John Whitgift, Master of Trinity from 1567–77 and later Archbishop of Canterbury, was a prime mover in the early evolution of the Church of England and a staunch defender of the college’s role within church and state, this part of the preacher’s role was surely recognized by the Crown. The role that Cambridge played as a seminary was an important one both to University and country. The church was the preferred career of the majority of graduates, while fellows were ushered in this direction by the necessity of taking orders. This was a requirement for eightyseven per cent of Cambridge fellowships,13 and all but two fellows of Trinity had to be ordained within seven years of their election to a fellowship. They were also encouraged by the college statutes to study theology and proceed to the degrees of Bachelor and Doctor of Divinity, as they generally did.14 Further encouragement was given by the number of livings that the college had in its gift. By statute, any college living that became vacant was to be offered to the most senior fellow who did not already hold one. Powerful patrons and royal mandate aided some fellows who were not preachers to combine their college position with livings: royal chaplains could hold as many livings as they wished, while pluralism was allowed under an act of Henry VIII to chaplains of peers and court officials.15 Although not college preachers, John Palmer and William Humphrey, royal chaplains to Elizabeth and James I respectively,

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were allowed to retain their fellowships with a living. However, such cases were definitely exceptions to the rule. In the post-medieval period, most students who undertook a clerical career did so after taking an arts degree. It is often argued on this basis that a Cambridge education did nothing specific to prepare its students for a church career, especially since the teaching of pastoral theology had been abolished with canon law in 1535. However, within Trinity at least there were several pedagogical functions linked to the post of preacher, which, if they did not amount to the delivery of a fully-fledged clerical training, do appear to have been designed to give some theological training to undergraduates and to provide examples for preaching. Pulpit oratory is closely linked to the academic study of rhetoric and to develop their skills in both fields, students were encouraged to take notes and keep commonplace books filled with useful quotations.16 The catechistical lectures given in Trinity and St. John’s by would-be preachers who were of no less a standard than Bachelor of Divinity and who had been through the same training as their audience a few years previously. By this means the tenets of the faith were passed on from one generation of Trinity men to the next, with the more eager students taking notes in order to reproduce what they heard at a later date in their own pulpits. During the early eighteenth century John Colbatch defended these lectures as being instructive to the listener and improving of the speaker, citing Thorndyke and Barrow as the type of preacher that was inspired by them.17 Thomas Parne said of them: The design of appointing Fellows to read lectures on the catechism is not merely to supply the vacant places among the college preachers but that they might furnish themselves with a useful body of divinity and instruct the youth in a manner worthy of a college designed for a seminary of Divines.18

This means of theological education also introduced an element of control which became increasingly important during Elizabeth’s reign. The danger of a preaching ministry was that it encouraged an extent of free thought which, if left unchecked, could generate alternatives to accepted beliefs. As early as 1570, the Chancellor was required to remind all preaching members of the University of the boundaries that they should not transgress, and a similar reminder was required in 1589. In 1604 and 1616, Parliament took steps to control preaching in the University, in the latter year forbidding any preaching by men who did not conform to the tenets of the Church of England.19 There was a specific fear in Cambridge. In 1580, fearful of the effect that Catholics

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were having on the students of Caius College, Edwin Sandys, Archbishop of York wrote to Lord Burghley thus: forasmuch as you are chancellor of the university of Cambridge, you would take order, that Dr Legg, Master of Caius college, should take no more pupils, to breed and train up in popery; as hitherto he hath, and still doth. All the popish gentlemen in this country send their sons to him. He setteth sundry of them over to one Swayl, also of the same house; by whom the youth of this country is corrupted: that at their return to their parents, they are able to dispute in the defence of popery: and few of them will repair to the church.20

The authorities were gripped by fear that youth would be corrupted and diverted from the established church. This would render graduates useless for the main purpose of the university—that of providing the country with educated ministers. In the Trinity system, as we have seen, the institutional role of educating scholars in the basic tenets of Anglicanism lay with a group of men who held or aspired to one of the chief college offices with prospects in the Church. After the early years of Elizabeth’s reign, when much was in flux, few of these preachers seem to have jeopardised this position by straying too far from moderate Anglican views. The cathecistical lectures ensured that postulants to the office of college preacher were obliged to discourse on established truths, as well as giving the would-be preacher an opportunity to develop his skills before taking a parish. His future parishioners would be served by a learned priest, deemed by his peers to be capable of preaching, and any curate he employed could hope to learn under the supervision of such a man. All in all this seems an admirable system that had benefits for the preachers, the college, the established church and the country as a whole.

The Preachers from Edward VI to Elizabeth

The first preachers that we can identify from the bursarial accounts are John Young, Thomas Wilson, Thomas Sedgwick and Henry Cockcroft, who are all named as preachers in 1553.21 None held the post for long. Young left Trinity when he was elevated to the Mastership of Pembroke in 1554 while Sedgwick left when he was made Regius Professor of Divinity two years later. The shortness of this tenure was not abnormal

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for the sixteenth century. In the first fifty years after the foundation of Trinity preachers usually held the position for only a few years before leaving office. Although occasional deficiencies in the surviving record deprive us of absolutely accurate statistics, we can state that the average tenure for preachers elected in the period from 1555 to 1575 was five years; from 1576 to 1600, it was approximately eight and a half years. These averages are much lower than in succeeding centuries at Trinity, though they are similar to those at St John’s for the same periods—four and a half and nine and a half years respectively.22 Although it is not possible to identify the reasons why each preacher chose to resign the post, there are trends in the later careers of preachers that suggest the motivation for leaving Trinity. Most went into the church, taking a parish according to the provisions of the statutes, and many then chose to resign their fellowship, perhaps to marry, or for financial reasons, as there was little financial benefit to a fellowship; the inducements to remain a fellow were mainly social. Where a preacher held a parish close to Cambridge he could both serve that parish without having to employ a curate and enjoy the communal benefits of high table. However, if a man without private means took a parish somewhat further from college he could either spend a substantial amount of time in Cambridge while paying a curate, or leave college to look after his flock himself. Given the estimates of the average income from a parish, it was economically sensible to leave the college. Even more attractive financially was the chance to hold parishes in plurality. Thus Thomas Ware, elected preacher in 1575 when he took the parish of Stifford in Essex, left the college in 1577 when he was presented also to the parish of St Mary-le-Bow. Richard Wood, Martin Williams and William Hinton all became pluralists in 1585 and left the preachership within one year of doing do. Others were promoted out of the preachership to become establishment figures in Cambridge or the Church. Matthew Hutton, mentor of Whitgift, was perhaps the most eminent churchman to hold the preachership. Hutton was one of the ablest scholars and best preachers in Cambridge who famously delighted the Queen with his preaching when she visited Cambridge in 1564. In 1562, when he had already been Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity for a year, he was elected Regius Professor of Divinity and left the college to become Master of Pembroke. He was later Bishop of Durham and was Archbishop of York from 1565 to1606. John Copcot, extraordinarily elected vice-chancellor while not a head of house, left the preachership in 1586 to become Master of Corpus Christi under Whitgift’s patronage, and Christopher Hampton eventually became Archbishop of

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Armagh. John Overall, preacher from 1591 to 1596, was another who was elevated to a bishopric. He was elected Master of St Catharine’s College in 1598, and in 1614 he became Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, although he rarely visited the see, and was translated to Norwich in 1618. By nature of their position, the Trinity preachers were vulnerable to the effects of to the religious vicissitudes of the times. John Young and Thomas Sedgewick, both prominent Catholics who had played a part in the debates with Bucer, left the preachership before the death of Mary, promoted due to their adherence to the old faith. Other Catholics may have been forced to resign on the accession of Elizabeth. Certainly none of the preachers in post in 1555 still had tenure in 1560, but, unfortunately, the Senior Bursar’s accounts for the crucial years between 1556 and 1559 are missing, so we are unable to determine exactly when they left the position. It is unsurprising that a number of these preachers had Catholic leanings. Richard Rudde, preacher in 1555, had been tonsured two years previously while Thomas Parker and Nicholas Martin, who were both preachers in 1555, left England when Elizabeth came to the throne. Edward Godsalve, elected preacher sometime between 1556 and 1560, was deprived of his preferments in the latter year and retired to Antwerp, while Thomas Penny (preacher 1561–65) thought it advisable to move to Switzerland in 1565. Other Catholics may well have retired to the country to await the change of the tide that never came. Yet it was not only the Catholic preachers that could be seen as unfit for the office. Puritans also suffered, especially at the hands of Whitgift. Most prominent in the puritan cause was Thomas Cartwright, fellow of Trinity, who was elected preacher in 1562. Cartwright increasingly infuriated the authorities in Cambridge and at Court, especially after being appointed Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity. His lectures were extremely popular and attracted many to the puritan cause. When he began to espouse presbyterian views, the authorities decided to act. With Whitgift as prime mover, new statutes were procured for the University in 1570 which, inter alia, strengthened the conformity of Cambridge and diminished the power of the regents, making them subordinate to the heads of houses. Whitgift summoned Cartwright before the heads of houses, and when he refused to ‘recant and publicly confess his error’, he was removed from his Chair and retired to Geneva. He was deprived of his fellowship on his return to Cambridge in 1572; in the same year, his close ally Edmund Chapman left Trinity. Cartwright does not appear to have been paid as a preacher in this year, and may possibly have been removed as being unable to undertake his duties during his absence.

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The continued struggle between Whitgift and Cartwright assumed national significance, but it also had an important influence on their college in that it helped to establish Trinity’s credentials with church and state as an upholder of the national creed. If the college had continued to support such an outspoken fellow in a position expressly created to preach to Cambridge youth and to the wider community, it would have left it open to the charge levelled against Caius College, that of harbouring men who were not prepared to conform. There were still puritan elements within Trinity. John Browning, preacher from 1571 to 1583, was attacked by Whitgift for his puritan views, but the removal of Cartwright and Chapman sent a firm signal to those that remained. If the trend was for the tenure of college preacherships to be short, a few sixteenth-century preachers went to the opposite extreme. Thomas Harrison held the post for forty years, while Jeremiah Radcliffe and Samuel Heron were preachers for twenty-nine and twenty-five years respectively. Radcliffe, vice-Master 1597–1611, held in succession the college parishes of Shudy Camps, Trumpington, Eaton Bray, Heversham, and Orwell, managing an episode of pluralism on the way without apparently disqualifying himself from the fellowship. Heron’s career was similar, while Harrison succeeded Radcliffe as vice-Master. The long tenure served Harrison and Radcliffe well: both were noted for their scholarship, with Harrison particularly admired for his knowledge of Hebrew, and both were among the Cambridge group engaged in the production of the King James Bible. It may perhaps be argued that the duration of their preacherships offered the greatest potential benefits to college and church, allowing them to combine biblical study with supervisory pastoral responsibilities. However, not everyone thought this a model to be emulated. In his disputes with Whitgift, Cartwright attacked the college as a home for non-resident ministers. As Mullinger observes,23 the twenty weeks’ leave from college should have allowed each preacher, acting with the assistance of a curate, to care for his flock. Many were in fact loathe to absent themselves from college for such a length of time, so they chose not to appear in their parishes, to the horror of Cartwright: it is to be feared that colleges in universities . . . will shortly be . . . fraught with non-residences, and such as have charge of churches in other places, which do no good in the University . . . only are pernicious examples of riotous feasting, and making great cheer with the preys and spoils which they bring out of the country, to the great hurt of the University presently, and utter ruin of it hereafter.24

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Whitgift came to the defence of his fellows, but the vivid image that Cartwright paints not only gives us an idea of the type of clergyman the Puritans desired, but also chimes well with later descriptions of college life.

The Preachers in the Early Seventeenth Century

The seventeenth century saw important changes in the nature of the preachership as an increasing number chose to retain the office for longer than had been the average in the sixteenth century. The period 1601–1625 saw the average length of preachers’ tenure rise to thirteen years, and the majority now held the preachership for more than ten years. By the last quarter of the century the average tenure had increased to nearly twenty-three and a half years. In consequence, the length of time a fellow had to wait before being elected to the office also increased. This contributed to a change in aspect of the college. As we have seen, most sixteenth century Trinity fellows did not retain their fellowship at length, but moved on to other positions in the church or university. However, by the early seventeenth century remaining in college for a longer period began to become a viable alternative. Fellows who had no wish to marry and did not seek preferment in the church chose, in many instances, to retain their fellowship for a longer period instead of treating it as a stepping stone to higher things. Of those who made this choice, many would become preachers through seniority. Whether the fellows who chose to retain the preachership did so out of choice, wishing to become scholar-priests within the bounds of the University or whether they could not find sufficiently remunerative employment elsewhere, is debatable in each individual case. Nevertheless, there were developments within the church which may well have contributed to the changes in the average tenure of the preachership and account for these changes to the nature of the fellowship. The reigns of the first two Stuart monarchs saw the development of the Anglican clergy as a graduate profession, as an increasing number of men sought entry to it through the universities. The bishops’ efforts to recruit learned ministers had been so successful that the dearth suffered in the early years of Elizabeth’s reign had become a glut by the time of Charles I. This abundance of manpower resulted in intensified competition for each office in

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the Church. In addition, the clergy’s qualifications improved. As O’Day25 tells us, by the 1620s and 1630s so many recruits to the church possessed the BA that it was not a positive advantage to them. The MA became the degree of choice, while more ambitious students were advised to study theology, as fellows of Trinity were encouraged to do by statute. In consequence of the professionalization of the clergy, a two-tier system began to develop within the church, whereby college fellows graduating with the degree of Bachelor of Divinity left their colleges to join the cathedral clergy of prebends, deans and bishops, while those university men who graduated in the lower faculty of arts struggled to break out of the ranks of parochial clergy.26 Thus the door was open for fellows with the BD to leave the college before they had stayed long enough to become preachers. So while on the one hand the length of time a fellow had to wait for a preachership was increasing, there were on the other tempting opportunities within the church that involved minimal parochial duties and greater returns than a Trinity fellowship. It is no surprise that many of the better connected and more able fellows chose to pursue not an academic career, but one in the church. Nevertheless, for those fellows that remained, the popularity of the office of preacher continued to increase. Of those preachers elected during the reign of the first two Stuart kings, Thomas Whalley and Thomas Adams held the post for thirty-three years, while in the cases of George Chamberlain and Anthony Marshall, both deprived of their fellowships and restored to the position, the span of years between election to the preachership and the date on which they ceased to hold the post was sixty and forty years respectively. With this came problems within the college in terms of the succession and the quality of the fellowship, contributing to the creation of the stagnant, uninterested senior portion of the society of Fellows caricatured as typical of the eighteenth century. The statutes of St John’s contain an explicit statement that seniority should not be the means of succeeding to a preachership and an examination of the personnel suggests that seniority was not the factor that it was in Trinity, where there was no such restriction. Here, seniority became an important factor in becoming a preacher as the office became established in the cursus honorum of Trinity posts. It is ample proof of the popularity of the position of preacher that the more senior fellows took it upon themselves to gain and retain the office. This tendency for preacherships to attract the more senior fellows had an effect in related areas. The choice of college livings also went with seniority, so the fact

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that so many college preachers were high in the seniority meant that they had the pick of the Trinity parishes, and preachers not infrequently moved from one college living to another as more attractive livings became available. In contrast, the junior fellows who were not able to break into the higher echelons of the Church were left to choose from the poorer livings if they wished to leave the college. Preachers could obtain curates cheaply from the ready supply of recently qualified men emanating from Trinity, eager to get their foot on the ecclesiastical ladder. Such men probably earned what little they were paid; the appendix to the Elizabethan statutes allows each preacher 20 marks per annum to account for a curate’s salary. In return, they would probably be required to bear the greater burden of parish duties. Samuel Peck, a Trinity preacher for many years in the latter half of the eighteenth century, thought it preferable that the preachers should, ‘hold the best Livings at any distance, neglect the duties of the Parish and require quietly to residence in College’.27 The increasing length of the average preacher’s tenure and the corresponding increase in the time that fellows had to wait for a good college living had an effect on the important matter of succession within the fellowship. It was generally conceded that a reasonably swift succession of fellowships was beneficial to the college. It made way for new blood at the junior end and allowed talented individuals who wished to pursue a career in college to reach a comfortable position within the hierarchy before becoming disillusioned. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, Trinity fellow Henry Robinson was to remark that ‘the very slow succession of our fellows is undoubtedly an evil that calls, in my opinion very loudly, for redress’.28 Gascoigne notes that while the number of college fellows did not rise, there was a general increase in the length of tenure of Cambridge fellowships from 1660 onwards.29 This he ascribes to the increase in their value and a bottleneck in the supply of livings. In the case of Trinity and John’s, this bottleneck was, of course, greatly accentuated by existence of an office that allowed a significant proportion of senior members to hold both a fellowship and a living. Much of the increasing attraction of the office lay of course in the way in which it was financed. When the Elizabethan statutes were drafted the fellowship did not routinely award itself a dividend from such profits as the college made. Based on a medieval model, the income for the fellowship was measured in rooms, commons, sizings, tutor’s fees and whatever perks that they could garner from the performance of college duties. Even college officers were not paid extravagantly. The same

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statutes that allowed a preacher to take £30 provided the Senior Dean and two Bursars with an annual stipend of only £4. Fellows’ lives became more comfortable at the end of the sixteenth century with the introduction of a fellow’s dividend. This dividend relied until the end of the nineteenth century on the value of the agricultural land which formed the basis of college profits. Such benefits could increase or decrease in value, depending on the state of farming within the nation. By the eighteenth century, the college was doing comparatively well, as the value of its endowments increased, but stipends and dividends did not provide the fellows with a substantial income, especially as the fellowship gradually assumed a social position that demanded a certain wealth. The tenure of a preachership, as John Colbatch was to record, could make all the difference in a society where it was much more common to have many incomes than a single one.30 By Colbatch’s time, however, the statutory limit of £30 would have been somewhat constricting, and we might assume from the sustained interest in the office through to the nineteenth century that the preachers found a way to circumvent this regulation. Colbatch himself provides evidence: in a diary copy of a letter to ‘Dr Friend’ he states: The livings that the College Preachers can hold with their Fellowships are as I remember limited by the statutes to the yearly value of £30 in the Kings Books. You will find by an interpretation in the Appendix to the Statute Book our seniors explaining that it in particular in such a manner that a College Preacher may now hold almost any Benefice of an Indefinite Value.31

The appendix to which he refers is an attempt to elucidate some of the statements in the 1560 statute on preachers: it sets out how to calculate whether a preacher’s income from his parish exceeds £30. As well as indicating those payments that could be taken from the gross income of the living, it states that the base value of the parish for purposes of calculation should be taken ‘ex Commentariis Regiis’ (from the King’s Books). ‘The King’s Books’ is an alternative name for the standard royal record for calculating the value of livings in the early modern period, Valor Ecclesiasticus, compiled in 1535.32 However, the value of livings was not static and was, by the eighteenth century, many times greater than it had been in 1535. The divergence between the actual value of a living and its paper value in Valor Ecclesiasticus could be used to some advantage.33 The clergy in general knew well how useful an arrangement based on anachronistic valuations could be, and fought off a number of attempts to reform the way in which their dues were calculated. With

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the static valuations in the Valor used as the basis to calculate the value of Trinity parishes, none would appear to exceed the Elizabethan cap of £30, even if their real value to a preacher was many times that (Orwell, valued at £19 per annum in the Valor, was in 1704 leased out by Wolfran Stubbe, senior fellow of Trinity, for the yearly sum of £120). From the evidence of Colbatch and the appendix to the statutes it appears that it is by this means, analogous to the actions of the church, that the seniors ensured that an inconvenient statute was circumvented to their own benefit, a manoeuvre which contributed greatly to the allure of the preachership. As Edward Vernon observed during legal proceedings to restore himself to a Senior Fellowship: Every college preacher who holds one sacerdotium with cure of souls above the real value of £30 is continued in his fellowship not by the letter of the statutes but by virtue of an interpretation made by the Master and Seniors.34

Civil War and Restoration

The steady progress of the preachers came to a rude halt during the difficulties that rocked the nation in mid-century. In common with much of the University, Trinity was for the most part Royalist. Senior fellows had connived in an attempt to send college plate to boost the King’s coffers and to acquire arms for their cause. Victory for Parliament did not bode well for Trinity. On 22 January 1644 Parliament issued an ordinance for ‘Regulating the University of Cambridge and for removing of Scandalous Ministers in the Seven Associated Counties’ which resulted in a Parliamentary visitation to Cambridge under the Earl of Manchester.35 Unsurprisingly, Trinity suffered greatly under this edict. Not only was the Master Thomas Comber removed from the lodge, but a further forty-seven fellows, among them the greater part of the preachership, were deprived of their fellowships. Nine preachers were expelled, including Herbert Thorndyke, recently defeated in the mastership elections at Sidney Sussex through the interference of Cromwell, and Cheyney Rowe, a ringleader in the attempts to help the Royalist cause, who lost the prize college living of Orwell.36 These deprivations left Trinity in a parlous state as the lack of fellows made the administration of the college particularly difficult. In September 1645, Parliament did move to improve the situation by ordering that Robert Metcalfe and

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John Pratt be inserted into the fellowship, their University degrees giving them the seniority that allowed them immediately to join the eight seniors. Metcalfe had been preacher at his former college, St John’s, from 1616 to 1621, and in 1646, he was elected preacher as befitted his position as a senior. However, the preachership suffered further from 1650 to 1651, as four further members were expelled for refusing the engagement.37 Although, in an attempt to bolster the fellowship, at least twenty-six fellows were irregularly admitted during the Commonwealth, of these only Nathaniel Bradshaw was elected preacher, three years after being nominated a fellow. He held the post for less than a year. The Restoration saw further extension of the control over the universities by the Crown. The victors would have their spoils, manifested in the case of Cambridge in the restoration to fellowships and offices of men who had been deprived of them during the Commonwealth, and the rewarding of men who had served the Royalist cause. This had its effect on the preachers also. In 1662 Humphrey Babington, friend of Newton and benefactor of the college, was given royal dispensation to hold the living of Boothby Pagnall until he was elected to a college preachership, the assumption being that he would in time be elected as such.38 In 1664 Laurence Boreman, a royalist divine, was given letters patent with the effect of making him preacher ‘till he shall at a convenient time freely and fairly lay [it] down, according to his promise by letter’. Boreman had been created fellow in 1633, but was ejected during the Commonwealth. In 1662 he was formally admitted to Blisworth, and in 1663 he became rector of St Giles in the Fields. During the immediate post-Commonwealth period, both the fellowship and college income were in rather poor shape. Where possible, the Master and Seniors tried to ensure that fellows abided by the statutes. In December 1666 they passed a resolution to the effect that all fellows who did not advance to holy orders according to statute, i.e. within seven years, were to be proceeded against accordingly. In 1669 the Master and Seniors came to the conclusion that Charles Wright should have the presentation of the rectory of North Runcton on condition that he vacated the College living of Barrington and resigned his Fellowship within one year. To ensure that he kept his word, he was forced to give a bond of £500. Wright had been a Fellow for fifteen years, but clearly he was not considered suitable to be elected to a preachership. Wright’s final payment as a fellow was for the year 1670–71, but he retained his interest in the University and held the Chair of Arabic from 1702 to 1711.39 The Restoration period also saw the election of the last eminent preacher to hold the office before the mid-nineteenth century, although,

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like Matthew Hutton, this individual was soon to be elevated to a higher position. Isaac Barrow was appointed preacher in 1672, when he had already established himself as the leading preacher in the University and obtained the Lucasian Chair. He thus embodied many of the virtues of the scholar-priest. In the following year he became Master and confirmed his faith in the importance of preaching and in the founders’ wishes by appointing fifteen men to cathechize in one year.40 Barrow’s own catechistical lectures were later published by Tillotson. Beginning ‘The order prescribed to this Excercise directs us to treat upon, first, the Creed; secondly, the Lord’s Prayer; thirdly, the Decalogue; fourthly, the Sacraments; fifthly, the Power of the Keys’, they provide some evidence that they were delivered as statute directed.41 The prelude to the Civil War had seen a decline in university admissions from which the University did not fully recover until the early nineteenth century. However, most of those that did enter Cambridge were destined for the church, and the drop in numbers did not necessarily ease the pressure on college livings. Indeed, the preachers elected in the last quarter of the seventeenth century had the longest tenure of all, averaging twenty-three and a half years in the post, with only three of the thirteen elected holding office for less than ten years. With the average length of time between election as fellow and as preacher standing at over sixteen years, many preachers were holding fellowships for more than forty years. Thus men such as Wolfran Stubbe, George Modd, Edward Bathurst, Thomas Smith and John Cooper were to hold senior fellowships long into the mastership of Richard Bentley, who, like all Masters, inherited the seniority with which he would have to govern the college.

Bentley and the Preachers

On 1 February 1700, Richard Bentley was admitted Master of Trinity. Bentley did not come from among the body of fellows, he was a John’s man who had been absent from Cambridge for many years. Indeed he may have been appointed by the Crown with a view to reforming the college. Historians of Trinity owe much to Bentley, as the records of his legal disputes with his enemies within the fellowship provide detail of how the college was administered not only during his tenure, but also before he was appointed. This is certainly true of the office of college

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preacher. Given its importance to the senior members of the college, it is not surprising to find that Bentley soon became aware of its value, finding occasion to use the office in a number of ways which demonstrate how important the position was in college politics. The first opportunity came early in his tenure, when the Master was in dispute with the seniors over the grand staircase that he had had installed in the Lodge, or, more specifically, over who was to pay for it, the cost of the enterprise having gone well beyond the sum the seniority had set aside for the purpose.42 The dispute ground on for two years and was only resolved when Bentley resorted to a very specific threat. In 1704 there were a number of preacherships vacant and four fellows qualified to fill the posts. At this point Bentley decided to exercise his muscle. His biographer, Monk, explains that Michael Hutchinson had been promoted to a Prebend at Lichfield Cathedral, which of course he could not hold along with his fellowship unless he was appointed a college preacher. He continues: Bentley, availing himself of this circumstance, declared that he would not consent to any election until the expence of the staircase was defrayed, and plainly told Hutchinson and the others that their only chance of the appointment would be by persuading the seniority to allow the charge [for the staircase] on the public account. The stratagem succeeded: the Seniors, teazed by importunities, willing to effect a pacification even by a great sacrifice, and seeing no other method of saving one of their brethren from the loss of his preferment, which was on the point of lapsing, did at length, after a resistance of two years, concede the point, and sanctioned the payment of £350 for the staircase: whereupon the College preachers were appointed and harmony was for a season restored to the society.43

Hutchinson was finally elected preacher on 18 May 1705.44 Whether it was in order to ‘save one of their brethren’ or whether to avoid the precedent of the Master tampering with the office of preacher, this episode demonstrates the lengths the Seniors would go to in order to protect one of the major perquisites available to Trinity fellows. The speed of the capitulation after two years of wrangling gave ample evidence to Bentley of the leverage he could exert by controlling this office. However, he strove first to reform it, a move which Monk praises as being ‘so wise and beneficial as deserves to redeem his name from much of the obloquy to which his proceedings are exposed’.45 Bentley was well aware that the best college livings, rather than acting as an inducement for fellows to leave the college to make way for new blood, were held in common with fellowships by the preachers: ‘The Master perceiv[ed] that this was the faulty part of the system, making Fellowships of Trinity

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rather an impediment than a furtherance to the professional utility of their holders’.46 In 1709 he hatched a plan to lay aside one-tenth of the dividend each year to augment individual college livings. The quid pro quo was that any fellow taking a living so augmented was to resign his fellowship within a year, college preacher or no. Having taken care to persuade individual seniors of the importance of the matter, Bentley thought that he would carry the day with their votes, but he was to be surprised in the seniority meeting. After a second failed attempt to force the matter through, the Master lost his temper and it is on this occasion that he uttered the oft quoted phrase ‘From henceforward, farewell peace to Trinity College’.47 If Bentley was unable to reform the preachership, he was determined to use it to his advantage. He had already used threats regarding the office to ensure that he got his way over the staircase in the Lodge, but there were further possibilities for using the office to gain his own ends. The situation between Bentley and his opponents was such that he needed to ensure, in spite of his autocratic nature, that as many fellows as possible would support him, especially those who were counted among the seniority and the college officers. This he could achieve in two ways: by seeing his own men elected to fellowships and to college offices, and by denying his enemies the possibility of furthering their careers in College. Using the benefits of the preachership as an inducement, or denying them to fellows who were qualified to hold the office, would enable him to influence the makeup of the fellowship, and, given time, the seniority. John Colbatch, the most vehement of his opponents, who had been appointed preacher by royal mandate in 1703, leaves us in no doubt of his opinion that the preacherships were used by Bentley in this way to reward his favourites and to punish his opponents, and the sworn affidavits of a number of Trinity fellows certainly support this.48 Among Colbatch’s copious notes relating to the various cases against Bentley, he attacks the Master’s use of the preachership as follows: when any Fellow shall accept of a Living, be it ever so small and he ever so willing to reside upon it, if he be not a man for Dr Bentley’s purpose, he must of course quit all the interests he has in the College within a year, but for such as he hath found upon a tryall disposed to serve him in his own way, let their livings be ever so richly endowed, if they are not a College Preacher already, he fails not to make ‘em such within the year.49

One means by which Bentley was able to control those admitted to the office of preacher was by ensuring that only one man was put up to

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catechize when a preachership became vacant. On many occasions before Bentley entered the Lodge there had been a shortfall in the numbers of men put up to catechize, but no-one had taken such a radical step as this. If there was not the impetus of a fellow eager to be elected preacher, these lectures were given irregularly and were often discontinued for months at a time. As a student, Charles Mason believed them to be a qualifying act required for a preachership in the way that the acts in the Senate House were an exercise required in order to proceed to a degree. It was only when he became a fellow in 1725, and was able to study the Trinity statutes, that he realised that they were required to be given every Sunday and Holy Day.50 This dereliction of duty had the effect not only of depriving the scholars of their regular dose of theology, but also of reducing the competition for the preachership from a semi-open one to one of Hobson’s Choice. Often, Bentley was less subtle, as in the case of James Malled. Malled catechized from 1716 to 1719 with no advancement. When, together with John Craister, he approached the Master in 1720 to obtain permission to recommence the exercise they were both abruptly showed the door. In the Master’s absence—and presumably to his intense annoyance— the seniority appointed Malled to catechize, as he hoped to be appointed preacher in order to hold the vacant college living of Barrington together with his fellowship. However, when, on completing his exercises, he appealed to the Master to confirm his preachership, this was refused. Instead, Bentley gives us the clearest sign of his intentions with regard to the office of preacher. Malled was told that ‘he was on a side’—i.e. not Bentley’s—and that ‘he must change sides before he could be judged fit to be a college preacher’.51 Bentley instead promoted his own adherents James Uvedale, Robert Parran, John Whitfield and John Barnwell to the preachership, though all were Malled’s juniors.52 At the first opportunity, Malled resigned his fellowship and took the college parish of Gainford, Co. Durham, which he held from 1721 until his death in 1747. However, there is a further twist in this tale relating to Malled’s companion Craister, who too had been rejected by the Master. Promising Bentley his allegiance, he was rewarded by being elected to fill the next vacancy in preachership in 1722, which he held for fifteen years, for much of that time with the prime parish of Chesterton.53 Other fellows benefited similarly from taking the Master’s side. Francis Hooper and Edward Vernon, two of the men made DD by Bentley at the royal visit of 1728, were made preachers after holding a fellowship for only eight and seven years respectively; the average length of time a fellow had to

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wait for a preachership in this period was sixteen and a half years. On a later occasion, Thomas Parne, who had also been a critic of the Master, received the benefit of the compromise Walker brokered between the Master and his enemies whereby they promised not to involve themselves in the affairs of the College in return for Bentley’s offer to remove his veto on their preferment.54 He was speedily elected preacher in 1735. One final example of Bentley’s use of the preachership for his own means concerns Philip Bouquet. Bouquet, a Fellow of French origin, was first locum tenens for Henry Sike as Regius Professor of Hebrew, and then held the chair in his own name for thirty-six years. Although originally an ally of the Master, Bouquet’s sin was to vote against Bentley in the seniority, on a number of important points. The Master had his revenge. In 1720, as a Doctor of Divinity of nine years standing and Regius Professor of Hebrew, he asked to be made preacher, having been put up to give the catechistical lectures alongside John Whitfield of the pro-Bentley party. While Whitfield was elected preacher, Bouquet was told that his probation sermon was ‘out of the dripping pan’, and the Master even suggested that his French origin might jeopardize his fellowship. If Bentley’s intention was to force Bouquet to leave Trinity as Malled had done, he failed. Bouquet did not leave: he was indeed a fellow for fifty years, but he received no further promotion in that time, except the progression to senior fellowship, which, once Bouquet had decided to remain in college, was beyond even Bentley’s control.55

Reform and the Preachers

Bentley was succeeded in 1742 by Robert Smith, and Smith by John Hinchliffe, Bishop of Peterborough. While Hinchliffe was Master, the seniority made serious attempts to make the poorer college livings more attractive to the fellowship with the help of Queen Anne’s Bounty. Every thousand pounds that Trinity promised for the improvement of its advowsons was met with a matching thousand from the Bounty office.56 However, thanks to the preachers, it did little to improve the succession of fellowships from the very top, where it was left to the Grim Reaper to give encouragement to the juniors. Leaving nature to take its course was all very well, but more drastic measures were needed to reform the whole fellowship. By this time, the senior fellows of Trinity had acquired

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quite a reputation for eccentricity, even by the standards of eighteenth century Cambridge. Of the men that Gunning57 singles out, he tells us that James Backhouse was something of a ladies’ man, John Higgs was mad, William Collier was a notorious gourmand and John Wilson made advances to the Master’s wife, mistaking her for a woman of a less virtuous kind. All were college preachers, if not exactly models of priestly virtue. It was during Hinchliffe’s Mastership that the first serious attempts at reform of the University and colleges was made. The chief proponent of reform was John Jebb, an alumnus of Trinity College Dublin, who wished to introduce annual university examinations and to force noblemen and fellow-commoners to proceed to a university degree in the same way as students of lower birth. Jebb nearly got his ideas approved, despite the fact that the authorities were suspicious of him for his unitarian views. The stumbling block seems to have been the opinion of the colleges that Jebb’s reforms would tilt the balance of power away from them and towards the University. If Jebb’s party learnt anything from this episode it was that at this time any reform would have to take place first in the colleges. One of Jebb’s main supporters was James Lambert, a fellow of Trinity who achieved the distinction of having Trinity students banned from his lectures on the Greek New Testament by the Master of the college himself. Lambert was to bide his time and to play a major part in the Trinity reforms of the late eighteenth century. In 1787, when he was himself a preacher, Lambert took steps to limit the privileges of the preachership in an attempt to ensure that there was a speedier succession within the fellowship. The college had already developed a reputation as one of the centres of reforming sentiment in Cambridge—much to the annoyance of Isaac Milner, the President of Queens’ who desired the Mastership of Trinity—and was still in the process of settling a dispute between the seniority and a group of younger fellows over the practice of the annual fellowship election.58 This matter took over a year to conclude, with the case eventually reaching the Lord Chancellor, sitting on behalf of the Crown. In contrast, there was the general opinion amongst the fellowship that the fact that a preacher could hold with a fellowship any preferment in the land was a severe abuse, and that trying to serve two masters was beneficial to neither college nor Church. Encouraged by John Wilson, the Senior Bursar, Lambert polled the younger fellows on the desirability of approaching Parliament with a view to preventing the preachers from holding livings in the gift of

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the college, except at a limited distance. The decision to apply for a new statute was an unusual one, as the only other one of the Elizabethan statutes to be altered officially before 1844 was that relating to the alienating of college property. The statute that covered the office of preacher was changed three times, once to increase the number of preachers, and twice to curtail the college livings they could hold.59 There was a precedent at Christ’s College for Wilson’s suggestion: there, by a license of Elizabeth I, preachers were allowed to hold together with a fellowship any living that did not exceed £20, and was no more than 20 miles from Cambridge. Wilson suggested 30 miles distance. He also instructed Lambert to discover whether this was considered the most effective means of promoting the succession within the fellowship and of ‘radically curing an evil which has long cal’d for redress’. It seems clear from the surviving correspondence on this matter 60 that Lambert would have preferred a more radical solution than the imposition of a thirty mile limit, but he was by now a skilled negotiator who was prepared to compromise if he could further the interests of reform within the college. To each fellow he asked the general question: whether it would be beneficial to Trinity to limit the preachers’ privilege of holding a living. Additionally, he made some suggestions as to what the limitations might comprise, ‘hints’ as one correspondent calls them. The alternatives that he placed before the juniors included Wilson’s own proposal, a narrower limit intended to cover Cambridge, Chesterton, Trumpington and Grantchester, or a limit of an intermediate distance. Lambert’s own preferred scheme was to limit the qualifying college livings to those within Cambridge and its immediate environs. The younger fellows, like Lambert himself, favoured the more radical proposals, but were sensitive to the position of their seniors and the position that at least some of them played in college life. There survives a letter from Lambert to Wilson61 in which he relays the opinion of a group of fellows. Their opinion was that it was in the interest of the college to prevent preachers from holding any preferment whatsoever, but that it was also important that senior fellows should be present in college ‘for the purpose of supporting the officers and discipline of our society’. Support did not only come from the junior fellows. On New Year’s Day 1788, Richard Newbon, himself a preacher since 1765, wrote to thank Lambert for ‘the first intimation of the great business now under consideration of the college regarding succession’, and agreed with him in his proposal, which Lambert had told him was ‘approved by all the resident and such non-resident fellows to whom it was

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communicated’.62 It seems that there was a clear majority in favour of Lambert’s general principle—Monk63 goes as far as to suggest that the matter was passed unanimously, but there was at least one dissenter in that famous combination-room lawyer Samuel Peck, who came up with the more radical idea of augmenting college fellowships. However, with a number of seniors in favour of reform and a new Master appointed out of the fellowship in the person of Thomas Postlethwaite, it was only a matter of time before a new statute was procured. On 2 December 1789, letters patent of George III were issued to amend the relevant statute, giving the express reason that this would ease the promotion of fellowships within the college.64 The document reveals the compromise that had been reached. Preachers were allowed to hold a college living if the parish church lay within twenty miles of Trinity Great Gate. If all other fellows refused a college living beyond the twenty-mile limit, that parish could also be held in common with the office of preacher. The new statute did not go as far as some people wanted, presumably due to the compromises required to persuade the fellowship to accept it, and a partial solution to the problems of the preachership had a partial effect. The twenty-mile limit only affected livings in the gift of the college, and had no effect on the existing incumbents. Long-standing preachers such as John Higgs, whom we understand that the college was keen to keep at a distance, retained their college livings: in Higgs’s case, Grundisburgh in Norfolk. Other preachers in favour of the new statute also continued to hold a parish with the office, although we can exonerate Lambert, who never took a parish.65 Some of the new preachers elected after 1789 were also able to use the office as in the previous centuries: John Hailstone was vicar of Shudy Camps from 1798 to 1817, during which period he also managed eleven years as an excellent Senior Bursar. However, such opportunities were now limited, and the anecdote with which I began shows that the popularity of the preachership continued amongst the fellowship: there were still a number of parishes worth holding within twenty miles. In 1832, under Christopher Wordsworth, a proven academic reformer, the College once again petitioned the Crown, being of the opinion that the beneficial consequences brought about by the statute of 1789 would be furthered by the removal of preachers’ privilege of holding a parish within twenty miles, with the exception of the curacies of St Michael’s and Great St Mary’s in Cambridge and the vicarage of Trumpington. The Crown approved, having taken the advice of the Solicitor General,

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who felt that the move would promote piety and learning as well as being of benefit to the College.66 The college still appointed preachers, but they no longer accepted the post in order to reside on a rich living, but in order to do their duty and preach both within the college and without. Familiar names appear in the list of mid-century preachers: Whewell, Romilly and Sedgwick all held the office for a number of years. Preachers who went on to church careers reappeared—George Peacock, Dean of Ely for one. There was still the opportunity for a few to hold college livings. One of the lucky ones was John Grote, who held the parish of Trumpington for many years in common with his college fellowship and the Knightbridge chair. However, the age when the college seniors were supported by the preachership was gone. The connection between preachership and parish was effectively removed by the College statutes of 1860 which baldly state: Certain of the Fellows of the College who are in Holy Orders shall be appointed College Preachers. They shall preach in the College chapel at such times and in such order as the Master and Seniors shall from time to time determine.67

*** Thus, after 300 years’ existence, the office of college preacher was finally stripped its most precious emoluments. In that time it had been particularly significant in the internal politics of the college. The preachers were in fact a class apart from the other fellows—a class which has been somewhat overlooked by modern historians of the University, most of whom seem to be happy to ascribe the phenomenon of holding a living with a fellowship to a lax interpretation of the statutes. Yet, the effects that the preachers had on college society were great. For while the origins of the office lay first in the designs of Lady Margaret Beaufort and Fisher to make the church more accessible, and later in the needs of their successors to provide a preaching clergy for the English-speaking people, the statutes that created the post sowed the seed that would corrupt the office—the privilege of holding a living in common with a fellowship. We know that, by the early seventeenth century, the office of preacher was most attractive to the more senior members of the society and that there was a tendency to hold office for many years. We also know that the means of calculating the maximum amount a preacher was allowed to take from a parish before voiding his fellowship allowed preachers to hold livings of a value much greater than apparently allowed by statute. By the eighteenth century the pedagogical aspect of the office

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had been discarded. The preachership had become a perk for senior fellows—a pension after fifteen years or so of college service. Indeed the office was so vital to the livelihood of some fellows that they would happily ally themselves with those in whose gift the office lay. It is easy to characterize the preachers, and especially where they were not sufficiently talented or well connected to aspire to more lucrative careers, as taking their lead from society as a whole, in which plurality was a route to a gentlemanly life. However, we cannot ignore repeated protestations from within Trinity that the office was injurious to the college, and we should recognise how it altered the whole aspect of the place as more and more chose, or were forced for lack of alternative, to remain fellows rather than pursue careers elsewhere. Looking to their own interests they blocked not only the route to a fellowship, but also the access to college livings, while a swift succession in each was deemed beneficial to college life. In return, many gave little save for minimal duties as seniors. They were the dead-weight that arrested progress within the college, doing little to promote the founder’s intentions. Indeed, they held back the development of the college as an educational institution, effectively turning it into the society familiarly characterized as one of eighteenth century indolence, with unruly students and bored fellows. Although Bentley and others were aware of the debilitating effect that the preachership had on the college, they were powerless to do anything radical to remedy this. The majority of the seniority were also preachers, and they were never going to vote themselves out of existence. It was not until the end of the eighteenth century, when a sufficient number of reform-minded characters had become seniors themselves, that serious moves were made to break the power of the preachers, and even then compromises had to be made. Nonetheless, both the College and the University owe a lot to the Trinity reformers of that period. These men developed a more meritocratic Trinity, with measures such as annual college examinations and more stringent fellowship examinations designed to improve the quality of the students and the junior fellows. Importantly, they realized that they needed to encourage good fellows with hopes of promotion and a livelier academic environment in which to work, and that they needed to deprive the preachers of their privileges in order to achieve this. Monk and Winstanley date the birth of a resurgent Trinity to 1786, when junior fellows complained about the means by which new fellows were elected, thus paving the way for more stringent fellowship elections. However, we must not forget 1789, when the college took its first steps to curtail the power of the preachers and

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to give those new fellows the hope of a swifter progression if they wanted it. Thus, one more step was taken in the development from a college whose institutions were essentially medieval to the modern Trinity, the most influential of the Cambridge colleges in the area of university reform. Trinity College Library Cambridge REFERENCES * I would like to thank Christopher Stray, Malcolm Underwood and an anonymous referee for their kind assistance in putting together this piece. 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

10. 11.

12.

13.

14.

Trinity College Library (hereafter TCL) MONK B7. Trinity College Archive (hereafter TCA) Box 4 Colesden 47. College statutes of Edward VI. TCL O.6.7. This arrangement would not have seemed unusual to fellows of one of Trinity’s predecessor colleges, The King’s Hall, where in the latter fifteenth centurt two thirds of the fellowship were benificed. See A. B. Cobban, The King’s Hall within the University of Cambridge in the later Middle Ages (Cambridge,1969), 143. Letter from John Wilson to James Lambert, TCA Box 29 369a. Erasmus, Opus Epistolarum, ed. P. S. Allen (Oxford, 1906–1958), xi. 191–2. John E. B. Mayor, The Early statutes of the College of St John the Evangelist (Cambridge, 1859), 96. Susan Wabuda, Preaching during the English reformation (Cambridge, 2002), 117. The origins of the Johnian preachership are treated in Malcolm G Underwood, ‘The Lady Margaret and her Cambridge Connections’, Sixteenth Century Journal 13 (1982), 70–1. TCA Box 34 Statutes 5. Rosemary O’Day, ‘The clergy of the Church of England’, in Wilfred Prest (ed), The Professions in Early Modern England (London, 1987), 42; Victor Morgan, History of the University of Cambridge (Cambridge, 2004), ii. 234. Neal Enssle, ‘Patterns of Godly life: the ideal parish minister in sixteenthand seventeenth-century English thought’, Sixteenth Century Journal 28 (1997), 14. John Gascoigne, Cambridge in the age of the Enlightenment: science, religion and politics from the Restoration to the French Revolution (Cambridge, 1989), 13. [E. Henshaw], The Case of the senior graduate in divinity among the fellows of Trinity College Cambridge, as to his right of pre-option to college livings (Cambridge, 1822), 18.

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15. Christopher Hill, Economic problems of the church from Archbishop Whitgift to the Long Parliament (Oxford, 1956), 231. 16. William F. Mitchell, English pulpit oratory from Andrewes to Tillotson: a study of its literary aspects (London, 1932). 17. Papers in the various cases against Richard Bentley: TCL B.17.8, 213. 18. TCL B.17.8, 76. 19. Morgan, History of the University of Cambridge, 124–7. 20. John Strype, Annals of the Reformation (Oxford, 1824), ii:2, 342. Richard Swale was a tutor at Caius 1576–89. He was later MP for Higham Ferrers and was knighted in 1603. 21. TCA Senior Bursar’s accounts 1547–1563, 222v. 22. Note on statististics: From 1553 onwards the stipends of Trinity preachers are listed in the Senior Bursar’s annual account books. This series is reasonably full, but some years from the first half century of the College’s existence are missing as are the years 1622–36. Elections to the preachership from 1560 to 1800 are recorded in the Admissions Books of Fellows, Officers and Scholars. From these sources it is possible to produce reasonably accurate statistics relating to the tenure of preachers. 23. James Bass Mullinger, The University of Cambridge: from the Royal Injunctions of 1535 to the accession of Charles the First (Cambridge, 1884), 275–6. 24. John Ayre, The Works of John Whitgift (Cambridge, 1853), iii. 395. 25. O’Day, Clergy, 47. 26. Ibid, 51. 27. TCA Box 29 369e. 28. Letter from Henry Robinson to James Lambert, TCA Box 29 369c. 29. John Gascoigne, Cambridge in the age of the Enlightenment: science, religion and politics from the Restoration to the French Revolution (Cambridge, 1989), 15. 30. TCL B.17.8, 205. 31. TCL B.17.14, 236. 32. See Ian Green, ‘Career prospects and clerical conformity in the Early Stuart Church’, Past and Present 90 (1981), 81. 33. One further advantage was that livings which did not appear in Valor Ecclesiasticus were completely disregarded by the College authorities in decisions affecting the tenure of fellowships and preacherships. Compare the case of John Arrowsmith, a fellow of Trinity but not a preacher, who was presented to St Johns, Bedford in 1677. As the living did not appear in the Valor he was allowed to retain his fellowship. TCL B.17.18, 3. 34. TCL B.17.18, 4. 35. For a detailed treatment of this visitation see John Twigg, The University of Cambridge and the English Revolution, 1625–1688 (Woodbridge, 1990), chapter 5. 36. The others were Robert Meredith, Thomas Briscoe, Edward Salmon, John West, Anthony Marshall, Charles Jones and Thomas Shirley.

The Preachers of Trinity College, Cambridge 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67.

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George Chamberlain, Theodore Crosland, John Rhodes and John Sherman. TCL Conclusions Book 1646–1811, 68. TCL Conclusions Book 1646–1811, 114. TCL Conclusions Book 1646–1811, 126. Percy H. Osmond, Isaac Barrow: his life and times (London, 1944), 187. J. H. Monk, The Life of Richard Bentley (2 vols, London, 1833), i. 175. Ibid, i. 178. TCL Admissions Book of Fellows, Officers and Scholars 1560–1759, 112. Ibid, i. 239. Ibid, i. 240. Ibid, i. 243. See the numerous affidavits in TCL B.17.7. TCL B.17.8, 205. TCL B.17.7, 103. Monk, Bentley, ii. 104. Ibid, 105. Ibid, 345. Ibid, 354. Ibid, 106. TCL Conclusions Book 1646–1811, 465–6, 478. Henry Gunning, Reminiscences of the university, town and county of Cambridge from the year 1780 (London, 1854), ii. 117–120. For a lengthy discussion of this dispute se Denys A. Winstanley, Unreformed Cambridge (Cambridge, 1935), 238–56. This is not to suggest that the Elizabethan statutes were employed in earlynineteenth-century Trinity as they had been in the late sixteenth. Where statutes relating to less important matters began to cause problems within Trinity the embarrassing sections were often simply ignored. TCA Box 29 369. TCA Box 29 369a. TCA Box 29 369d. Monk, Bentley, ii. 423. TCA Box 34 Statutes 10. Lambert adopted Arian views which led to him taking up no church preferment. The new statute was issued on 10 December 1832; TCA Box 34 Statutes 11. The Statutes of the College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity in the University of Cambridge (Cambridge, 1861), 9.

From Oral to Written Examinations: Cambridge, Oxford and Dublin 1700–1914 Christopher Stray*

Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man. Francis Bacon, Of Studies (1597) Why, Sir, I think every man whatever has a peculiar style, which may be discovered by nice examination and comparison with others. Samuel Johnson, 13 April 17781

The history of examinations in Britain remains a relatively unexplored field. The standard works by Montgomery and Roach are largely concerned with the great expansion of examinations in the nineteenth century: the period when the examination seemed to be almost a miracle cure for social ills, though its rampant spread generated a backlash in the second half of the century.2 In this paper I have chosen to focus on the development of examinations in the two ancient English universities from the beginning of the eighteenth century: the period which witnessed the emergence from an oral context of the written forms of assessment which were taken for granted by the late nineteenth century.3 The paper concentrates on Cambridge and Oxford because in this period, their practices were central to English educational practice as a whole. Evidence is also adduced from Trinity College Dublin, an influential, if marginal institution which at the beginning of the nineteenth century had as many students as Cambridge. Other institutions could, and should, be investigated, if overall patterns of examination are to be explored, rather than just those in universities. To take a single example, the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich employed both oral and written examinations in the eighteenth century. Monthly and termly written exams were held to fix places in classes, and a final one of several days determining rank in the promotion order. Public viva voce exams are recorded from 1764; by the 1850s they had become rehearsed exhibitions.4 In a sense

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the Academy is atypical, since the amount and intensity of assessment can be related to the central place of seniority in careers in the armed forces: a group of cadets graduating together were of the same seniority, and so needed to be ranked within it.5 But it is only by surveying a range of such cases that the boundaries of the typical can be established. This example raises the question, to what extent were the forms of assessment developed in Oxbridge similarly the product of institutionally specific imperatives? The comparison of Oxford and Cambridge should throw some light on this point. The latter is highlighted in the paper, for the simple reason that it was the dominant site in the shift from oral to written examination. The degree to which this process is embedded in the history of these two institutions complicates the task of describing it, especially as, in the period with which I am concerned, they grew more unlike each other in many ways. But it is a fruitful complication, since it enables us to see how traditions of examination are in part the products of specific institutional contexts.

The Poet in the Examination Room

Let me begin with a worm’s-eye view: a student’s experience, towards the end of the period, of both oral and written assessment. On 25 November 1870 Arthur Hilton, a student in his second year at Cambridge, wrote to his mother, ‘It is the most disagreeable business I ever was in for. Most of my friends are in a very despondent way’.6 Hilton was referring to the ‘Little-Go’—an intermediate examination covering a wide range of subjects—which that year was held on 5 December. In his final year, he edited and largely wrote a short-lived periodical called The Light Green which included several verses on the subject of examinations. One of them, The Vulture and the husband-man, has the Little-Go as its subject. The poem’s title is explained in its epigraph, which quotes Dr Johnson’s definition of a vulture as a bird which plucks its victim limb from limb, and of a husbandman as one who makes his living from the plough. ‘Pluck’ and ‘plough’ were student slang at Oxbridge for failure in examinations; the vulture and the husband-man are the invigilating examiners.7 The poem, which Hilton ascribed to ‘Louisa Caroline’, is modelled on Lewis Carroll’s The Walrus and the Carpenter (published the previous year in Through the Looking-Glass), and very aptly: for

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the mixture of subjects included in the Little Go resembled Carroll’s miscellaneous list ‘of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax, Of cabbages— and kings’. The poem begins: The rain was raining cheerfully, As if it had been May, The Senate-House appeared inside Unusually gay; And this is strange, because it was A Viva-Voce day.

Later stanzas portray the grilling of the candidates, two at a time, by the examiners, who give them all fail grades. The point of this stanza is that it was the oral part of the examination which students feared most. Just why this was, is made clear by another of Hilton’s poems. The Heathen Pass-ee8 deals with a written examination in which he imagines himself not as candidate but as invigilating examiner. The ‘pass-ee’ is a comprehensively-equipped cheat who is caught, searched and divested of his ‘passing aids’: In the crown of his cap Were the Furies and Fates And a delicate map Of the Dorian States, And we found in his palms, which were hollow, What are frequent on palms—that is dates.

In this case the examination is the final examination for the Ordinary (pass) degree, which Hilton sat in 1872. This is the mundane world below that of the high-flying honours student; a world in which memory aids, both legitimate and illegitimate, were very much at home.9 Many of the Pass-ee’s coevals will have sought to carry into the examination hall the kind of information he was found to possess; though in their heads, rather than in their caps or on their palms. What makes the Pass-ee a cheat is precisely that he has written down what others may have stored in memory, perhaps by a mnemonic scheme.10 Questions on William Paley’s Evidences of Christianity (1802) were included in the Previous Examination from its inception in 1824, and continued to be set until December 1920, generating summary volumes and also ‘Paley cards’: printed cards bearing mnemonic verses. For example, Paley’s eleven proofs of the authenticity of Scripture were summarised as follows: Quoted, sui generis, vols, titles, publicly, comment. Both sides, without doubt, attacked, catalogue, apocryphal.11

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Hilton describes in the poem the looks of alarm which pass between the narrator and another invigilator when they see ‘Tom Crib’ (the Pass-ee) ‘flooring the paper at twenty past three’ (the real-life examination would have begun at 2 pm and lasted three hours).12 Both that brief interaction, and the divesting of Crib’s examination aids which follows it, exemplify the range of social relationships which may obtain within the process of examination. This is not just a black box which receives inputs of knowledge and generates a rank ordering of individuals. It is a situated complex of social action of which the formal rules are only a part, in which informal rules also exist, and in which both are in practice negotiable. This is true of both oral and written examinations, but more obviously so of the former.13 All the information carried by the Pass-ee is written. The subject of The vulture and the husband-man, on the other hand, is a viva voce examination—where all the Pass-ee’s devices would have been useless. The candidates have already finished their written work: as the poem continues, The men were sitting sulkily, Their paper work was done, ... The papers they had finished lay In piles of blue and white.14

The system of assessment these verses reveal is a mixture of oral and written examination, but by the 1870s the role of the viva voce was very limited. Its regular use in Cambridge university examinations was confined to the Little Go, and that only until the regulations were changed in 1882; in college examinations, it had already disappeared.15 Yet oral examination had once been the only mode of assessment used. When, how and why did the shift to written examinations take place?

Viva! The Heyday of Oral Examination

In medieval Oxford and Cambridge all examinations were public, oral and in Latin. The community of MAs was assumed to be involved, and any of its members could challenge a candidate for the BA degree. Fixed ritual forms were followed: challenge and defence, often in a sequence which involved several challengers. The award of a degree followed an

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‘act’ in which a student had to debate in public with a senior member. This was preceded during his student career by disputations in which he was expected, on different occasions, to perform both as ‘opponent’ (advancing an argument) and as ‘respondent’ (challenging an argument put by another student). These disputations were also public, and enabled junior students to gain a sense both of how they were conducted and of the range of eristic tactics which might be employed. The same applied to the final ‘acts’, from which those who were some way from graduating could learn how to cope when they reached that stage.16 Accounts of actual disputations are not common, but it is clear that they typically began with an opponent declaring support for an author and the respondent criticising this: Opp. Recte statuit X de Y . . . [X’s views on Y are correct] Resp. Recte non statuit X de Y . . . [No they are not]17

The economy of the oral examination was different from that of the written. Its verbal jousting, which might go on for two hours or more, constituted a public negotiation not just between examiner and examinee but between several participants, since students were disputing with one another and with any graduates who might choose to intervene.18 Examination and adjudication took place at the same event, and apart from any notes which were taken, and such written theses which happened to be preserved, no record survived beyond the memory of participants except for the official record of success or failure.19 What is clear is that disputations were often dramatic, exciting and unpredictable events. As Costello remarked, to call them ‘debates between students’ was ‘like describing a Spanish bullfight as the killing of a cow’.20 Morgan, similarly, suggests that ‘for their enthusiastic observers they seem to have constituted a form of academic bloodsports or the equivalent of the vitriolic review of a later time’.21 The volatile nature of such occasions was captured in an account by Symonds D’Ewes of a music act at Cambridge in 1620. The sophister who carried it out began by playing a tune on his viol; and having defended his position successfully against three opponents, he played another piece, presumably in a triumphant strain. The Moderator there upon observed that ‘ubi philosophia desinit, ibi incipit musicus [where philosophy leaves off, there music begins]’, which D’Ewes thought ‘a very pretty jest’.22 The public involvement of the academic community carried with it an element of risk. Inappropriate speech could not easily be prevented, and students who sought to distinguish themselves in other than officially

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condoned ways sometimes took their acts down informal paths. Where these involved allusive criticism of individuals or institutions, there was little that could be done to stop them on the spot.23 Perhaps to act as a kind of lightning conductor for such undergraduate energies, a licensed fool (at Oxford called Terrae filius, ‘son of the earth’) was appointed each year to deliver a comic or satirical speech. On occasion, the Terrae filius himself overstepped expected bounds. In 1669 John Evelyn heard the speech of the Oxford Terrae filius and was shocked by his ‘tedious, abusive and sarcastical rhapsody . . . It was rather licentious lying and railing than genuine and noble wit’.24 (The Terrae filii of 1591 and 1632 had been expelled because of their speeches; that of 1713 had his speech publicly burnt by order of Convocation. After this the office, perhaps unsurprisingly, lapsed.25) The Cambridge equivalent of the Terrae filius was ‘Mr Tripos’. The title came from the role played in degree disputations by a BA who sat on a three-legged stool. As well as engaging questionists in disputations, Mr Tripos composed a satirical Latin poem which was circulated during the ceremony. He thus had both to speak and to write, unlike his Oxonian equivalent. The earliest surviving verses (also, confusingly, known as ‘triposes’) are those of 1583.26 Some of these tripos verses were censured on their appearance, e.g. one of 1789, which gave an account of a prize fight. None of the several verses which dealt with contemporary political topics in the 1790s, however, seems to have caused trouble to the authorities.27 At both universities, oral disputations survived into the nineteenth century.28 In his Reminiscences of Cambridge, Henry Gunning gives an account of his own act, held in 1787, which allows us a glimpse of the situational contingencies which might arise. He was alarmed to find that he had been chosen to open the proceedings; but disappointed to discover that since he was not thought to be a very promising student, he had been assigned two obscure undergraduates to debate with. Towards the end of his opening argument, his voice began to fail, but he recovered, and easily disposed of his opponents’ arguments. He was then congratulated by the examiner, having clearly done better than was expected of him.29 Coming first on such a public occasion brought with it heightened stage fright; those who came later might be able to gauge an examiner’s mood. Learning about testing, then, might take place not only in earlier disputations, but in the earlier stages of one’s own final test. In this kind of interactive assessment, the character and ability of those playing the other parts were crucial. Gunning’s opponents came from the

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ranks of the lower-achieving students. This was an advantage in that it made it easier for him to show them up during the debate; but he clearly felt it as a kind of insult that he had not been given better (i.e. more able) opponents. The ranking of a victory, then, depended in part on the stature of those one defeated. The moderator who selected Gunning to lead off the disputations was a fellow of his own college, and may have chosen Gunning as a mediocre but reliable student who could be counted on not to lose his head in the unsettling first few minutes of the proceedings. Of the few detailed accounts we have of disputations, most come from the period of Gunning’s examination.30 From these it is clear that the public argument, when subjects were proposed as theses, might be preceded by private negotiations. Subjects chosen were liable to be refused for a variety of reasons. Doctrines which were seen as self-evident or almost so were not usually allowed, since they made life impossible for the opponent. Thus the moderators would not normally allow statements from Euclid to be advanced; though exceptionally in 1818 a ‘questionist’ [finalist] was allowed to ‘keep’ [take part in an act] in the eleventh book. Theses regarded as immoral or heretical were also liable to be barred. In 1762 William Paley (later the author of the textbooks of moral philosophy and theology studied by several generations of Cambridge undergraduates) proposed as one of his questions for debate that hell’s punishments were not eternal [‘Aeternitas poenarum contradicit Divinis attributis?’]. Soon afterwards, he came to see the Senior Moderator in alarm. The master of his college, who was also Dean of Ely, had made it clear that he did not want such a disturbing thesis defended in public. The moderator, Richard Watson, invited him to insert the word ‘non’ in his title. Hence on the day, Paley advanced the converse of his original thesis—leaving his opponent to defend the theologically risky position.31 Hoskin’s account of this episode represents it as a tussle between Paley and the university, portrayed as an impersonal body (‘pressure was applied’).32 Given Hoskin’s Freirean exposé of the ‘banking model’ of education—the unproblematic transmission of fixed knowledge-commodities from one generation to the next—it is ironic that he reinforces the model by assuming consensus among the dons. This was in fact a tussle between liberals and conservatives in which young Paley was, to some extent, a pawn. (A successful pawn, however: he emerged as Senior Wrangler, i.e. top of the first class). The last survivals of the public, oral world of the medieval university are perhaps to be found in the competing praelections by candidates for chairs. At Cambridge, the last event of this kind appears to have been

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the competition for the Regius Chair of Greek in January 1906. This was a high-profile event, reported in national newspapers; the praelections were, uniquely, published as a volume by Cambridge University Press.33 It was, however, also a very local event, since all five candidates were Cambridge men. Although the electors to the chair were no longer the Senate, but the Council, a much smaller body, the praelections were delivered in the Senate House to over a hundred MAs. Later elections to chairs were held under revised statutes, which handed over decision making to subject-specific groups of academics meeting in private.34 The viva voce element in degree examinations survived, in large part as a device for grading borderline candidates, and after 1920 the introduction of the Ph.D. brought with it an oral examination.35 Today they are among the relatively few survivals of the world of oral testing.36

The Origins of the Written Examination

In his History of the Study of Mathematics at Cambridge, Rouse Ball wrote that ‘We are perhaps apt to think that an examination conducted by written papers is so natural that the custom is of long continuance. But I can find no record of any (in Europe) earlier than those introduced by Bentley at Trinity in 1702’.37 When we realise that these originating events took place in Rouse Ball’s own college, in his own university, we are entitled to wonder if his loyalty has outstripped his historical imagination. Subsequent investigation, however, with one exception to be mentioned below, has not challenged his conclusion.38 Rouse Ball was relying on the life of Richard Bentley written by an earlier fellow of Trinity, James Monk, whose account is as follows: Hitherto the examinations had taken place in the chapel viva voce, before the Master and eight Seniors [i.e. senior fellows], who are the Electors: Bentley being of opinion that this oral test was not satisfactory in an enquiry so extensive and profound, ordered that the candidates should be examined by each of the electors at his own apartments, whereby an opportunity was given for the performance of written exercises, and time allowed to weigh and compare the respective merits of the young men with suitable deliberation. This method of separate examination, although liable to considerable objections, which were felt both in Bentley’s time and subsequently, continued to be the practice of Trinity College for ninety years.39

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The only contemporary witness we have is John Byrom, who was elected to a scholarship in 1709 (the scholarship examinations seem to have followed the same procedure as those for fellowships). In May of that year, Byrom was examined by the Vice-Master on one day, and on the following Monday and Tuesday by Bentley and two fellows in their own rooms; on the Wednesday he went to the Master’s Lodge to ‘make theme’ (write a [Latin] composition).40 The procedure was much the same in the 1750s, when Bentley’s grandson Richard Cumberland was elected to a fellowship.41 Bentley’s motive was probably to improve the quality of a fellowship which had been appointed through a mixture of laxness and patronage (including those appointed under James II by royal mandate), but he will also have wanted to make the existing fellows work. In a communal ‘act’ in the chapel it was all too easy for some of them to be little more than observers.42 The new arrangement may also have made it easier for Bentley to control the outcome of the examination—not a motive to be discounted in his case. Later in his mastership we find him appointing a layman as chaplain, contrary to statute, and even appointing his son a fellow without examination. It is noticeable in Byrom’s account that Bentley himself drew up the list of successful candidates. In about 1720 an unsuccessful candidate for a fellowship, Charles Squire, complained that he had had only a slight examination from the Master which lasted little more than a quarter of an hour during which he was examin’d as to Greek but in one Greek Epigram of six lines, and as to Latin but in about twelve lines out of Seneca’s Tragedies: had some few questions asked him out of Tacitus, and as to other University learning had only some few Superficial Questions asked him in Astronomy, and having been examined also by Dr Colbatch Casuistical Professor and Senior Fellow of the College for three hours and a half together with three others of the candidates in Herodotus, Thucydides, Aristotle’s Ethics and in other Greek as well as Latin History [gave] the said Reverend Doctor full satisfaction throughout that examination.

A majority of the senior fellows voted for Squire, but Bentley had decided for someone else and overruled them.43 I mentioned above that Rouse Ball’s claim for the primacy of Bentley’s new written examination has gone unchallenged, with one exception. The exception is Rouse Ball himself. Ten years after his claim was published, he wrote that he doubted whether the fellowship examination before Bentley’s time had been entirely oral: ‘Monk seems to have thought that before this time [sc. 1702] elections to scholarships and fellowship took place on the result only of an oral examination in the college chapel . . . I doubt whether this is correct’.44 Ball gives no reasons for his doubt, though he earlier quotes William Lynnet, vice-master in the

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1690s, as referring to candidates producing ‘a theme . . . given them by the Master’, and ‘each one writing his name his age and his country’.45 The candidates sat the examination for three days; on the third day they were brought the theme, and for it were ‘excused the 4th [day]’.46 Lynnet’s statement is, in fact, simply an expanded translation of Chapter XII of the college’s Elizabethan statutes (1560), which laid down exactly this procedure.47 The only detail Lynnet has added is the practical detail that the theme is brought to the candidates from the Master by the chapel clerk. It is thus clear that the fellowship examination contained a written element for well over a century before Bentley’s arrival in Trinity.48 Where did Monk get his story from? It is impossible to tell, since he cites no source for his account of the examinations. Certainly there is no relevant decision recorded in the Conclusion Book of the Master and Seniors. In 1710, when Bentley published a reply to the charges laid against him by some of the fellows, he dwelt on the lax state of the college at his arrival, and on his reform of the fellowship examination. But the only aspect he mentions is that he abolished the custom that the candidates entertained the fellows at a local tavern from 7 pm till past midnight for the four nights of their examination—the bill being paid by the successful candidates.49 The conclusion of this cautionary tale, then, is that the Trinity fellowship examinations had included a written element since the passage of the Elizabethan statutes of 1560. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, college statutes constituted in effect a detailed instructional manual for the running of the college, and there is no evidence that they were not in general adhered to. (By the nineteenth century, Statute XII was adapted by simply not reading it all out when fellows were elected).50 Trinity may have held the first written examination in Europe, but if so it must be dated to 1560 rather than to 1702—with the proviso that the themes, once written, were probably then read out before the examining fellows.

Newtonianism and Marks: The Rise of the Senate House Examination

It was at about the time of Bentley’s arrival, in the 1700s, that the beginnings can be detected of what became known as the Senate House Examination, and later the Mathematical Tripos. This was a university

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degree examination whose history through the eighteenth century is one of increasingly fine differentiation of grading. Since the sixteenth century, the highest-achieving BAs of each year had been listed in an order of merit (the Ordo Senioritatis); the others were listed separately in college groups.51 In 1710–11 the higher men were listed in two groups, First Tripos and Second Tripos, and though the terminology changed, this division into two classes persisted in subsequent years. From 1747–8 the list was printed. From 1753 the first class was divided into two, and this was the origin of the distinction between wranglers and senior optimes; the second class consisting of junior optimes. Together these classes represented the three classes of honours, the other candidates being known as ‘hoi polloi’ (the masses). Some of the changes in the examination were prompted by external factors. In 1715 the building in which the disputations were held was commandeered to store part of a large library given to the university by George I. A new Senate House was commissioned, but was begun only in 1722, and not finished until 1730. In the interim, when it was difficult to find accommodation for the exercises, the moderators took to interrogating finalists after the acts as a supplementary test. It was these interrogations which increasingly predominated as a basis for classification. Rouse Ball was confident that the interrogation was conducted in English from the outset, though he acknowledged that John Jebb’s statement in 1772 that ‘This examination has now for some years been conducted in the English language’ suggested otherwise. In fact it is clear from a letter of Horace Walpole’s describing the examination (‘and all this in Latin’) that Latin was being used in 1735.52 The shift relates to the decline in conversational fluency in Latin even in academic communities from the seventeenth century, of which Locke had already complained in his Essay on education in the 1690s. We might guess that it took place in the 1750s, when resistance to the use of Latin was gathering force in a wide variety of social contexts.53 But more importantly, in this local manifestation it probably reflects the increasing impact of Newtonian natural philosophy on the examination in the 1750s and 60s. The new, heavily mathematicized approach was more easily handled in the vernacular. Isaac Newton’s work forms a crucial element in the development of the Senate House Examination. His influence began to spread in the 1690s. One of his chief supporters in Cambridge was Richard Laughton, a well-known tutor. The examination was technically controlled by the two university proctors, but since 1680 this duty had been delegated to

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two moderators. In 1710–11, however, Laughton, who was proctor that year, decided to take charge of the examination himself. He invited one student to defend a Newtonian thesis, and promised as a reward to insert his name high on the list.54 He also drew up a series of Newtonian propositions for use in the oral exercises which preceded the examination. It is probably not a coincidence that it was in 1710–11 that the beginnings can be seen of the ranking system which was later to become so fine-tuned: the division of the honours students into two classes.55 In the later eighteenth century, the classifying of finalists took place in several stages. The Senate House Examination was administered to groups of students who had been classed in advance. Each college sent in to the moderators a list of its questionists with assessments of their ability, and the students were examined in college groups. This must have made comparison difficult, since each group was of mixed ability. From 1763, however, perhaps to ease this difficulty, they were divided into eight classes by ability, though still on the basis of college officers’ opinions. This innovation seems to have been due to Richard Watson, who was moderator in that year. His own account of the change makes it vividly clear why he proposed it. I was the second wrangler of my year [1759], the leading moderator having made a person of his own college [St John’s], and one of his private pupils, the first, in direct opposition to the general sense of the examiners in the Senate House, who declared in my favour. The injustice which was done me then was remembered as long as I lived in the University; and the talk about it did me more service than if I had been made senior wrangler. Our old master sent for me, and told me not to be discouraged, for that when the Johnians had the disposal of the honours, the 2nd wrangler was always looked upon as the 1st.56 There was more room for partiality in the distribution of honours, not only with respect to St Johns, but other colleges, then, than there is now; and I attribute the change, in a great degree, to an alteration which I introduced the first year I was moderator, and which has been preserved ever since. At the time of taking their Bachelor of Arts degrees, the young men are examined in classes, and the classes are now formed according to the abilities shown by individuals in the schools. By this arrangement, persons of nearly equal abilities are examined in the presence of each other, and flagrant acts of partiality cannot take place. Before I made this alteration, they were examined in classes, but the classes consisted of members of the same College, and the best and worst were often examined together.57

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Later in the same year, 1763, Watson successfully proposed to the university senate that all MAs, not only as previously those of five years’ standing, should be allowed to participate in questioning candidates.58 This might be seen as acknowledging the growing importance of the young graduates who were now coaching undergraduates in the increasingly dominant mathematical section of the examination, and who might perhaps be expected to be less swayed by college prejudice than their elders. Of the eight groups into which the questionists were divided after 1763, it was expected that the first two would become wranglers (i.e. first class men), the second two senior optimes (second class), the next two junior optimes (third class), the last two the ‘poll’ (‘hoi polloi’).59 At some point soon after 1763, the classes began to be examined together: the first two, the next four, and the last two.60 After these preliminary gradings, the questionists were interrogated by the moderators in the (largely mathematical) Senate House Examination. During the second half of the eighteenth century, the Examination began to dominate, leaving the Latin exercises as a mere pre-classifying operation. In 1827 the classes were reduced to four, and in 1838 were abolished; the moderators for 1839 consequently decided not to hold any disputations. Thus ended, at least in the arts faculty, a tradition of oral examination several hundred years old.61 A significant step in the shift of emphasis away from the preliminary to the later stages of the examination was taken in 1779, when a system of ‘brackets’ (‘classes quam minimae’, i.e. very small groups) was introduced. On the fourth day of the examination, the list of candidates was exhibited outside the Senate House at 8 am, with those who were regarded as roughly equal bracketed together. Those who felt this did not do them justice could then appeal against the classification, and were promptly interrogated anew. A new list was then put up, and this happened several times during the day, until at 5 pm the final order was posted up.62 Though the chronology cannot be established with complete certainty, the move away from orality can be traced in outline. By 1772, questions were dictated to students for written answer.63 From about 1790, some papers (problem papers, set only to the first two classes) were printed, and given to candidates to take away to window seats for solution.64 The other (‘bookwork’) papers continued to be dictated until 1828, when new regulations laid down that all papers should be printed, and gave examiners only very restricted power to examine orally. At the same

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time, the involvement of MAs tailed off, their right to intervene in the examination of candidates being apparently not exercised after 1785; while from 1779 the number of examiners was increased from two to four. Similarly, the right of the vice-chancellor and proctors to nominate ‘honorary senior optimes’ who could be inserted into the tripos list fell into disuse, to be formally abolished in 1827.65 The examination was taking on its own existence, separate from that of the university as a whole; and in the process, socio-moral criteria were giving way to cognitive evaluation.66 Separate from that of the university: or perhaps we should rather say, from that of the colleges. The young MAs allowed to examine after 1763 would often have been the private tutors of the leading candidates, and accusations of partiality were common in the next decades. Of Isaac Milner, President of Queens’ College and much in demand as an examiner, it was said that he was impartial except in the case of men from his own college and from Emmanuel. Gunning described Milner as having all the qualities an examiner needed ‘praeter aequitatem’.67 We have already seen how Richard Watson, at least by his own account, suffered from such partiality. The mixture of oral and written elements in the Senate House Examination at the end of the eighteenth century can be seen in the detailed account printed in the University Calendar for 1802 (at that time in its infancy, and produced by private enterprise). Immediately after the University clock has struck eight, the names are called over . . . The classes to be examined are called out, and proceed to their appointed tables, where they find pens, ink, and paper provided in great abundance . . . The young men hear the propositions or Questions delivered by the Examiners; they instantly apply themselves . . . All is silence; nothing heard save the voice of the Examiners; or the gentle request of some one, who may wish a repetition of the enunciation. It requires every person to use the utmost despatch; for as soon as the Examiners perceive that any one has finished his paper, and subscribed his name to it, another Question is immediately given.68

The treatment of the Examination in the 1802 Calendar perhaps suggests a newly self-conscious pride. It may be that this was fuelled by comparison with the new Oxford examinations, set up by the statute of 1800.69 Certainly the picture of organized speed and silence in the examination hall must have presented a striking contrast with the public verbal battles taking place in Oxford. The significance of the examination for the university’s self-image is indicated by the publicity given to the annual ceremonial at which degrees were conferred. The Senior Wrangler (top of the first class) was awarded his degree first, in a

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separate ceremony, and was clearly regarded with considerable reverence. What makes the symbolic weight of this apotheosis of competition even clearer is the award of an informal title to the student who came out at the bottom of the honours list (i.e., last of the junior optimes). It was at about this time (c.1800) that he became known as the Wooden Spoon; at the degree ceremony a large spoon was lowered by his fellow-students from the gallery of the Senate House as he received his degree. What was being celebrated was not his (comparative) failure, but the competitive system itself, dominated by a ranking procedure of unparalleled intensity and precision.70 Competition between Oxford and Cambridge is a central theme in a letter published anonymously in 1808 by Benjamin Newton, Rector of Norton St Philip in Somerset, and designed to be bound up with the Cambridge University Calendar.71 The bulk of Newton’s book is, as his title declares, a list of those who had gained honours at Cambridge since 1754. This is prefaced, however, by a letter to a local friend who had consulted Newton on which of the ancient universities he should choose for his son. As a good Cantabrigian, Newton was firmly in favour of his alma mater, but he goes to some lengths to argue, rather than assert, his case. His main charges against Oxford are (1) that candidates are allowed to choose books on which to be examined—and so they direct the University, rather than the University directing them; (2) candidates are not examined all at the same time, but in separate groups in January, April and June; hence there is no chance to assess comparative merits; (3) candidates offering different numbers of books are examined according to different standards—again, proper comparison is impossible; and finally (4) ‘the not hanging up publicly the names of all who take their degrees, from the highest to the lowest, as is done in Cambridge, and greatly encourages the assiduity of the industrious, disgracing, at the same time, laziness, stupidity, and irregularity’.72 Newton’s charges throw into relief a fundamental conflict of institutional style. For the Oxonian examiners, fairness consisted in treating each candidate according to his lights. This meant taking in to account the amount he had read, his hearing (on which see below), in fact any factor of which they might be aware. Comparison with other candidates was inevitable, but the ranking of an individual in relation to the whole body of candidates was unnecessary. As we have seen, the competing conception of fairness was that all candidates received exactly the same treatment (we might call this formal, as opposed to functional fairness). But as we have also seen, in Cambridge the tide did not turn in favour of this conception until around 1840. The

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contrast between the two conceptions is clearly closely linked to, though not identical with, the contrast between oral and written examination. It is thus striking that Newton does not raise this latter contrast in his account. One reason is perhaps that he had been an undergraduate in the 1780s, when the formal conception had made relatively little impact. It may also be relevant that his talents lay in classics rather than in mathematics. Though he was himself a ‘name in the tripos’, in 1783, he was in the middle of the second class (senior optimes); but he won two classical medals, the Browne Medal and the second Chancellor’s Medal. Finally, one has to remember that in 1808 the surviving oral elements in Cambridge examinations may have blurred the perception of the oral versus written distinction when the procedures of the two universities were compared. In the end, the truth may be simply that, as Newton himself suggests, the failure of the Oxonians to produce an equivalent of the Cambridge Calendar left him in comparative ignorance of their procedures.

The Politics of the Examination: College Versus University

As the Senate House Examination moved away from the old model of orality and general participation, and as its Newtonian mathematical element came to dominate, a reaction occurred in some of the colleges. When John Jebb of Peterhouse proposed in 1772 that university examinations in non-mathematical subjects should be set up, his fiercest opponent was William Powell, master of the largest college, St John’s. Powell denounced the scheme as a ‘hasty secret trial based on no knowledge of candidates’.73 His terminology reveals the defence of collegiate Gemeinschaft against the threat of an overweening university Gesellschaft— a test without an informing social context of teaching and learning. Jebb’s proposals were in fact probably inspired by Powell’s own examination system at St John’s, instituted shortly after his election as master in 1765. Those examinations were largely, if not entirely oral: they took place publicly in the college hall and it was remembered that Powell was ‘always there to hear them’.74 In his proposal, Jebb took care to acknowledge Powell’s reform: ‘those half-yearly examinations, which Dr Powell, highly to his credit, hath introduced into that society over which he so worthily presides’.75

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The St John’s examinations are documented in a series of examinations books which vividly convey the fellows’ concern to be at once strict and fair.76 They also convey a determination to avoid premature classification, and thus perhaps to defend the collegiate ethos against the passion for ranking embodied in the university examination. It is often difficult to tell if examination is oral or written; the occasional reference to ‘answering’ is not conclusive. This is a problem with much of the evidence. Consider the case of Charles Darwin, who took the Previous Examination in March 1830. Like Arthur Hilton in the 1870s, he reported a general state of alarm among his contemporaries: ‘The men are in a dreadful plight, from fear and anxiety’. He passed his examination on the 24th, but it was a gruelling experience: ‘They are very strict, and ask a wonderful number of questions’.77 Were these oral or written? The official report of October 1829 which had made the examination more rigorous— hence in part the ‘fear and anxiety’ Darwin’s peers felt—had laid down a procedure which included translation, construing (an oral exercise in verbal analysis) and ‘answering printed questions’. Candidates were to be employed in translating and answering, and would then be called up individually to construe and explain passages from the books set. In this case, then, the procedure combined oral and written examination.78 For an earlier period (1772), however, we can be sure of the form of the examination when we read in the St John’s examinations book that ‘Perhaps Atley might also have been thought to deserve [a prize], if he had spoke louder, as much of his answers as could be heard was very good’.79 And as in the case of the Previous Examination, we can draw the same conclusion from the remark that ‘Bedel and Lord Blantyre construed the Classic well’.80 Another clear-cut case is that of a student who was promoted to a higher class in the Senate House Examination of 1787 ‘because it was considered his position was owing to extreme deafness’.81 It can not always have been easy to assess allegedly deaf students. William Tuckwell of Oxford remembered the case of ‘mad Harry Wilkins’, who matriculated in 1840: I remember his examinations in the Schools, his inability to hear questions, his cataclysmal answers when they reached him. Probably his deafness was calculated; Liddell, one of the examiners, remarked that the way to make Mr Wilkins hear was to question him on subjects which he knew.82

Occasionally something of the procedure employed can be glimpsed: ‘Gordon answered very well . . . the first time round in Butler’.83 In his vivid account of the examination undergone at St John’s by William Wordsworth in June 1788, B. R. Schneider describes how ‘the examiner,

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dictating orally, went on from one problem to the next as soon as the fast men had finished’.84 Even rarer is evidence of discussion between examiners, though on one occasion deafness was an issue here too. In the Previous Examination of 1843, Rooke of Magdalene College was plucked (failed, in Cambridge parlance), much to his surprise. He called on the examiners, one by one, to find out where the line had been drawn between pass and fail. His first target, Matthew O’Brien, referred him to his co-examiner Robert Leslie Ellis. But as Ellis confessed in his diary, ‘He passed in my papers & I am too deaf to have been able to follow entirely the marking out of the line. Poor devil—he haunted me all the evening’.85 Though there is no space in this paper to discuss school examinations, the St John’s evidence provides a convenient link to this separate but related area. The relationship is especially notable in the case of St John’s, since the college had a close link with Shrewsbury School, whose headmaster and second master it appointed until quite late in the nineteenth century. Samuel Butler, a fellow of St John’s, was appointed headmaster of the school in 1798, and by his retirement in 1836 had made it famous as a breeding ground for classical scholars, most of whom went to St John’s. Butler operated a superannuation system in which boys competed for promotion within and between forms each month. There was also a monetary prize system based on ‘merit marks’; this latter was introduced on his arrival at Shrewsbury, and unlike several other aspects of school organisation, which he copied from Thomas James of Rugby, seems to have been Butler’s own invention.86 Butler’s annual visits to Cambridge for information on the tripos examinations were compared by the Master of Trinity, Christopher Wordsworth, to those of a London milliner to Paris to discover the latest fashion in hats.87 Here we have school and university examinations operating as a linked pair, each reinforcing the other. And we can be fairly sure that Butler, whose undergraduate career had been spent at St John’s, was predisposed to use regular examinations by his experience of the college system.

The Role of the Individual

The abandonment of disputations by the moderators of 1839 seems to have run counter to the spirit of a Senate report of 1838, which laid down that the disputations should continue, though it also abolished the

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grouping system, allowing only for distinction between candidates for honours and for ordinary degrees. This illustrates the extent to which the examiners of a year could make policy on the hoof; similar cases at Oxford are discussed below. How important was individual initiative in the shift from oral to written assessment? So far several individuals have figured in significant changes in examination practice: Bentley in 1702, Laughton in 1710, Watson in 1763, Powell in 1765. To these, it has been claimed, we should add William Farish, the first serious student of mechanical engineering in Cambridge, who held the chair of Mechanics from 1811 until his death in 1837. In 1967, T. J. N. Hilken stated that as moderator in 1792, Farish had introduced the practice of assigning marks to individual questions.88 Keith Hoskin emphasised the importance of such a change, as a significant moment in the development of the fine-tuned marking system.89 In Hoskin’s neo-Foucauldian narrative, this event becomes a crucial one in the emergence of a modern system of control, of ‘normatising individuation’. It was ‘a most momentous step, perhaps the major step towards a mathematized model of reality . . . The science of the individual was now feasible . . . The blunt weapon of banding yielded to the precision tool of the mark’ (ibid).90 In his analysis, Hoskin relied on Hilken’s account: a short history of engineering at Cambridge written by the then secretary to the faculty. It is not footnoted, but sources are listed for each chapter. Of those given for the account of William Farish, only one makes any reference to marks. This is Farish’s obituary in the Christian Observer, and the relevant statement is this: ‘he was the means of introducing into the University of Cambridge the system of classifying the candidates for a degree according to the number of marks obtained at their examination’.91 There is no mention here of individual questions. It is in any case likely that impression marking continued to be used for some time; the senior moderator of 1836 claimed that his year of office was the first in which impression marking was not used at all.92 The only evidence before that date for mark allocation comes from J. M. F. Wright’s memoir Alma Mater, where he tells us that in the Senate House Examination: ‘Printed papers, containing each about twenty questions, are laid before each class, the solution of each question being previously determined upon by the examiners numerically. At the close of the examination these numbers are summed up for each examinee’.93 If the story of the individual mark were true, Farish would certainly be an apt hero. He was well known for his ingenuity and curious inventions; his self-acting trough for flushing water closets was exhibited at the

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educational exhibition in South Kensington in 1854, seventeen years after his death.94 The apparatus at his lectures included a kind of brass Meccano of rods, wheels and so on from which could be assembled a variety of devices. The recombinatory principle this embodies offers, indeed, a perfect parallel to the alleged marking principle. But perhaps this very parallelism should make us cautious. Farish was the kind of mildly eccentric don about whom myths tend to cluster, and until hard evidence is found, we must assume that the story of the unit mark is one such myth. The role of the individual depends in part on the room for individual initiative proved by the institutional system in which he or she works. In several cases mentioned above, it is clear that the delegated powers of proctors, moderators and examiners could be used quite freely by a determined office-holder. This freedom was finally curtailed in the 1840s in Cambridge, when examination boards were set up to ‘stabilize’ examinations. Before this, however, some extensions of the de facto curriculum might be created by the personal preference of an examiner in a single year. At Oxford, individual moderators had indulged their preferences for subject matter: ‘the importance of Aristotle is said to date from Dr Sheppard, examiner in 1806; of Butler, from Dr Hampden’.95 The account of the examinations quoted above from the 1802 Cambridge Calendar was based on a pamphlet circulated in 1772 by John Jebb of Peterhouse.96 Jebb certainly belongs in any list of individuals who made a difference to Cambridge examinations, but his reforming efforts of the early 1770s ended in failure. A crucial element in his proposals for annual university examinations, which would have included classics and religion, is that they were to have been taken by all students. This was aimed at the noblemen and fellow commoners who paid more and were exempted from many of the restrictions suffered by ordinary undergraduates. In proposing this change, Jebb was taking a path also followed by other reformers of the period. His failed reforms have to be seen in the context of, for example, the campaign to remove subscription to the Thirty-Nine Articles as a matriculation requirement. The influential minority of Cambridge men who supported this belonged to the latitudinarian wing of the Church of England, strong there as it was not in Oxford. Richard Watson, whose initiatives I described above, was one of these men, and was in fact a pupil of Jebb.97 The case of William Paley and his daring thesis on eternal pain belongs to the struggles between this liberal minority and the conservative Anglicans in Cambridge. Several of this group, after the failure of Jebb’s reform

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proposals in the mid-1770s, became Unitarians, as did Jebb himself, who joined the group based on the Essex Street congregation in London. In short, these late eighteenth-century moves towards a fairer system based on universalised principles of evaluation cannot be seen simply as the work of individuals. They arose from a coherent movement of social and religious reform which enshrined an ideological concept of the individual.

The Last Days of the Viva Voce

By the end of the eighteenth century, many exercises were ‘huddled’, i.e. carried out in a perfunctory ritual fashion. A common source for ready-made arguments was Thomas Johnson’s Quaestiones Philosophicae (1735). In addition, manuscript copies of sets of standard arguments were handed down from one undergraduate generation to the next: these were called ‘strings’ at Oxford and ‘arguments’ at Cambridge. In some cases these were still in use in the 1830s.98 William Whewell, later to be Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, kept his acts in 1815. Shortly beforehand he wrote to his friend George Morland, ‘it consists in a person getting up into a box to defend certain mathematical and moral questions, from the bad arguments and worse Latin of three men who are turned loose into a separate box to bait him with syllogisms’.99 Four years later, Whewell acted as moderator for the exercises, and reported to Morland that ‘the syllogisms were such as would make Aristotle stare, and the Latin would make every classical hair on your head stand on end’.100 By the 1830s, the disputations were on their last legs, enlivened only by an occasional outburst of playful virtuosity by a student able to manipulate oral Latin. Thus in 1832, the noted classical scholar Richard Shilleto had fun at the expense of his opponent when he stated the wellworn theme ‘Is suicide justifiable?’. ‘Quid est suicidium’, he asked, ‘nisi suum caesio?’ (What is suicide but the slaughter of pigs?). Shilleto was at Trinity College and his opponent belonged to its great rival St John’s, whose members were commonly nicknamed ‘hogs’. The Johnian’s Latin was poor, so he opposed Shilleto’s argument only with difficulty, and without seeing the joke. The moderator, however, did understand, and shared it.101 A comparable example can be found in Oxford a decade later: the young Frederick Temple answered Hanswell, an examiner,

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using phrases from a book published by his tutor Tait, who was also present as an examiner. Tait recognised his own words and looked at Hanswell, who failed to spot the quotations.102 In both cases, there are layers of complicity and exclusion; what is more, these cut across the institutional boundary between teachers and taught, examiner and examinee. Such anecdotes remind us of the interactional dynamics which were of the essence of oral examination, but which were hardly possible in a written test. A Cambridge anecdote from the 1860s illustrates these vividly: it concerns John William Strutt, later Lord Rayleigh, Professor of Natural Philosophy and a Nobel prizewinner. Strutt was known to be a brilliant mathematician (he went on to be senior wrangler in 1865), but his (oral) examiners at the multi-subject Previous Examination in 1863 ‘had some difficulty in finding a question he could answer, so that they could with decency let him pass’.103 Here the examiners saw their task as one of enabling a student of known ability to progress outside his favoured subject. The contrast between the economy of oral and written examinations, however, must be employed with caution. The written examination, after all, had its social relationships, muted though they were—the quiet requests for repeats or clarification of questions, the surreptitious actions of cheats.104 As for the emotional atmosphere of examination, the comments of the American Charles Bristed, on a college examination in 1841, encourage a nuanced approach to the contrast between oral and written examination: The pen-and-ink system of examination has been adopted partially at Oxford, and almost entirely at Cambridge,* in preference to the viva voce, on the ground, among others, that it is fairer to timid and different men. The advantage in this respect is somewhat exaggerated: the excitement, though not so great for the moment, is constant, and the scratching of some hundred pens all about you makes one fearfully nervous. Then, too, any little slips you may make in a viva voce may be allowed for, or may even escape observation, but litera scripta manet; everything you put down here will be criticised deliberately and in cold blood. Awful idea! * We had a little viva voce in this examination, perhaps equivalent to a twentieth or twenty-fifth part of it.105

The same theme is sounded by a much later commentator, writing anonymously in the Cambridge Review in 1910:106 By the twitching of shoulders and the responsive creak of chairs you may divine the intense mental concentration that surrounds you. An athlete frowns dreadfully . . . A black man lolls a purplish tongue . . . A red-haired youth is staring intently at a vacant wall . . . Somewhere else a nervous cough, apparently

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tuberculous, is the irritating symptom of intellectual effort . . . There’s a Jew sniffing audibly . . . The room is neither noisy nor silent, but an unceasing succession of small fidgettings which requires a foreground to make it tolerable. The ineffable torment of small unmeaning grunts, creaks, scrapes, grunts and rustlings, exasperates and exhausts one who merely sits in the midst of it for three hours.

Oxford: The Non-Identical Twin

I once passed a morning in the schools at Oxford and came away with a profound conviction of the intense injustice of using oral trials for the purpose of assigning relative rank for which men have toiled for years, and I do not think this conviction will leave me this side of the grave.107

As we have seen, the system of disputations at Oxford was very similar to that in Cambridge. The development of degree examinations, however, was rather different. The examination established by a statute of 1800 was to be entirely oral and to be held in public.108 Ranking by merit (‘the Cambridge system’) was to be practised, though for the first twelve candidates only (this was soon abandoned in favour of alphabetic ranking). There were however never more than four men to rank; apparently candidates were discouraged by the prospect both of a public challenge to the examiners and of public humiliation if the challenge failed. Rothblatt quotes suggestions of private examinations for dull candidates to avoid public shame.109 A reform of 1807 created only two classes, each listed in alphabetical order.110 Later on, the number of classes was increased. The maximum reached was five, of which the fifth was not publicly listed to avoid shaming its members. The examiners of 1832 felt that to be placed in the third or fourth class was ‘a degredation rather than a distinction’.111 The Oxford degree examination, then, was strikingly different from its Cambridge equivalent. It provided a public spectacle, and occasionally high drama. In 1810, Sir William Hamilton offered a long list of books for examination, and was grilled for twelve hours over two days in front of a large audience; the event concluded with the thanks of his questioners.112 In the 1820s, when the level of matriculations rose sharply at both Oxford and Cambridge, the oral examination system began to break down. The number of moderators was limited by statute,

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as was the number of candidates they could examine in a day. They found themselves working for almost half the year clearing the backlog of candidates. As a result, written examinations were introduced in the later 1820s, and from 1828 printed papers were used.113 The decisive shift towards written work came with the 1830 examination statutes, which allowed examiners ‘to try several persons at the same time, at answering the same questions’.114 Nevertheless, Oxford retained a considerable viva voce element in its degree examinations. Mark Curthoys has argued that this is related to the powerful local emphasis on religious testing.115 It is certainly true that questions on divinity loomed large in vivas, which always began with the New Testament: for this part of the examination, both examiner and examinee stood up. On the other hand, it may be that (as Durkheim might have said) it was the social group which was being worshipped, not the god. The oral emphasis, that is, belonged to the tradition of communal academic solidarity preserved by a continuing adherence to debate on logic: the Oxonian version of the medieval curriculum, from which Cambridge had diverged with its emphasis on mathematics.116 The viva voce examination, then, celebrated the solidarity of a High Anglican academic community whose religious centre of gravity was rather different from that of latitudinarian Cambridge. In 1882, when the new Examination Schools were opened, this shrine to written examination was decorated with a large bas relief of an oral examination.117 By this time it was rare for vivas to attract audiences, and this trend was reinforced after 1883, when final examinations were rearranged so that vivas took place in the summer vacation. The viva was dropped from classical moderations in 1884 and from Responsions (the Oxonian equivalent of the Previous Examination) in 1890, but at the beginning of the twentieth century, finalists were still being routinely vivaed in every subject except mathematics.118 The compulsory divinity examination (‘divvers’), which was not abolished till 1931, ended with a viva, and by the end of the century (as earlier in the 1820s) the examiners were overwhelmed by rising student numbers. In 1911 they managed to conduct eighty vivas a day, but the system was acknowledged to be a ‘blasphemous farce’.119 The poem ‘In memoriam examinatoris cuiusdam’ published by Arthur Godley in 1907 summed up the state of play.120 The dead examiner was himself to face a ‘final viva voce’ (conducted, of course, in another world). His sober assessments of examination papers produced letter marks—the poem mentions alpha, epsilon, and, written on his tomb, ‘␤—(?)’. The assessments themselves

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are however described in numerical terms: He did his estimate express In terms precise and weighty,— And Vice got 25 (or less), While Virtue rose to 80.

The contrast of intellectual style between Oxford and Cambridge shows up clearly in the marking schemes adopted in each place. The Cambridge system was based on a strict ranking of numerical marks. There were only two departures from this at university level. First, candidates who did not obtain honours were listed in alphabetical order. (This was applied in 1851 to the third class of the Classical Tripos, but abandoned in 1859 on the ground that it discouraged effort).121 Second, it was possible to gain more than one hundred per cent for a paper. This could be done if a candidate produced a more elegant solution to a problem than the standard example. This tradition renders rather less bizarre the action of Thomas Evans in giving one of his students 700 marks out of 500, though Evans, who had been prevented from sitting the Classical Tripos by his failure in mathematics, was surely driven by resentment at the mathematicians.122 In Oxford, marking was usually by Greek letters rather than numbers. As Hartog and Rhodes commented in 1936, this system, which they described as ‘common at Oxford, but not elsewhere’, reflected a concern with quality rather than quantity.123 The literal marking system can be related to the Oxonian concern to avoid intensive ranking. A committee of the university’s reigning Hebdomadal Board declared in 1829 that the standard for each class should be ‘absolute and positive’. Curthoys comments on this that ‘Theoretically, all the candidates could be in the first class, and individual classes could be (and sometimes were) empty’; and he suggests that this system encouraged the use of Greek letter grades.124 Alpha, beta and gamma provided broad distinctions, while at the same time celebrating the dominance of classics at Oxford, with which that of mathematics at Cambridge contrasted very sharply. As a practical system, however, the literal scheme could be, and was, employed to make fine distinctions, usually by adding pluses and minuses. It is notable that such schemes were also used in Cambridge outside the degree examination. The few surviving moderators’ books for the eighteenth century contain alphabetical marks. In a 1778 book, the marks are recorded as A, a, E, e; each with pluses and minuses for finer gradation.125 These marks, significantly, are for performance in the

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disputations. That literal marking was commonly used for these oral performances is suggested by Whewell’s statement to the 1850 Royal Commissioners that the disputations were abandoned because of problems in combining their marks with those for written papers.126 Surviving mark lists for Trinity College scholarships and fellowships for 1791 have mark ranges of a, a2, a⫹, a, a⫺, x2, x⫹, x, x⫺, o; and of ⫹aa, ⫹a, ⫹, ⫹⫺, ⫹o. Clearly there is an element of improvisation here, but the scheme is algebraic rather than literal, and in this case the papers are written. This collection in fact includes a cautionary notice warning that in the past ‘candidates have been in a rush and written badly’.127 The collegiate evidence at Cambridge, then, supports the linkage between oral examination and literal marking which dominates in Oxford. Bearing in mind the tutorial ethos identified at St John’s, Cambridge, we can also link both these to a concern with students as social beings, as opposed to the severely cognitive obsessions of the Cambridge mathematical examination. The only use of literal marking there at university level may have been in the oral element of the Previous Examination. In Hilton’s Vulture and the Husband-man, the Vulture asks his fellow-examiner, ‘If seven C’s or seven D’s We give to all the crowd, Do you suppose’ the Vulture said ‘That we could get them ploughed [failed]?’128

Different kinds of knowledge and genre, as well as of marking, were at home in oral or in written examinations. The 1850 Royal Commission on Oxford, in its historical retrospect, stated that after the 1807 reforms: The principal part of the examination seems to have been oral, and [the candidates’] success naturally depended rather on skill and accuracy in construing the classics than on acquaintance with Philosophy and History . . . the increase in the number of the Candidates had an effect which had not been foreseen. It became necessary that the Examination should be conducted more and more on paper, and therefore knowledge of Philosophy, together with skill in Composition, increased gradually in importance, and perhaps skill in Construing proportionably declined.129

Similar effects were noted in mathematics: Till the year 1820, the subjects of Examination were chiefly such as admitted of Geometrical treatment; and the Examination was conducted viva voce. As the various branches of Analysis were introduced into the Examinations, the viva voce Examination became of less and less importance, and is now almost a form.130

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‘Analysis’ refers to the continental algebraic tradition which was resisted in Cambridge, loyal to its Newtonian heritage, until the early years of the nineteenth century. Algebraic analysis began to infiltrate degree examinations around 1820, and probably increased pressure on the oral examinations. It may be this development which was referred to by the leading mathematical coach William Hopkins. In his evidence to the 1850 Royal Commission, Hopkins averred that ‘Viva voce was found to be hard to use to convey complex nuances of meaning in questions’.131 In his own evidence William Whewell, a former supporter of analysis who had backed away from it as he became more conservative, declared that ‘Viva voce examination catches out the crammer. It measures quality and competency while written papers produce classification’.132 Whewell wanted a return to oral examining and geometry because he saw them as the twin pillars of a pedagogic system which effectively tested ‘permanent’ rather than ‘progressive’ knowledge—eternal truths rather than research-led knowledge, which he believed was too unstable to form the basis of a liberal education.133 By 1850, Whewell was, one might think, in a minority: the day of the written examination had arrived, and since 1828 printed papers had been used. His nostalgia for oral examination could thus be seen as a longing for the return of an academic community in which fairness and mutual trust were relied on; in which moderators were trusted to address different questions to candidates of different abilities, and perhaps because the latter had been roughly pre-classified in the disputations, they would know how to pitch their questions.134 Whewell turns out, in fact, to have had considerable support for his views. In a series of reports issued between 1853 and 1860, a sub-committee set up by the Board of Mathematical Studies was almost unanimous in urging that oral examination be reintroduced into the Mathematical Tripos. They were convinced that it was a useful technique for appraising candidates whose reading was limited; it also helped to test ‘some powers of mind’ in more talented students. A third reason offered was that if the examination were conducted in public, ‘the preparation would be a useful discipline for much of the work of active life’.135 The Board hesitated at first to make a formal proposal, apparently unwilling to divert attention from other changes currently being discussed. In its report for 1860 it did finally make such a proposal, but this seems never to have been acted on. From the late eighteenth century, however, a different notion of fairness was developed by men like Jebb and Watson, one focused on the

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individual rather than the group. The result was that it came to be felt that the only fair procedure in comparing candidates was to give them all the same questions. It is not coincidental that the emergence of this principle in the Mathematical Tripos, as it was called after 1824, went hand in hand with the decline of the preliminary disputations. In his evidence to the Royal Commission, Henry Philpott stated that in the mid1820s ‘candidates for honours were divided into 6 divisions before the main examination, divided according to the exercises in the public schools, and different questions were for the most part proposed to the different classes. In 1827 the number of such classes was reduced to four, and the Examiners allowed to propose the same questions to different classes as they should think fit. Accordingly all the questions from books for the first 2 days, and all the Problems were made common to all the candidates’. This move, of course, was a major incentive to use printed question papers, which were introduced both in Cambridge and at Oxford in 1828. In both cases, the sheer numbers of students in the 1820s forced change: ‘In 1828, the plan of printing the Questions proposed to the Candidates was first introduced. This introduction was necessitated by the increasing numbers of Candidates, and its effect has been beneficial in giving a certain stability to the system of Examinations’.136 Printed papers in turn will have reinforced the assumption that questions should be standardized. As Philpott told the Cambridge Royal Commission, ‘[from 1838] the conviction appear[ed] to gain ground by degrees that the relative merits of different candidates can not be fully determined unless they are all tested by the same examination’.137

The Silent Sister: Trinity College Dublin

Trinity, like Oxford, was given new statutes in the 1630s by Archbishop Laud. Unlike Oxford, however, it clung to them in detail, and Laud’s injunctions on examinations were still being followed in the early nineteenth century. Another reason for discussing TCD as a comparative case is that unlike Oxford and Cambridge, it was not a collegiate university: indeed it was technically the only college of the University of Dublin. By 1800, it resembled Edinburgh and Glasgow in being a large urban institution, but differed from both them and from Oxbridge in being only minimally residential. By 1830, only about

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twenty per cent of its students were in college accommodation at any one time; while of the total student body, only about twenty-five per cent came from Dublin. The heart of the student career lay not in collegiate residence (for which there was no requirement) but in the termly examinations; and adequate performance in these could lead by itself to the award of a degree.138 Trinity held a wide range of examinations, beginning with an entrance examination: something almost unknown at Oxbridge.139 Students were examined every term throughout the four-year undergraduate course; in addition there were examinations for scholarships, for medals and for fellowships of the College. In 1830, when Cambridge had largely moved to written and indeed printed papers and Oxford was moving more slowly in the same direction, Trinity’s quarterly140 terminal examinations remained entirely oral, with the exception of the classical theme (written essay), set on one day and submitted the next. At the final (degree) examination, which was simply the last of a long series of such ordeals, those who had gained prizes in terminal examinations were tested more rigorously, and the top scorers in classics and science were each given a medal. The final hurdle, for those who chose to brave it, was the fellowship examination, conducted orally and in public over four days. This covered a wide range, but since the 1750s mathematics and physics had come informally to dominate it. The continuing dominance of oral examining is less surprising when one remembers that moves to written examination at Oxbridge took place at the level of university final degree examinations, in contrast with annual or semi-annual college tests. At Trinity, sole college in its university, students were tested every term: a system resembling Oxbridge college examinations rather than those for literae humaniores or scientia naturalis at Oxford, or the mathematical and classical triposes at Cambridge. Even before Bartholomew Lloyd’s reforming Provostship of 1831–7, there were protests against aspects of the Trinity examination procedures. In 1824 an anonymous pamphlet was published which both described and criticised the procedure of the fellowship examination.141 Its printing in both London and Dublin suggested a concern for a wider audience, and this is confirmed by its opening words: The rapid extension of education within the last thirty years in these countries, has created a considerable interest in the proceedings of our national seminaries. As knowledge has spread and deepened, public solicitude has extended from the schools to the colleges, and curiosity and inquiry are as alive to the details of a University Examination now, as they were to a debate in Parliament a century ago.

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The writer went on to explain that the examination was entirely oral, except for the fourth and last day, which was devoted to (written) themes: ‘These are however considered mere forms, and never influence the election’. A sign of their marginality was that the Senior Examiner was present, but not the other examiners. The questions to candidates are viva voce in Latin, and they are expected to answer them in the same manner. . . . not only in popular departments, Logic and Ethics, but also in Mathematics and Physics. The Candidates are not allowed the use of the pen, nor any means of describing geometrical constructions, nor of writing algebraic formulae; and are required to answer all . . . questions in general terms, and in Latin. These rules necessarily impose great restrictions upon both Examiners and Candidates, and it is to these restrictions that the principal defect of the examinations must be attributed.142

The writer helpfully records the questions asked in each two-hour examination; the numbers are typical of oral examination and provide a record of one side, as it were, of a stichomythic exchange. The History examination consisted of sixty questions, while in Ethics 122 were asked. This was clearly a quick-fire procedure, as in Ethics less than a minute per question and answer will on average have been available, and several candidates had to be interrogated. In 1828 this attack was followed up by an internal critic. Richard MacDonnell, one of the Fellows, published a letter to the Registrar in which he roundly criticised the undergraduate examinations.143 A particular target was the custom of dividing up the student body between the examiners, so that each group had only one examiner: as a result, two equally qualified candidates in different groups might be given very different marks. MacDonnell did not recommend the abolition of viva voce interrogation, but he urged that it should become a minor part of the examination, to be modelled on the Oxford examinations. The greater part of the examination, he suggested, should follow the pattern now well established at Cambridge: ‘Examination by printed lists’. This, he argued, would help to supply an uniformity of standard’.144 It would also keep the students occupied: At present the time in which any individual, not a candidate for honors, is occupied by either of the two Examiners, cannot out of the eight hours exceed ten minutes. Very often two hours pass without a question being put to a large portion of the division. The effect is, that many of the Students pass their time in conversation, drawing with their pencils, or cutting the tables. Our Examination loses much of its solemnity’.145

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With such comments we gain something of the atmosphere of the oral examination, as conducted for relatively large numbers.146 The TCD entrance and scholarship examinations were in this period entirely oral, and as the Quarterly Journal of Education pointed out, in the latter case 120 to 130 candidates had to be examined in eight hours: ‘far too little for any effective examination of well prepared men’.147 The height of the writer’s scorn, however, is reserved for the annual fellowship examination, which extended over four days, each day having two two-hour sessions. Here the complaints of the anonymous critic of 1824 are repeated: despite the range of subjects (logic, ethics, mathematics, physics, history, Latin, Greek and Hebrew), the whole examination was conducted orally in Latin. This produced the remarkable spectacle (the whole examination being held in public) of candidates translating passages from Latin literature into Latin. It was equally absurd, in its own way, that ‘the highest branches of mathematics and physics are required to be expounded viva voce without any use of paper whatever’. This was all the more remarkable since the over the previous seventy-five years or so, the examination had in practice become dominated by mathematics. In 1855 the Fellows altered the balance of marks to ameliorate this, but they also abolished the use of Latin. A proposal in 1856 to use written papers instead of viva voce questioning for the classical part of the examination was voted down.148 The situation at Trinity c.1830 might be described as an Oxonian time warp: the Laudian statutes were clung to, and the adjustments made at Oxford were absent. The de facto domination of the curriculum by mathematics and physics since the mid-eighteenth century in fact represented a shift to a Cambridge model, which had however taken place within a continuing straitjacket of Oxford-style regulations. The shift from a fourto a three-term year in 1834 was described in the Calendar as a move from Oxonian to Cantabrigian practice; the anonymous critic of 1824 had referred to the recent publication of the Cambridge Senate House examination papers, and was clearly using them as an implicit point of reference. An important part of the changes taking place in the first half of the nineteenth century, then, was the emergence of a public debate on assessment procedures which involved the comparison of different institutions. The ‘peculiar style, which may be discovered by nice examination and comparison with others’, on which Samuel Johnson commented in individuals, was now also to be identified and assessed in the case of the institutions which examined individuals.149

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Conclusion

The aims of the new examination were to raise and standardize performance, thus conceding the needs of serious-minded undergraduates who were willing to work methodically under supervision and have their scholarship submitted to a rigorous test.150

This innocuous-sounding pronouncement refers to the Senate House Examination (or as Judges anachronistically calls it, the Mathematical Tripos) of the 1750s. It has a definitive, indeed definitional air about it, almost as if it were extruded from an essence of examination. Yet in its assumption of students ready to work, of monolithic aims, in its exclusion of curricular and institutional politics, it is curiously ahistorical.151 The late-Victorian alarms about the effects of examinations had in a paradoxical sense only confirmed the contemporary sense of their being a perfection of method, the end of partiality. The machine was to be feared for an excess, not for a lack of efficiency. Though their work is much more nuanced, this perspective was to some extent shared by Montgomery and Roach.152 Since then there have been two major attempts to view examinations in a broader historical perspective. Sheldon Rothblatt brought to the subject a keen sense of the subtleties of social and cultural change in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century England; this enabled him to situate examination changes in wider contexts.153 Keith Hoskin sought to provide a Foucauldian account of examinations to stand alongside Foucault’s treatment of prisons and hospitals: a study of the emergence of the mark as a finely-tuned grading device.154 Hoskin’s work is stimulating and often perceptive, but as I have argued above, its evidential basis is occasionally shaky. What I have tried to add to the work of Rothblatt and Hoskin is a sense of the institutional contexts of examination history. It is here that comparison of those strikingly non-identical twins, Oxford and Cambridge, is so useful. In the most detailed account we have of early nineteenth-century university examinations, Rothblatt tells a largely Oxonian story, and as Hoskin has suggested, does not ‘explain the specifics of the prior Cambridge development’.155 Much more remains to be done in this area, particularly in the investigation of college examinations.156 This paper represents no more than a preliminary attempt to move the discussion forward. Evidently some of the evidence needs to be re-examined. We have seen in the case of Bentley’s ‘reform’

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(1702) and of the ‘fixed mark per question’ (1792) that an original assertion for which the evidence is either unavailable or misinterpreted is repeated until it becomes a fixed part of the received narrative. Future students of this area will need to be aware of the ideological or methodological agendas influencing the work of historians, both within and without the institutions whose stories they tell. A more recent study deserves separate comment, since its title may suggest a more restricted analysis than it actually provides. This is Andrew Warwick’s Masters of Theory: Cambridge and the Rise of Mathematical Physics.157 Warwick’s book includes, as one might expect, an account of the development of the Cambridge style of mathematics from the late eighteenth to the twentieth century. The subversion of a resolutely Newtonian curriculum through the introduction of continental analysis led to a high-intensity system of teaching and research which produced the work of Maxwell, Larmor and Eddington, and the founding and expansion of the Cavendish Laboratory. In addition, however, Warwick provides a pioneering analysis of the pedagogical developments of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries which underpinned this intellectual production and moulded its style. Central to these developments were the growth of an intensive system of private tuition (‘coaching’), and the emergence of an institutional world of written examination and rigorous, fine-tuned marking. This was a world in which students ambitious for success exercised both mind and body at a high level, vigorous physical exercise being seen as part of a unified process of preparation. The winners emerged as perhaps the best-trained mathematicians anywhere; the cost of the system was felt by those who suffered mental or physical breakdown, or both. Warwick provides a detailed and perceptive account of the contrast between this world and that of the oral examination which it superseded. Although he concentrates on the internal structure of the Cambridge system, he includes comparisons between Cambridge and continental universities. A particular strength is his ability to generalize, as a methodological issue, the analysis of the influence of pedagogy on research style: demonstrated in convincing detail for Cambridge mathematics, it can and should be applied to other places and other subjects.158 At this point, it may be useful to list the factors which have been most important in the shift from oral to written examinations.159 First, the general shift in the second half of the eighteenth century away from socio-moral assessments of members of status groups, toward purely cognitive assessments of individuals.160 For most of the eighteenth

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century, it was regarded as normal for honorary optimes to be inserted high in the list at Cambridge (as with Laughton in 1710–11). The decline of this practice, and its subsequent expunging from the official record in the university calendar in the 1790s, indicate a distinct shift in notions of social worth and assessment. This is also evident in the moves of the 1770s to make superior grades of undergraduate (noblemen and fellow commoners) subject to examination discipline. We might link to this the transfer of control of the process of assessment from the community of MAs, and their representatives the Proctors, to the moderators. The latter, originally the proctors’ deputies, became examiners in sole charge of proceedings, while the involvement of MAs, who had once been able to join in the interrogation of candidates, gradually disappeared.161 Paradoxically, a similar development affected the moderators, whose own individual freedom of decision on the running of exams was itself curtailed in favour of examining boards. The power vested in the community of MAs passed to a specialised body of examiners. This shift was entangled with religious and political conflicts which affected Cambridge, where the forces of reform were well represented, much more than at Oxford. The reforming efforts of Jebb and Watson in the 1760s and ’70s belonged to a concerted and consistent campaign which began with the petition against subscription to the Thirty-Nine Articles. Exactly how the shift from ascribed to achieved social status (as both fact and ideology) was related in different institutional settings to the shift from oral to written testing is something which remains to be investigated. Second, the content of the knowledge tested played an important part. The precocious emergence of the rigorous marking system of Cambridge took place in the home of Newtonian mechanical materialism, and dates from the latter’s emergence to dominance there in the first half of the eighteenth century. Subject matter and assessment by precise rank order had an elective affinity. The point is highlighted if we compare Cambridge, dominated by mathematics, with Oxford, where classics held sway. The home of humane letters (literae humaniores, or ‘Greats’) used Greek letters for marking. Oxford’s association with the public sphere of elite culture helps to explain the minimal public ranking—alphabetic order within classes, and indeed alphabetic marking of examinations. The rhetoric of display was part of the culture of gentlemanly orality, a culture which, as we have seen, persisted longer in Oxford than did its attenuated counterpart in Cambridge.162 This was a republic of equals, or at least of potential equals. The greater emphasis on culture and character

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at Oxford was paralleled in the combined moral and intellectual status of the tutorial relationship. The Cambridge system, by contrast, separated moral tutors from ‘supervisors’ and ‘directors and studies’.163 As we have seen, the later shift to continental (algebraic) analysis at Cambridge in the early nineteenth century also affected methods of assessment, working as it did against effective viva voce examination. Even within subjects, some kinds of test were difficult or impossible to carry out orally. When they became popular, the oral nature of the examination was eroded and eventually disappeared. We have seen the effect of essays and Latin proses at Oxford in this respect. A similar process can be observed at Westminster School, where the debate between Opponent and Respondent was kept alive by the ‘Challenges’ conducted for election to scholarships. Pairs of pupils interrogated each other on the translation and analysis of set texts, the victor winning the scholarship. The long history of Challenges reached its final phase in 1855, when Latin prose composition was introduced. The last occasion on which oral competition was wholly decisive was in 1873; by the end of the century, the contest was entirely conducted through written papers.164 Third, rising student numbers, first in the 1820s and then at the end of the century, had a significant influence in swamping viva voce procedures.165 The shift away from general MA involvement meant that large numbers of students had to be examined by small numbers of examiners. It is in the nature of oral examination that an interrogator can only address one examinee at a time. In Oxford in the 1820s, the statutory restrictions on numbers examined led to the collapse of the system. Seventy years later, another rise in student numbers led to the ‘blasphemous farce’ of hasty and perfunctory divinity vivas.166 The shift from oral to written can thus be compared with other qualitative changes prompted by quantitative increases.167 Fourth, both oral and written examinations were subject to the politics of the institutional contexts in which they took place. These included conflicts between colleges, and between college and university interests. In the period I have considered, the universities were slowly recovering from their marginalization by the colleges earlier in their history. Here the interests of larger and smaller colleges were very different; a fact especially noticeable at Cambridge, where St John’s and Trinity were many times larger than their smallest rivals. At the time of Powell’s reforms, in the mid-1760s, St John’s was the largest college in Cambridge. In many ways, it would be more helpful to employ three categories: small college, large college, university. In Oxford, though colleges differed in

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size, the differentials were smaller; something which clearly has much to do with Oxford’s being a more collegiate university. An interesting contrast is provided by the new University of London, founded in 1836 as an examining institution with two colleges, the already-existing University and King’s Colleges. As one might expect from its metropolitan, largely bourgeois clientele, the new university followed Cambridge (written) practices rather than those of Oxford.168 In this paper I have tried to outline overall trends in the shift from oral to written examination, while allowing for the local effects of institutional structures and ideologies. It is clear that the written examinations introduced at Cambridge in the eighteenth century became a model for other British universities in the 1820s and 1830s. If we look further afield, the chronology of change may suggest a similar pattern. For example, the first mention of written examinations at Yale has been dated to 1830, at Harvard to 1833.169 It is not at all clear that these events were influenced by British practice. The influence of Cambridge methods on Jefferson’s new University of Virginia, however, is beyond doubt. The techniques of written examination were carried there by Cambridgeeducated men appointed as founding professors.170 Within Britain, as we have seen, the importation of examining practices was not uncommon: Oxford gradually adopted Cambridge techniques, while Trinity College Dublin was urged to follow both the English universities. James Booth, educated at TCD in the 1830s, was a keen advocate of oral examination in the discussions of the Society of Arts.171 The examinations at the East India Company’s college at Haileybury, whose staff were mostly Cambridge men, were conducted, from 1807, by written papers.172 In some cases, change was brought about by the movement of individuals. At Glasgow, the professor of law appointed in 1855 used oral examination, but the first professor of conveyancing, appointed in 1861, introduced written examinations, following the lead of the first professor of the subject at Edinburgh, elected in 1856.173 Only in the second half of the nineteenth century did Oxford and Cambridge collaborate, when schools examination bodies were set up. Attempts to formulate common rules for assessment were apparently obstructed by the difference in their procedures for reconciling disagreements between examiners. The Cambridge Syndicate’s first secretary, Henry Roby, remarked in his memoirs that in Oxford these were called ‘idiosyncrasies’, in Cambridge ‘personal equations’. The terminological difference is characteristic of the difference of intellectual style between the two universities.174 In his evidence to the 1850 Royal Commission, the celebrated mathematical

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coach William Hopkins singled out ‘definiteness’ as leading characteristic of the Cambridge style. Of the textbooks in use there, he stated that: Every subject is divided into as many separate propositions, formally enunciated, as it will admit of. Great perspicuity in details is thus secured, but generally at the expense . . . of a comprehensive exposition of general views and principles . . . . The character of the French elementary works [written for the Ecole Polytechnique] . . . is exactly the reverse of our own in the points above mentioned, as is also their system of examination, which, I believe, is entirely viva voce.175

Hopkins had earlier made much the same point about examinations, adding that the reintroduction of oral examinations would offer a solution; though he recognised that it would be a considerable task to hold such examinations for about 150 candidates each year.176 The contrast Hopkins points to is strikingly similar to the contrast which has been identified between Oxford and Cambridge.177 What makes it all the more interesting is that he is comparing the mathematical teaching at two institutions. The contrast is thus analytically independent of the contrast between classical Oxford and mathematical Cambridge: it relates only to the kind of assessment employed. Several of the points which emerge from the above evidence are neatly summarised in letter of 24 March 1838 from J. W. Lubbock to the Earl of Burlington on the conduct of University of London Arts degree examinations.178 Lubbock wrote to argue against the use of any viva voce element in the examinations; defining viva voce examination as ‘the proposing of questions verbally to each of the candidates separately, as is practised at Oxford, and also on the Continent’. He offered six arguments against the practice: 1. The University charter required that candidates’ proficiency should be stated in relation to that of other candidates. This could only be done if all candidates answered the same questions: impossible in viva voce examinations. (Presumably Lubbock was thinking of the vagaries involved in using multiple examiners.) 2. Both candidates and examiners would be inconvenienced by the impossibility of fixing precise time limits for oral examinations. 3. Examiners would need to stay for a considerable time; this would make it hard to find suitable examiners, and expensive if they could be found. 4. The Senate in a new institution like the University needs to know what is being asked in examinations; this would hardly be possible unless the questions are on paper.

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5. Students would find it hard to learn in advance what is involved in examinations—something they can do from past papers for written examinations. 6. It would be difficult to draw up rules for regulating oral examinations. The Oxford Calendar is notable for giving no information on the conduct or length of examinations. This is an interesting mixture of the pragmatic, the administrative and the ideological; the last category needing to be assessed, inter alia, in relation to Lubbock’s own mindset.179 At one point he admits that oral examination has its virtues, as for instance in promoting ‘readiness and presence of mind’.180 But for Lubbock, oral examination can only led to candidates’ being ‘classed’, not to having their proficiency ascertained ‘in relation to that of other Candidates’.181 It is clear that the changes identified above formed part of larger social and cultural developments.182 They belong to the wider history of orality and literacy, with which the history of educational institutions has been variously entangled.183 They can also be looked at as phases in the emergence of systems of power and control, linked to developments in accounting, business, prisons and hospitals. Here a central concept is the Foucauldian notion of ‘normatising individuation’.184 The crucial elements in the changes described above, however, are related to conceptions of individuals and the way in which they should be assessed. The individual emerges from a social nexus in which social status is a vital determinant of the way he or she is treated, and in which he is to a large extent a known quantity, to become a bearer of intellect which is to be assessed on a par with any other.185 The differential treatment of nobles, fellow commoners and ‘honorary optimes’ fades away in the face of the examination machine, which treats all candidates equally. Outstanding achievement by the nobly born becomes something unusual which attracts comment.186 This is surely at least a partial explanation for the remarkable decision at Cambridge in 1881 to allow female students to sit tripos examinations, and to have their results published, albeit in separate lists.187 What is now a banal assumption, that all candidates should be treated equally, was highly contentious in the late eighteenth century, when John Jebb narrowly failed to introduce into the university examinations for all students, including nobles and fellow commoners.188 In that case, an Enlightenment agenda reinforced by political and religious radicalism was being proposed, and the narrowness of Jebb’s

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defeat indicates the degree to which the relatively low-church and rationalist academic body differed from that in Oxford, where Jebb’s nearest counterpart, John Napleton, was very much a conservative reformer.189 The whole question of the class basis of recruitment to Oxford and Cambridge is clearly relevant here. This is a notoriously thorny area, both because a large minority of students cannot be classified from the surviving records and because of the difficulty of interpreting the often vague contemporary categories. One point, however, does seem clear: that there was a resurgence of aristocratic entry to Oxford c.1765–1835.190 (It might tentatively be suggested that this resonated with the emphasis on confident public display in Oxford oral examinations in the first third of the nineteenth century). In the oral tradition, individuals were usually interrogated by individuals; when printed papers were introduced, the focus shifted from such one-to-one relationships to the standardized testing of groups. The crucial turning points are reflected in the comments of Henry Philpott to the 1850 Royal Commission on Cambridge, reported above: ‘the view gradually gained ground that the relative merits of different candidates can not be fully determined unless they are all tested by the same examination’.191 Philpott was referring to the late 1830s; the same decade in which Oxford had begun ‘to try several persons at the same time, at answering the same questions’, as allowed, in the interests of coping with a growing workload, by the 1830 examination statutes. We can locate in the 1830s, then a changing conception of ‘equality’ and ‘fairness’ which emerged from the interaction of abstract notions of the way individuals should be treated, institutional pressures on examiners—and perhaps a changing political context in the wake of the 1832 Reform Act. In the half century after this period, a climate of patronage gave way slowly to a climate of access via examination. But although individuals might be treated equally, they were of course usually unequal— as the published marks showed. They were also different from one another in a way that made them more than passive recipients of marks: they made choices. Greats students at Oxford in effect declared which class of degree they were aiming for by the number of set books in which they chose to be examined. In Cambridge, the Mathematical Tripos by the 1850s offered a mass of papers and questions through which ordinary and advanced students took very different routes: ‘Two men taking the tripos the same year could answer very different examinations’.192 In an oral examination, the particular needs and abilities of an individual candidate might be brought out by the

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examiners—if they saw them, and chose to address them. In a written examination, the candidate was alone with the questions, but could (often) choose between them. In both cases, the examiner had the initiative, but the candidate could, in different ways, influence the outcome. Department of Classics, Ancient History and Egyptology University of Wales Swansea Swansea SA2 8PP, UK

REFERENCES * My thanks to Gill Sutherland for inviting me to write the original version of this paper, and to the following for assistance of various kinds: Jacky Cox, Mark Curthoys, John Fauvel, Jonathan Harrison, Keith Hoskin, James Lawson, Elisabeth Leedham-Green, Richard Luckett, Alice Millea, David McKitterick, Robert McDowell, James Moore, Susan Parkes, Sheldon Rothblatt, Jonathan Smith, Keith Tribe, Malcolm Underwood, Graham Whitaker and Ben Wilbrink. 1. James Bowell, Life of Samuel Johnson (Oxford, 1927), ii. 212. 2. Robert J. Montgomery, The Rise of Examinations as Administrative Devices (London, 1965); John P.C. Roach, Examinations 1850–1900 (Cambridge, 1971). For the backlash of criticism, see e.g. Roach, Examinations, 257–86. 3. Contemporary references to ‘oral examination’ are most likely to refer to the activities of dentists. Hence the necessary additional specification in the title of a study of dental education: H.A. Ryding and H.J. Murphy, ‘Employing Oral Examinations (Viva Voce) in Assessing Dental Students’ Clinical Reasoning Skills’, Journal of Dental Education 63 (1999), 682–7. 4. H.D. Buchanan-Dunlop (ed.), Records of the Royal Military Academy, 1741–1892 (Woolwich, 1892); Frederick G. Guggisberg, The Shop. The Story of the RMA (London, 1900); Trevor Hearl, ‘Military examinations and the teaching of science’, in Roy MacLeod (ed.), Days of Judgement (Driffield, 1982), 109–51. The annual public viva voce examinations at the East India Company’s military academy, Addiscombe, were also carefully staged: there is a vivid description in H.M. Vibart, Addiscombe, Its Heroes and Men of Note (London, 1894), 231–4. 5. An order of precedence according to seniority and status of degrees status existed at Cambridge, and was used to determine, e.g. which member of a committee was to chair its meetings. This should be distinguished from the Ordo Senioritatis which from 1499 to 1747 listed the graduates of each year in (rough) order of ability, though the basis of assessment is unclear. See Victor Morgan, with Christopher Brooke, A History of the University of Cambridge, Vol. II, 1546–1750 (Cambridge, 2004), 518. A similar system obtained at Oxford. The discussion of both by Samuel E. Morison is still useful: Precedence at Harvard College in the Seventeenth Century (Worcester, Mass., 1932).

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6. Robert P. Edgcumbe (ed.), The Works of A. C. Hilton together with his Life and Letters (Cambridge, 1905), 59. 7. Benjamin H. Hall, College Words and Customs (Cambridge, Mass., 1856), 355–6; Morris Marples, University Slang (London, 1950), 83–4; Sheldon Rothblatt, The Modern University and its Discontents (Cambridge, 1997), 190–200; Christopher A. Stray, ‘Introduction’, Slang in Nineteenth-Century England (5 vols, Bristol, 2002), i. v–xviii. 8. Both of Hilton’s poems were reprinted in Edward E. Kellett (ed.), A Book of Cambridge Verse (Cambridge, 1911), 283–8. ‘The Heathen Pass-ee’ (1872) is modelled on Bret Harte’s ‘The Heathen Chinee’ (1871). 9. For a brief discussion of the proportions of honours and pass students at Cambridge through the nineteenth century, see Christopher A. Stray, ‘Renegotiating Classics: the politics of curricular reform in late-Victorian Cambridge’, Echos du Monde Classique/Classical Views 42 (ns 7) 3, 449–70, at 458 n. 23. The percentage of non-honours students had probably sunk below fifty per cent by the early twentieth century. When Sydney Roberts reached Pembroke College in 1907, ‘of the eighty-odd freshmen of my year just under half were Pass men’. Sydney C. Roberts, Adventures with Authors (Cambridge, 1966), 3. 10. Many such schemes were promoted by their (self-proclaimed) inventors in the 19th century. For a brief survey, see A.E. Middleton, All about Mnemonics (London, 1885), 23–48. 11. The ‘Paley Card’ is mentioned in George O. Trevelyan’s Horace at the University of Athens (1861), reprinted in his Interludes in Verse and Prose (London, 1905), 23. The full title of Paley’s work was Natural Theology, or Evidences of the Existence and Attributes of the Deity, Collected from the Appearances of Nature. 12. ‘Floor’ ⫽ finish off: Cambridge slang for examination prowess. Tom Cribb (1781–1848), the champion boxer of England, had floored his opponents more literally. 13. For a study of the informal negotiation of marks by staff and students, see Howard S. Becker, Blanche Geer, Everett C. Hughes, Making the Grade: The Academic Side of College Life (New York, 1968). 14. Blue paper was supplied to discourage cheating, the colour distinguishing it from any written-on sheets a candidate might import into an examination. (Such paper characteristically has white flecks showing through the blue dye.) When the Society of Arts started its examinations in 1856, it supplied answer sheets with its name printed at the top, ‘so as to leave space for the answer to be written on the same sheet’—in reality, surely, to prevent cheating. Frank Foden, The Examiner. James Booth and the Origins of Common Examinations (Leeds, 1989), 138. 15. In Trinity College, the last viva voce exam was held in 1861. It is perhaps not coincidental that in the same year the college received new statutes, following the report of the Royal Commission of 1850. 16. Damian R. Leader, A History of the University of Cambridge, Vol. I: the University to 1546 (Cambridge, 1988), 95–107. An interesting example of

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17.

18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

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a student not coping, which also reminds us of the role of written texts in oral examination, is that of Samuel Parr, who in 1781 kept two acts at Cambridge for the degree of LLD. His biographer reported that ‘These were fine compositions but not having a complete command over his papers, he bungled in referring to them, and thus embarrassed the disputations’. The Works of Samuel Parr, with Memoirs of his Life and Writings, and a Selection from his Correspondence, ed. John Johnstone (8 vols, London, 1828), i. 173. Speaking and writing might also be combined by examiners: J. B. Bury, when examining women viva voce in Oxford, wrote impromptu descriptions of the candidates on the spot. (Aptly, he wrote in Sapphic metre. It was perhaps also apt that a Cambridge man imported writing into an Oxford oral examination.) N. H. Baynes, A Bibliography of the Works of J. B. Bury . . . with a Memoir (Cambridge, 1929), 51. See Christopher Wordsworth, Scholae Academicae (Cambridge, 1877), 33–42; William W. Rouse Ball, History of the Study of Mathematics at Cambridge (Cambridge, 1889), 174–8; Ben R. Schneider, Wordsworth’s Cambridge Education (Cambridge, 1957) 31–2. Henry Latham, The Action of Examinations (Cambridge, 1877), 98. Andrew Warwick, ‘A mathematical world on paper: written examinations in early nineteenth-century Cambridge’, Studies in the History and Philosophy of Modern Physics 29B.3 (1998), 295–320, at 300–1; idem, Masters of Theory: Cambridge and the Rise of Mathematical Physics (Chicago, 2003), 118–29. Warwick’s book, which I discuss in my Conclusion, is an impressive analysis of the growth of an institutionally-specific pedagogical system which led to a distinctive intellectual style in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. William T. Costello, The Scholastic Curriculum at Early SeventeenthCentury Cambridge (Cambridge Mass., 1958), 15. Morgan, History, 129. The absence of any reference to Costello’s Scholastic Curriculum in this volume is surprising. College Life in the Time of James I as Illustrated by an Unpublished Diary of Sir Symonds D’Ewes Bt MP (London, 1851), 104–5. For a remarkable example, a disputation held in 1614 before James I in which the king himself intervened, see Costello, Scholastic Curriculum, 24–6. Jan Morris, The Oxford Book of Oxford (Oxford, 1978), 128. The 1713 speech was afterwards published. A speech published in 1733 was not in fact delivered. For these and further details, see Vivien H. H. Green, ‘The University and social life’, in Lucy S. Sutherland and Leslie G. Mitchell (eds), Eighteenth-Century Oxford (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. V, Oxford 1986), 351–2; and in general, Kristine Haugen, ‘Imagined Universities: Public Insult and the Terrae filius in Early Modern Oxford’, History of Universities 16 (2001), 1–31. A comprehensive account of the Act and Tripos Verses by Dr John Hall is to be published by the Cambridge Bibliographical Society. E.g. the ‘Address to Liberty on the fall of the Bastille, July 14, 1789’. For this and other eighteenth-century verses see Christopher Wordsworth, University Life in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, 1874), 231–44.

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28. At St John’s College they were last delivered, from written texts, in the 1850s: H. F. Jones, Samuel Butler. A Memoir (London, 1920), i. 46–7. 29. Henry Gunning, Reminiscences of Cambridge (Cambridge, 1855), i. 74. 30. For examples see William W. R. Ball, History of the Study of Mathematics at Cambridge (Cambridge, 1889), 166–9. For earlier disputations, see Costello, Scholastic Curriculum, 14–31. 31. Richard Watson, Anecdotes of Bishop Watson (2 vols, 2nd edn, London, 1818), 30. 32. Keith Hoskin, ‘The examination, disciplinary power and rational schooling’, History of Education 8 (1979), 135–46, at 139–40. 33. Cambridge Praelections 1906 (Cambridge, 1906). 34. For a detailed discussion, see Christopher A. Stray, ‘Flying at dusk: the 1906 Praelections’, in idem (ed.), The Owl of Minerva: the Cambridge Praelections of 1906 (Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, supplementary vol. 28, Cambridge, 2005). 35. For a blow-by-blow account of a 2001 viva voce examination by the examinee, see http://urchin.earth.li/~sax/biochem/vivas/niall.html. 36. The arrival of female students after 1870 led to debate on the proprieties of assessment. Most of this is not germane here, but it is worth mentioning that the pugnacious William Ridgeway complained in 1920 that good-looking female students had an unfair advantage in oral examinations. He even claimed that a successful female one year had married one of her examiners the next year: Cambridge University Reporter, 28 October 1920, 197–8. 37. Ball, History, 193. 38. See, for example, Hoskin, ‘The examination’; John Gascoigne. ‘Mathematics and meritocracy: the emergence of the Cambridge mathematical tripos’, Social Studies of Science 14 (1984), 547–84; idem, Cambridge in the Age of the Enlightenment: Science, Religion and Politics from the Restoration to the French Revolution (Cambridge, 1989); Warwick, Masters of Theory. 39. James H. Monk, Life of Richard Bentley (2nd edn, 1833), i. 159–60; cf. Ball, History, 81. 40. John Byrom, The Private Journal and Literary Remains (Manchester, 1854–5), 5–6; quoted by Wordsworth, Scholae Academicae, 347. 41. Richard Cumberland, Memoirs of Richard Cumberland (London, 1806), 106–110, quoted by Wordsworth, Scholae Academicae, 344–6. Cumberland was first quizzed on ‘the ancient empires of the world’, then given a sheet of Greek written by his examiner, and told to turn it into Latin or English. 42. It is worth noting that only two of the eight senior fellows actually took part in Byrom’s examination. 43. Squire’s complaint is in Trinity College Library, B.17.15/18. 44. William W. R. Ball, Notes on the History of Trinity College Cambridge (London, 1899), 114. 45. Ibid, 99. Themes seem always to have been written compositions: see Foster Watson, The English Grammar Schools to 1660 (Cambridge, 1908), 442–37;

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46.

47. 48.

49. 50.

51.

52.

53.

54.

55. 56.

57.

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Ian Michael, The Teaching of English from the Sixteenth Century to 1870 (Cambridge, 1987), 309–16. Rouse Ball gives no source; there is no mention of the matter in his Cambridge Papers (Cambridge, 1918), later enlarged and revised as Cambridge Notes (Cambridge, 1921). Rouse Ball gives no source for this quotation, nor have I been able to find anything relevant in the Trinity College or Cambridge University archives. He explains in his preface that his book does not pretend to be a scholarly account, for which the reader will soon be able to turn to his colleague A. H. T. Boughey’s history of the college. This was never published; the surviving text (Trinity College Library, O.6, 2a–c, 3) contains no relevant information. Caput XII (De sociorum electione): ‘quarto in scribendo schemate aliquo, et in carminibus componendis’. To ‘make theme’ seems always to refer to the writing of a text, though the text could subsequently be spoken ‘without book’ and the writer quizzed on it (Watson, English Grammar Schools, 422–37). In the present case, the excusing of the candidates for theme-making makes it clear that this was a private activity, and so presumably involved writing rather than speaking. Richard Bentley, The Present State of Trinity College (London, 1710), 10, 14. See the copy of the College Statutes owned by Christopher Wordsworth, Master 1820–41 (Trinity College Library, N.8.106), which indicate that the statute was ‘read only as far as iudicaverint’. The 1560 statutes, amended in 1844, were replaced only in 1861. The function of the Ordo was to facilitate decisions on succession to university posts; in this sense, it can be compared with the seniority lists at the Royal Military Academy. Ball, History, 188 n. 2; The works, theological, medical, political, and miscellaneous, of John Jebb, ed. John Disney (3 vols, London, 1787), ii. 290; The Correspondence of Horace Walpole, ed. Wilmarth S. Lewis, (vols 13–14, New Haven, 1948), 78. Christopher A. Stray, Classics Transformed: Schools, Universities, and Society in England, 1830–1960 (Oxford, 1998), 21 (where the reference to J. A. W. Gunn’s Beyond Liberty and Property should be to page 29). In this period, several senior officers of the university had the right to nominate ‘honorary senior optimes’ for the list. The custom died out only toward the end of the eighteenth century. Gascoigne, ‘Mathematics and meritocracy’, 574. In the light of Watson’s antagonism to St John’s, it is interesting to note that as soon as William Powell became master of that college in 1765, he introduced college examinations. Powell may have seen the division into university-wide ability classes as an encroachment on the previous collegebased system. (See below for Powell’s antagonism to John Jebb’s proposals for a university examination in the 1770s.) Richard Watson, Anecdotes of Bishop Watson (2nd edn, London 1818), i. 29–30.

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58. Denys A. Winstanley, Unreformed Cambridge (Cambridge, 1935), 350 n. 25. 59. ‘Optime’ came from the moderators’ closing words to participants in the acts, when choice of words indicated a rough grading: ‘optime disputasti’ ⫽ ‘well disputed!’, ‘optime quidem . . .’ ⫽ ‘very well indeed’. ‘Poll’ came from the Greek hoi polloi, the many; though the poll men were in this case in a minority. 60. Peter Searby, in his History of the University of Cambridge, Vol. III: 1750–1870 (Cambridge, 1997), 178 states that the number of groups was reduced from eight to six, but I believe the references in the sources to six groups are to the honours men: the eight groups minus the two of hoi polloi (see e.g. Winstanley, Unreformed Cambridge, 52. The account in the Cambridge University Calendar for 1802, xx–xxi, which is based on Jebb’s 1772 description, refers to eight classes: six plus the hoi polloi. James M. F. Wright, in his Alma Mater; or, Seven Years at the University of Cambridge, by a Trinity-Man (London, 1827), ii. 74, has six classes for honours in 1819. Similarly G. B. Airy said in 1823 that the honours candidates were in six classes (Ball, Cambridge Notes, 293). 61. Viva voce examinations were retained in the faculties of Divinity, Law and Physic until the introduction of new statutes in 1858: Henry Latham, The Action of Examinations (Cambridge, 1877) 121. There is a useful appendix on the disputations of the period in Charles Wesley, A Guide to Syllogism: or, a Manual of Logic; Comprehending an Account of the Manner of Disputation now Practised in the Schools at Cambridge; with Specimens of the Different Acts (London, 1832), 97–133. 62. The grouping is named after the form of the published list; similarly the name of the examination itself, later called the Mathematical Tripos, was derived from the published list, known in the later eighteenth century as ‘the Tripos’: see Christopher Wordsworth, Scholae Academicae (Cambridge, 1877), 16–21. 63. Ball (Cambridge Notes, 170–1) has ‘c.1770’, but this is clearly an approximation based on the date of Jebb’s 1772 account. 64. These were also offered to classes 3–4 in 1800, and to classes 5–6 in 1818: Ball, Cambridge Papers, 272, 281, 291. They were known as ‘window problems’. Why carried to window seats? Perhaps because this was where individual candidates had previously been quizzed by MAs who chose to intervene in the examination. But in the middle of winter, before the days of gas lighting, perhaps the window seats were also the best places for inspecting printed papers. 65. They appear in the lists from 1753, though from 1773 at the foot of the list in a group. From 1797 the power was not exercised. The early University Calendars (publication began in 1796) did not print their names, which were restored to the historical record by Joseph R. Tanner’s Historical Register of the University of Cambridge (Cambridge, 1917). 66. On this shift see Sheldon Rothblatt, ‘The student sub-culture and the examination system’, in Lawrence Stone (ed.), The University in Society

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67.

68. 69.

70.

71.

72. 73. 74.

75.

76.

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(Princeton, 1975), i. 247–303; idem, Tradition and Change in English Liberal Education (London, 1976). ‘Except fairness’: Henry Gunning, Reminiscences of the University, Town and County of Cambridge since the Year 1780 (2nd edn, London, 1855), i. 85. Queens’ and Emmanuel were both centres of Evangelicalism in Milner’s time; he himself was a leading Evangelical. Benjamin C. Raworth, Cambridge University Calendar for the Year 1802 (Cambridge, 1802), xx. Warwick (Masters of Theory, 124–5) argues that the insertion of the description in the Cambridge Calendar demonstrates the ‘relative novelty yet increasing importance’ of written exams at this point. It is more likely that it was provoked by the appearance of the very different Oxford examination. In 1799 the Senior Moderator had issued a stern warning about the failure of students from some colleges to reach certain minimum standards (Wordsworth, Scholae Academicae, 56); this may have prompted the coinage of the term. (It may be relevant that in 1802, 1803 and 1804 the Wooden Spoon came from Clare College.) The Names in the Cambridge Triposes, from 1754 to 1807, Both Inclusive, Alphabetically Arranged. With the Prizes Obtained by Each Person, Affixed to their Names. Prefaced by a Short Letter, on the Comparative Merits of the Two Universities, Oxford and Cambridge (Bath, 1808). The only copy known to me is in the British Library (732 b 16). His authorship is claimed in a manuscript annotation by ‘F.W’.; presumably Francis Wrangham, who in 1824 published a similar honours list, Sertum Cantabrigiense; or, the Cambridge Garland. Newton’s capacity for unbiased reflection is evidenced by the remarks with which he begins his diary for 1816–18, in which he describes himself—height, weight, baldness, proneness to flatulence, moral weaknesses and so on:, The Diaries of Benjamin Newton, Rector of Wath, 1816–1818, ed. C. P. Fendall and E. A. Crutchley (Cambridge, 1933), 1–3. Newton, Names, vii–ix. Denys A. Winstanley, Unreformed Cambridge (Cambridge, 1935), 327–8. Thomas Baker, History of the College of St. John the Evangelist, Cambridge (Cambridge, 1869), ii. 1071; Winstanley, Unreformed Cambridge, 317. The first examinations took place in December 1765. Disney, Works of John Jebb, i. 300. This diplomatic statement follows a declaration that Jebb’s proposed reforms stemmed from his experience of the quarterly examinations at Trinity College Dublin: on which, see below. Powell himself seems to have planned to subject noblemen and fellowcommoners to the examinations. Some of the college fellows, whose future careers may have been linked to patronage from noble families, demurred: Edward Miller, Portrait of a College. A History of the College of St John the Evangelist, Cambridge (Cambridge, 1961), 69. On two occasions the college examinations book records praise for students who sat the thirdyear examinations, even though their rank exempted them (St John’s College archives, C 15 6.56, 69 [1798 and 1805].)

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77. Letters of 13 January and 25 March 1830: The Correspondence of Charles Darwin: Volume 1, 1821–36, ed. Frederick Burkhardt and Sydney Smith (Cambridge, 1985), 98, 101. 78. The report of 29 October 1829 is in Cambridge University Archives, CUR 28.11. 79. C 15 6, 5: June 1772. 80. ibid, 49, June 1794. 81. Gunning, Reminiscences, i. 80. 82. William Tuckwell, Reminiscences of Oxford (London, 1900), 117. 83. St John’s College, C 15 6, 89: December 1813. 84. Schneider, Wordsworth’s Cambridge Education, 28. Schneider gives no source for this statement, but states elsewhere (ibid. 268, n. 31) that all unreferenced statements are drawn from the Examinations Book 1770–1833 (which I have quoted from above). None of them, however, contains any such information; I suspect that it was taken from Jebb’s account of the Senate House examination, on which the text in the 1802 University Calendar is based. 85. Robert L. Ellis, MS diary, entry for 13 November 1843: Trinity College Library, Add. Ms. a.218.41. Quoted by permission of the Master and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge. 86. Keith Hoskin claimed that Butler introduced internal written examinations in the 1790s—hence presumably on his arrival in 1798 or soon afterwards (Keith Hoskin, ‘Examinations and the schooling of science’, in Roy MacLeod (ed.), Days of Judgement (Driffield, 1982), 224). The school archives, however, contain no evidence of such examinations before 1813. Hoskin’s source was apparently Peter Wales, ‘Samuel Butler of Shrewsbury School: some aspects of his headmastership, 1798–1836’, M.Ed. thesis (Warwick, 1981); but I can find no evidence in it to support Hoskin’s case. 87. Samuel Butler, Life and Letters of Samuel Butler (London, 1896), i. 9. 88. Thomas J. N. Hilken, Engineering at Cambridge University, 1783–1965 (Cambridge, 1967), 40. In fact Farish was not a moderator in 1792; he was proctor that year and moderator in 1793. (His duties would have commenced after the Senate House Examination of 1792, but led up to and included he Examination of 1793.) 89. Hoskin, ‘The examination’, 144. 90. Hoskin was followed by Gascoigne, ‘Mathematics and meritocracy’, 552; but in his subsequent book, Cambridge in the Age of the Enlightenment (Cambridge, 1989), at 205, Gascoigne relied instead on Schneider’s Wordsworth’s Cambridge education, 35. Schneider, however, writing of the late 1780s, claims only that on the first day of the examination ‘the moderators strove . . . to discover a general gradation in each class’. Hoskin’s account was later taken over by Madaus, who referred to ‘the invention of the quantitative mark by William Farish in 1790, a key development in testing’s history’ (George F. Madaus, review of F. Allan Hanson, Testing Testing: Social Consequences of the Examined Life, in American Journal of Education 102 (1994), 222–34, at 230).

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91. Anon. [Obituary of William Farish], Christian Observer (1837), 611–13, 674–7, 737–41, at 675. A copy of the obituary, together with other sources on Farish, is held in the Old Library, Magdalene College, Cambridge, M 5.29. 92. Ball, History, 213. 93. [J. M. F. Wright], Alma Mater, or, Seven Years at the University of Cambridge (London 1827), i. 3. 94. Robert K. Webb, ‘William Farish’, Magdalene College Magazine (1955), 29. 95. Oxford University Commission (1852), 63: Hampden was an examiner in 1829, 1831 and 1832. 96. On Jebb, see Anthony Page, John Jebb and the Enlightenment Origins of British Radicalism (Westport, 2003). 97. As was James Lambert, one of the leaders of the movement for rigorous fellowship examinations at Trinity College in the 1780s: see Jonathan Smith, ‘Trinity College annual examinations in the nineteenth century’, in idem and Christopher A. Stray (eds.), Teaching and Learning in 19thCentury Cambridge (Woodbridge, 2001), 125–6. 98. ‘These commodious sets of syllogisms are call’d strings and descend from undergraduate to undergraduate, so that, when any candidate for a degree is to exercise his talent in argumentation, he has nothing else to do but to enquire amongst his friends for a string upon such or such a question, and to get it by heart, or read it over in his cap’. Thomas Amherst, Terrae filius no. 20 (Oxford, 1721), 104. For Oxford, see the chapters by Lucy Sutherland and John Yolton in Lucy S. Sutherland and Leslie G. Mitchell (eds.), Eighteenth-Century Oxford (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. V, Oxford, 1986); for Cambridge, the early nineteenth-century slang dictionary Gradus ad Cantabrigiam (London, 1803), 13 (the book is anonymous, but was probably written by William Paley jr.); Wordsworth, Scholae Academicae, 36 n 2. For a surviving set of ‘arguments’, see ibid 368–74; no ‘strings’ seem to be extant. ‘Strings’ heads the list of ‘ingenious monkish institutions’ that Newton reported as ‘falling in to decay’ at Oxford; the others are ‘juraments, walks in the pig-market, wall-lectures and chopping-logic’ (Newton, ‘Letter’, xxvi). 99. William Whewell to George Morland, 3 January 1815: Isaac Todhunter, William Whewell DD (2 vols, London, 1876), i. 5. 100. Whewell to Morland, 3 October 1819: Todhunter, Whewell, ii. 35. 101. For these disputations, see Ball, History, 173–82. Shilleto’s act is described on pp. 181–2; Wordsworth (Scholae Academicae, 42) gives a different and more detailed account. Though both must have been aware of the joke, neither explains it. ‘Caesio’ is extremely rare (one would expect ‘caedes’); Shilleto may have chosen it deliberately to flummox his opponent and to impress the moderator. 102. Edward G. Sandford, Memoirs of Archbishop Temple by Seven Friends, 2 vols (London, 1906), ii. 433. Temple later followed Tait as headmaster of Rugby and then as Archbishop of Canterbury. 103. Robert J. Strutt, John William Strutt, Third Baron Rayleigh (London, 1924), 31.

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104. Not always surreptitious. For an account of widespread copying and of invigilatorial connivance, see [Thomas Joyce], ‘College life at Cambridge’, Westminster Review 25 (1841), 456–81, at 462. 105. Charles A. Bristed, Five Years in an English University (2nd edn, New York, 1852), 71. Bristed was at Trinity College, Cambridge, from 1840 to 1845. Thomas Joyce, who matriculated there in 1836, remembered the annual college examination: ‘the bustle at first in the hall, with four hundred men writing and joking at once’: ‘College life’, 470. 106. ‘W’, ‘Vigilans invigilavi’, Cambridge Review 31 (1909–10), 469–70. 107. Quoted in part and without date by Todhunter, Whewell, i. 161. The original is in Trinity College Library, Add. Ms. c 52 105. It need hardly be said that both Whewell and his close friend Jones were Cambridge men. 108. Two grades of examinations were to be held, the severer grade (honours) examination being held in the Easter Term. The first examinations were held on 4 and 15 December 1801, the first honours examination on 2, 7 and 9 April 1802. Oxford University Archives, SP59. 109. Richard Jones to William Whewell, 16 November 1845. William R. Ward, Victorian Oxford (London, 1965), 14; cf. George V. Cox, Recollections of Oxford (London, 1869), 49; Rothblatt, ‘Student sub-culture’, 295. 110. Falconer Madan claimed that ‘the first Oxford written examination took place in 1802’: Oxford Outside the Guide-Books (Oxford, 1923), 47. In fact the earliest reference to written examination comes in the 1807 examination statute; it allows written work to be used to supplement viva voce testing. 111. [Augustus De Morgan], ‘State of the mathematical and physical sciences at the University of Oxford’, Quarterly Journal of Education 4 (1832), 191–208. 112. Mark C. Curthoys, ‘The examination system’, in Brock and Curthoys, Nineteenth Century Part 2, 346. 113. J. M. F. Wright’s reference (see note 92) to ‘printed papers’ is puzzling, since his book was published early in 1827 and the Grace to use printed papers did not pass the Senate until November of that year. But Wright had good contacts in Cambridge, and may have been told the decision was certain to be taken. 114. Curthoys, ‘Examination system’, 247. 115. ibid, 347–8. 116. Gascoigne, ‘Mathematics and meritocracy’, 573–7. Cf. Charles Bristed’s comment on his Trinity College examinations, in the 1840s, that ‘The lecturer stands, and the lectured sit, even while construing (my italics): Bristed, Five years, 18. Bristed was writing for American readers, and the implied contrast may have been with his own previous student experience at Yale. According to the OED, s.v. sit (v), in Cambridge one sits, in Oxford one stands, for a degree. 117. Brock and Curthoys, Nineteenth Century Part 1, 10–11. 118. Curthoys, ‘Examination system’, 349.

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119. Ibid, 358. 120. Arthur D. Godley, ‘In memoriam examinatoris cuiusdam’, Oxford Magazine, 23 January 1907; reprinted in Charles L. Graves and Charles R. L. Fletcher (eds.), Fifty Poems by A.D. Godley (Oxford, 1927). Echoing a common examination rubric, the examiner’s tombstone is ‘on one side only graven’. 121. Cf. Latham, Action of Examination, 510. 122. See Christopher A. Stray, ‘Thomas Saunders Evans (1816–89)’, in Robert B. Todd (ed.), Dictionary of British Classicists (Bristol, 2004), ii. 304–5. 123. Philip Hartog and Edmund C. Rhodes, The Marks of Examiners (London, 1936), 154. 124. Curthoys, ‘Examination system’, 344–5. 125. Trinity College Library, Banks, Challis and Hodson papers: R 2 82.45. It is clear that the grades are thus arranged, as E is mostly used for the lowest group (the poll). Rouse Ball, curiously, lists them as A, E, a, e. Embarrassingly enough for a mathematician, he also adds 5 ⫹ 3 ⫹1 to make 8. See Ball, History 168–72; his errors were pointed out by William Chawner, ‘The thesis in the disputation of the senior sophs, 1770–1838’, in Fasciculus Ioanni Willis Clark Dicatus (Cambridge, 1910), 280–2. A similar marking scheme (eleven grades, from A⫹ to e⫺) is used in the moderators’ book for 1763–4, which indexes all candidates and lists the disputation theses in full: Trinity College Library, R.9.44. 126. Cambridge University Commission (1852), i. 272. 127. Trinity College Library, R 2 80.14,20; 81.61. 128. Edward E. Kellett, A Book of Cambridge Verse (1911), 287. C and D were fail grades. 129. Oxford University Commission (1852), 60–1. 130. Oxford University Commission (1852), 63. 131. Cambridge University Commission (London, 1852), evidence 239–40. The analytical school is surveyed by Ball, History, 117–37; the rise and implications of analysis in Cambridge are dealt with by Warwick, Masters of Theory, 66–8. 132. Cambridge University Commission (1853), evidence 251. 133. Cf. Whewell’s Of a Liberal Education, with Special Reference to the University of Cambridge (Cambridge, 1845). 134. In Oxford this was strongly reinforced by the concern to avoid humiliating poor candidates; hence Napleton, who proposed examination reforms there in the early 1770s, suggested that variable standards should be used for students of different abilities. John Napleton, Considerations on the Public Exercises for the First and Second Degrees in the University of Oxford (Oxford, 1773), 29. 135. Report (1853), Cambridge University Archives, CUR 28.6.1/18. 10–11. Later reports on the subject are at CUR 28.6.1/28, 30, 31, the last being the 1860 report. 136. Oxford University Commission (1852), report 63.

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137. Cambridge University Commission (1852), evidence 259–60. 138. The basic published source is R. B. MacDowell and R. K. Webb, Trinity College Dublin 1592–1952: An Academic History (Cambridge, 1982); 113–29 deal with students and examinations c.1830. The nickname ‘the silent sister’ seems to have been current during the first third of the nineteenth century—the stagnant period preceding Bartholomew Lloyd’s reforming Provostship of 1831–7. The phrase appears in an anonymous review of the first published Calendar (1833): Dublin University Magazine 1 (1833), 101–10, at 106; cf. Anon., ‘The University of Dublin’, Quarterly Journal of Education 6 (1833), 212. See also W. M. Dixon, Trinity College, Dublin (London, 1902), 179, quoting J. P. Mahaffy, ‘Trinity College, Dublin’, Macmillan’s Magazine 20 (September 1869), 436–72. 139. Trinity College, Cambridge introduced an informal entrance test in the early nineteenth century. The TCD test was evidently not very rigorous, since the failure rate was between two and three per cent. 140. There were four terms in each academic year; changed to three terms in 1834 by one of Lloyd’s reforms. 141. A Report of the Examination for Fellowships in the University of Dublin (London and Dublin, 1824). Copies in TCD Library and in Cambridge University Library (Bradshaw Collection). This pamphlet is not referred to by McDowell and Webb, Trinity College Dublin. 142. Ibid, ix–x. 143. Richard MacDonnell, A Letter to Dr Phipps . . . Concerning the Undergraduate Examinations of the University of Dublin (Dublin, 1828). Copies in Haliday Collection, Royal Irish Academy; Bradshaw Collection, Cambridge University Library. MacDonnell became provost of TCD in 1852. 144. MacDonnell, Letter, 8–9. The pamphlet is irregularly paginated: 1–10, 9–27. 145. Ibid, 9 (i.e. the first page 9). 146. A detailed account of the termly classical examinations under the new three-term system was published by John M’Caul: Remarks on the Course of Classical Study, Pursued in the University of Dublin (Dublin, 1834), 2–6. Oral and written examination ran in parallel: during a two-hour period in which all candidates had to write a Latin prose, for example, they would be called out one by one to read out aloud passages from their set texts, and quizzed on them. 147. ‘The University of Dublin’, Quarterly Journal of Education 6 (1833), 235. 148. McDowell and Webb, Trinity College, 231–2. The abolition of Latin probably explains the wobbling about undergraduate examinations detectable in later Calendars; e.g. ‘oral examination shall be retained . . . Latin shall not necessarily be used in any part of the examination’. (Calendar 1859, 45). 149. Johnson’s remark is quoted above as an epigraph to this article. 150. Arthur V. Judges, ‘The evolution of examinations’, in James A. Lauwerys and David G. Scanlon (eds), Examinations (World Year Book of Education 1969) (London, 1969), 23.

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151. Cf. Rothblatt, ‘Student sub-culture’, 280f. 152. See note 1 above. 153. Sheldon Rothblatt, The Revolution of the Dons. Cambridge and Society in Victorian England (London, 1968); id., ‘Student sub-culture’; id., Tradition and Change in English Liberal Education (London, 1976). 154. Hoskin, ‘The examination’; id., ‘Examinations’. 155. Rothblatt, ‘Student sub-culture’; Hoskin, ‘The examination’, 145. The same might be said of the discussion in Rothblatt, Tradition and Change, 119ff. 156. See Jonathan Smith, ‘Trinity College annual examinations in the nineteenth century’, in id. and Christopher A. Stray (eds), Teaching and Learning in 19th-Century Cambridge (Woodbridge, 2001), 122–38; Malcolm G. Underwood, ‘The revolution in college teaching: St John’s College, 1850–1926’, ibid., 107–21. 157. Chicago, 2003. A review appears elsewhere in this issue. 158. I hope to provide a parallel analysis of Cambridge classics in a forthcoming account of the Classic Tripos in the century after its foundation in 1822. 159. Cf. Rothblatt, ‘Student sub-culture’, 293–4. 160. Cf. the phenomenon of the ‘Greek play bishop’, appointed for scholarship rather than for social connections. See Michael G. Brock, ‘The Oxford of Peel and Gladstone, 1800–1833’, in Brock and Curthoys, Nineteenth Century Part 1, 15; Stray, Classics Transformed, 39, 41, 61. 161. Examiners were appointed by the university senate, which could overrule them; but the rules as they applied to particular situations were far from clear. This confusion is apparent in the controversy over the case of R. P. N. Downing, accused of cheating in 1882: Cambridge University Archives, Vc Ct I 22. 162. Rothblatt’s emphasis on the role of Georgian polite sociability is relevant here, although the evidential linkage with specific institutional changes in Oxford is at times lacking. Rothblatt, ‘Student sub-culture’; id., Tradition and Change. 163. Rothblatt, Revolution, 231–5; Christopher A. Stray, ‘Curriculum and style in the collegiate university: classics in nineteenth-century Oxbridge’, History of Universities 16.2 (2001), 183–218. The new University of London followed Cambridge (written) practices rather than those of Oxford: Montgomery, Examinations, 58. 164. John Serjeaunt, Annals of Westminster School (London, 1898), 162–4, 259. A similar system had obtained at Merchant Taylors’ School, but the oral element had disappeared by 1820: F. W. M. Draper, Four Centuries of Merchant Taylors’ School 1561–1961 (London, 1962), 123–4. 165. The point was made for the 1820s by Rothblatt, ‘Student sub-culture’, 294. 166. Details of changing student numbers in both places and in both periods can be found in Michael G. Brock, ‘The careers of Oxford men’, in Brock and Curthoys, Nineteenth Century Part 1, 477–509, at 481. 167. Compare the development of ‘classes’, or at least the division of student populations into smaller groups, in the schools of the Brethren of the

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168. 169.

170.

171. 172.

173.

174.

175. 176. 177. 178.

179.

History of Universities Common Life in the late 14th century. See David Hamilton, Towards a Theory of Schooling (London, 1989), 41–2; Ben Wilbrink, ‘Assessment in historical perspective’, Studies in Educational Evaluation 23 (1997), 31–48. Montgomery, Examinations, 58. Mary L. Smallwood, An Historical Study of Examinations and Grading Systems in Early American Universities (Cambridge, Mass., 1935), 15. Only five institutions are covered: Harvard, Yale, the College of William and Mary, Mount Holyoke, and the University of Michigan. ‘There are two public and general examinations in the year . . . These are wholly written, except in the schools of languages, in which they are partly oral . . . This plan of testing and actual and comparative proficiency of the students was introduced into the university of Virginia by Professors Long and Key, according to the model of the Cambridge system’. Anon., ‘Education in Virginia’, Quarterly Journal of Education 4 (1832), 64. Foden, The Examiner, 146–7. Keith Tribe, ‘Professors Malthus and Jones: Political Economy at the East India College 1806–1858’, European Journal for the History of Economic Thought 2 (1995), 327–54. (‘Jones’ was Richard Jones, whose opinion of Oxford examinations is quoted above). David Murray, Memories of the Old College of Glasgow (Glasgow, 1927), 231, 235–6. Written examinations had been introduced at Aberdeen in 1833, when the custom of awarding prizes according to the votes of class members was discontinued: Neil M. Maclean, Life at a Northern University, ed. W. Keith Leask (Aberdeen, 1906), 363. Henry J. Roby, Reminiscences of My Life and Work, For My Family Only (Cambridge, c.1913), 42. Copy in St John’s College Library, Cambridge. ‘Personal equations’ were the differences between reports of single astronomical phenomena by different observers. (This led to the invention of the ‘idiometer’, a device for discounting such differences.) See Simon Schaffer, ‘Astronomers Mark Time: Discipline and the Personal Equation’, Science in Context, 2 (1988), 115–145. Cambridge University Commission (London, 1852), evidence, 244. Ibid, 244. Stray, ‘Curriculum and style in the collegiate university’. Pamphlets Relating to the University of London, Vol. III, item 3, pp. 2–5. The only copy known to me is in the University of London Library; classmark JSED/BP4. Lubbock was at the time Vice-Chancellor of the University; Burlington was its Chancellor. See Tim Alborn’s article on Lubbock in the Oxford Dictionary of Biography (2004), and his ‘Public science, private finance: the uneasy advancement of J. W. Lubbock’, in Science and British Culture in the 1830s (Stanford in the Vale, 1994), 5–14.

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180. Not all viva voce examinations promoted ‘readiness’. A member of R. C. Jebb’s Greek class at Glasgow in the 1870s commented that Jebb ‘examined his class in rotation throughout the session’, and pointed out ‘the defect involved by the virtual notice given to the men of the days on which it would be inexpedient to risk non-preparation’. A. M., ‘Our professors: Mr Jebb’, Glasgow University Magazine 2.3 (8 January 1880), 1–2. 181. Italics in original. Lubbock is referring to alphabetic listing within classes, as at Oxford. Compare William Whewell’s summary of the contrast between oral and written examinations: the former measures quality and competency, while written papers produce ‘classification’. Cambridge University Commission (1852), evidence, 251. Whewell was of course writing from within a Cambridge vocabulary, but in favour of an Oxonian emphasis and against the trend in his own university. 182. See e.g. Gillian R. Sutherland, ‘Assessment, some historical perspectives’, in Harvey Goldstein and Toby Lewis, Assessment: Problems, Developments and Statistical Issues (Hoboken NJ, 1996), 9–20. 183. Two very different discussions are David Potter, Debating in the Colonial Chartered Colleges. An Historical Survey, 1642 to 1900 (New York, 1944), and Françoise Waquet, ‘Parler. La disparition historiographique de la parole magistrale’, Actes de la Recherche en Sciences Sociales 135 (December 2000), 39–47. 184. See for example Keith W. Hoskin and Richard H. Macve, ‘Accounting and the examination: a genealogy of disciplinary power’, Accounting, Organizations and Society 11 (1986), 105–36. 185. By the 1940s, it was simply impossible for C. S. Lewis to understand how an examiner could test a pupil who was personally known to him: ‘The Parthenon and the Optative’, in On Stories, and other Essays on Literature (London, 1947), 111. 186. Two Cambridge examples: George William Lyttelton, second Baron Lyttelton, Senior Classic in 1838, and John William Strutt, third Baron Rayleigh, Senior Wrangler in 1865. 187. Since the male and female list had common categories (classes), it became evident when women scored higher than men, as in the case of Agnata Ramsay in Classics (1887) and Philippa Fawcett in mathematics (1890). In the latter year a man became Senior Wrangler (top of the first class), but Fawcett was publicly announced as being ‘above the Senior Wrangler’. 188. Peter Searby, History of the University of Cambridge, Vol. III: 1750–1870 (Cambridge, 1997), 163–6; Page, John Jebb, 129–50. 189. Vivian H. H. Green, ‘Reformers and reform in the University’, in Lucy S. Sutherland and Leslie G. Mitchell (eds.), Eighteenth-Century Oxford (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. V, Oxford, 1986), 615–18. 190. Mark C. Curthoys and Janet Howarth, ‘Origins and destinations: the social mobility of Oxford men and women’, in Brock and Curthoys,

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Nineteenth Century Part 2, 571–95, at 586. For Cambridge, still worth consulting is Rothblatt, Revolution of the Dons, 29–93. 191. Henry Philpott, Cambridge University Commission (1852), evidence, 259–60. 192. David B. Wilson, ‘Experimentalists among the mathematicians: Physics in the Cambridge Natural Sciences Tripos, 1851–1900’, Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences 12 (1982), 325–71, at 337.

Making Mathematicians at Cambridge Diane Greco Josefowicz

Andrew Warwick, Masters of Theory: Cambridge and the Rise of Mathematical Physics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. 519 pp.

Universities earn their reputations in different ways, from rankings in news magazines to lore passed down from one generation of students to the next. Indeed, it’s hard to imagine a university without some type of institutional identity; such a school would be faceless, bland and uninteresting, the higher-educational equivalent of Musil’s man without qualities. While the peculiarities that distinguish an institution are enshrined in myth and legend and perpetuated as the university’s traditions, they stem from practices that are part of the university’s present life, like the classic MIT ‘hack’ in which undergraduates, who pride themselves on being brilliant pranksters, manage to put something highly improbable—a piano, a giant beanie, a campus police car complete with flashing light—atop the Great Dome virtually every year. Practices like the Dome hack produce an institution’s identity by a peculiarly circular process that at once looks to the past, to tradition, for its inspiration while also perpetually recreating that tradition in light of present circumstances. This tension between past and present is the tradition—something that, in its persistence and its persistent inventiveness, sustains and reinforces the institution’s identity. The transformation of practice into tradition, and the interplay of tradition and identity, are two of the major themes at work in Masters of Theory, Andrew Warwick’s eagerly anticipated history of mathematics pedagogy at Cambridge University. From the eighteenth century, mixed mathematics became increasingly important to undergraduate study at Cambridge, while competitive written examinations superseded disputations in Latin as the primary form of student assessment. These two trends converged in the Cambridge Mathematical Tripos, a nine-day

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written examination in which students were obliged to solve mathematics problems of increasing difficulty. The results of the Tripos exams were posted in rank order, with the best performers, known as ‘wranglers’, at the top. This ranking was crucial to the development of the Tripos as a pedagogy and an institutional tradition, for wrangler status was much coveted among the serious mathematics students. Becoming a wrangler could not by itself secure the student a place in the pantheon of British science, but, by the late nineteenth century, the list of wranglers was studded with names of scientific luminaries like Larmor, Thomson, Maxwell, and Stokes. Masters of Theory is divided roughly in two: the first half of the book details the Tripos system and describes how students prepared for their exams, while in the second half, Warwick tries to show how the pedagogy of Tripos preparation influenced—usually by hindering—the later reception of novel mathematical and physical theories at Cambridge. In Warwick’s view, the improved status of mixed mathematics at the university, coupled with the increased emphasis placed on written examinations, created and sustained a special kind of mathematics pedagogy, one that was oriented toward problem-solving. In the first half of the book, Warwick shows how Cambridge mathematics pedagogy was shaped by pressures from outside the university, in particular how the pervasive Victorian push for efficiency in all things, including the production of learned men, transformed Cambridge mathematics pedagogy into a system that not only spat out graduates like so many widgets, but was also structured to make each generation of these widget students more mathematically sophisticated than the last. Unfortunately, the trouble with such an industrialized system was that, once the conventions for successful problem-setting and-solving were agreed upon, the system fell prey, predictably enough, to an intellectual stasis. What was once a matter of convention came to seem natural, and the problem-solving techniques developed at Cambridge eventually came to be seen, at least among Cambridge men, as the sine qua non of mathematical practice. The second half of Warwick’s book gives examples of how this problem-solving orientation made Cambridge mathematicians remarkably resistant to unfamiliar and novel ideas in mathematical physics. One of Warwick’s strengths as a historian is his ability to set a vivid scene and people it with lively characters. In the first half of the book, Warwick shows how students responded when the test-driven environment at Cambridge became a dangerous pressure cooker. Students suffered from extreme fatigue, insomnia, and nervous breakdowns; even a giant

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like Maxwell succumbed to ‘brain fever’ and fainting fits while preparing for his exams (185). To avoid mental and physical breakdowns, Cambridge students devised elaborate regimens of strenuous exercise, often with a competitive element. While rowing, hiking and mountaineering were favorite activities, some students abjured commonplace sports in favour of riskier but more dramatic feats of athletic prowess. W. K. Clifford, second wrangler in 1867, ‘hung by his toes from the cross-bar of a weathercock on a church tower’ (197), while Maxwell liked to run around the dormitories in the middle of the night, causing such a disturbance that his neighbours would lie in wait for him and pelt him with boots and hairbrushes as he ran by. Maxwell also liked to take running headers into the River Cam, sometimes including a somersault (196). It is, of course, immensely pleasurable to imagine an eminent man like Maxwell perpetuating such silliness, and Warwick is so generous with the colourful details that he brings the world of nineteenth-century Cambridge mathematics to life in all its charm and whimsy. But Warwick intends to do more than entertain. In these chapters, he convincingly shows how this athleticism functioned in the ‘economy of mind’ that prevailed at Cambridge, as a way to let off steam and to develop the stamina and keen competitive spirit required to excel in the Tripos. While the ‘work hard, play hard’ Cambridge ethos might seem counterintuitive—after all, what could involve the body less than mathematics?—it had its uses, among which was weeding out students who were not equipped for the intensely competitive preparation for the Tripos exam. As a student, the budding statistician (and future third wrangler) Karl Pearson had been sceptical of Cambridge students’ athleticism, but a stint at the Berlin university convinced him otherwise. In an 1879 letter to his mother, Pearson reflected on the importance of sports at Cambridge, and reported a shocking lack of physical fitness among his German counterparts, saying that if he ‘set out with [a German student] over the hills, I almost kill him before a half-an-hour is over and this is the case where he has served his time as a soldier and one would think ought to be enured (sic) to fatigue’ (178). While the ostensible subject of this remark is the merit of athleticism in student life, Pearson’s aggressive competitiveness—itself a Cambridge hallmark, honed to a fine point by his athletic activities—is hard to miss. It is no wonder that Ralph Waldo Emerson, upon visiting Cambridge in the late 1840s, described Cambridge students as ‘eupeptic studying mills’, as ‘cast-iron men’ whose ‘powers of performance compare with

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[an American’s] as the steam hammer with the music box’ (189). Clearly, mathematics at Cambridge was not for the faint-hearted or the weak. Ambitious students knew that they would have to do more than just attend lectures and rowing practice if they hoped to earn a high score on the Mathematical Tripos. Aspiring wranglers supplemented their hours in the lecture halls and on the playing field with meetings with mathematics coaches, many of whom had been wranglers themselves. These personal mathematics trainers enriched the material presented in lectures and textbooks in several ways. By providing students with a structured educational experience that started with basic problems and progressed to more difficult ones, tutors created an effective pedagogy that built on a student’s success by becoming incrementally more challenging each time a student passed a pedagogical milestone. Moreover, instead of lecturing, tutors worked with students personally, in small groups of roughly similar skill, so the teaching could be geared precisely to the students’ skills and readiness; advanced students benefited from more challenging assignments while students who were not well-prepared got the extra help they needed. Tutors used a variety of teaching materials: textbooks, graded example sheets, and exercises that the tutor either made up himself or adapted from previous Tripos exams. Finally, tutors encouraged students to make time for athletics as a way to cope with the stresses of their education. At first, the tutor system operated parasitically on the university economy, with students paying tutors directly in addition to paying the university’s fees. In time, the tutors began to threaten the status of university professors, whose lectures were becoming increasingly irrelevant to students preparing for the Tripos. By mid-century their success and influence was such that university reformers like George Peacock were arguing for their assimilation into university, as paid staff. While Warwick’s account of the institutional changes wrought by private mathematics coaches stops here, it does suggest interesting topics for further research. For instance, it would be interesting to know how this private system of education—in which the tutor was a free agent, free of the burdens of university hierarchy but also obliged to compete fiercely with other tutors and to make a living without the safety net of a secure income—changed upon being formally subsumed into the university. Without the spur of free-market competition, did university tutors become lax about teaching their students? Or was their new security a spur in itself, giving them the leisure and freedom to develop, test and refine ever more useful pedagogical techniques?

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In the heyday of Cambridge mathematics tutoring, before tutors were formally admitted into the university, the law of supply and demand organized the tutor market in a predictable way: a tutor was in demand in direct proportion to the number of senior wranglers he produced, and as tutors became more popular, they were able to pick and choose from among the pool of students seeking tutors. Naturally, tutors gravitated toward the students who were most likely to be senior wranglers. Eventually a handful of tutors rose to eminence and dominated the system. This dominance had a curiously circular element: top wranglers often went on to become top tutors, who in turn influenced the production of the next set of wranglers inasmuch as they exercised some influence over the content of the Tripos exams and the evaluation of student responses. While this circularity tended to maintain standards, it also produced a disquieting intellectual conservatism that made it difficult for students to assimilate new ideas in mathematics that did not immediately conform to what, in the eyes of Cambridge-trained mathematicians, constituted real, significant mathematical research. Nowhere, perhaps, were the discouraging effects of this intellectual conservatism clearer than in the Cambridge reception of Maxwell’s monumental Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism (1873). According to Warwick, Maxwell’s Cambridge readers seemed especially unable to appreciate his articulation of an approach to electricity and magnetism that effectively avoided reference to the physical structure of the ether. Admittedly, the book was difficult for everyone to understand; for one thing, it was organized strangely, with frequent excursions into practical matters, like standards and units, whose significance to Maxwell’s dynamical theory could not readily be appreciated by theory-centric Cambridge mathematics students. But, as Maxwell was himself a Cambridge product, and he wrote the book with an eye toward its use in preparation for the Tripos, one might reasonably expect to find its uptake in the university swift and general. In fact, it was neither. As Warwick shows, the Cambridge reception of Maxwell was decidedly slow and incomplete. Warwick tracks changes in Tripos questions about electricity and magnetism through the 1870s and 1880s, showing that it took more than a decade for examiners to begin to refer to electromagnetic phenomena in particularly Maxwellian ways. Cambridge tutors discovered in Maxwell’s Treatise only what they were already prepared to find, and virtually all of them missed, or misunderstood, the truly novel field-theoretical elements. Interestingly, certain highly motivated students, like J. J. Thomson, sensed their tutors’ limitations and

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abandoned the tutors to work out the book’s implications by themselves (320). Obviously, it was not impossible to understand Maxwell’s treatise, since others, like Heaviside and FitzGerald, also managed to puzzle out the important parts of Maxwell’s treatise sufficiently to extend his theoretical framework. However, as Warwick notes, neither Heaviside nor Fitzgerald was working within the Cambridge context, and the point is suggestive: perhaps what was required to understand Maxwell was a kind of unblinkered intellectual innocence. The specificity of Warwick’s historical subject—the process by which students become adepts—is also worth noting. By looking at the examination scripts and notebooks of students preparing for and taking the Tripos examinations, Warwick captures what it was like to be on the cusp of expertise, to be ‘a student struggling to enter the expert’s world’ (18). Because the struggle is fleeting, it can be difficult for the historian to recreate. Once the student assimilates the expert’s knowledge, this liminal phase ends, and the struggle to learn—the struggle of education—is usually fast forgotten. Just as virtuoso pianists must practice countless finger exercises in order to make their performances seem effortless, the virtuosity of the mathematicians produced by the Tripos system concealed all the hours of practicing mathematical exercises. As evidence of ‘science in the making,’ examination scripts are akin to laboratory notebooks inasmuch as both are records of reactions in real time that might otherwise be lost to us.1 There are, of course, limits to the usefulness of looking at pedagogy as a way into the history of a science. First of all, following Ludwik Fleck, one might well object that by studying pedagogical artefacts, the historian is limited to knowledge that has already been made, or what he calls ‘vade mecum’ knowledge.2 In Fleck’s view, the ‘science in the making’ that is such a historical holy grail is actually only science in the re-making: we see novices learning what their teachers have already assimilated. At Cambridge, this limitation was to some degree mitigated by the tutors’ practice of putting novel mathematics into the form of Tripos problems and setting those problems to their students. However, as Warwick himself recognizes in his conclusion, the study of training is only going to be helpful in instances where the problem under study is not interesting, as when ‘a well-formulated problem exists to which a theoretician happens to possess the tools required to effect a speedy and uncontroversial solution’ (510). Thus, historians attentive to training would necessarily miss the big stories in the history of science: the revolutions, the breakthroughs, the discoveries, the eureka moments,

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the ‘otherwise inexplicable leaps of intuition’ (511) that Warwick himself seems—rather to his regret, I think—unable to explain according to his framework. But here I think Warwick moves too fast. While he is right to remark that historians of science have, until recently, focused almost exclusively on issues of novelty and priority, this focus has been neither ‘partisan,’ as Warwick claims (6), nor valueless, as his dismissiveness of these studies seems to imply. On the contrary, historians of science have made precisely these ‘leaps’ the foci of generative work, and indeed it is possible to argue that without them, studies like Warwick’s of the deceptively simple-looking progress of ‘normal’ science would be inconceivable.3 While Warwick’s analyses in the second half of his book are intriguing, it is hard to accept his implicit claim that pedagogy developed in the 1850s would have intellectually constrained Cambridge mathematicians in the early 1900s to the extent he claims. Did Cambridge mathematics training really cast such a long shadow over the practices of its graduates? Was there any ‘outside’ to this training, any way for the Cambridge graduate to escape the prison-house of pedagogy and transcend, even briefly, his local and partial point of view? The question could also be expanded beyond the individual. Following Cardinal Newman, we might ask about the ‘idea of the university’ with reference to Warwick’s book. Does the conservatism of university traditions necessarily stifle innovation? Or are there other forces that might either amplify or diminish the aridity of a pedagogical tradition? These larger questions are certainly within the book’s purview, at least in the first half where Warwick is careful to show how extra-university forces found their way into university mathematics pedagogy, and changed it. Mysteriously, however, Warwick is more circumspect when he turns to the particulars of the Cambridge reception of different ideas in mathematical physics, from Maxwell’s Treatise to Einstein’s general theory of relativity. It is precisely here, at the intersection of institutional history and the internal history of disciplines, that we might learn more about whether, and to what extent, a university’s pedagogical traditions may have helped or hindered the reception of novel mathematics at fin-de-siècle Cambridge. Unfortunately, despite Warwick’s careful use of sociological and ethnographical approaches to science as frameworks for the history of science, he ultimately succumbs to the temptations of individual, biographical explanations. In particular, his explanations in the second half of the book rely so heavily on the category of ‘exceptional’ individual that he winds up reinforcing the very historical exceptionalism—e.g. the

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issues of novelty, priority, discovery, and the individual genius—that he is at such pains to subvert. For instance, Warwick argues that A. S. Eddington’s exceptional preparation for Einstein’s theory of general relativity made him the most likely of his British contemporaries to render it comprehensible in his homeland. But this preparation took Eddington well beyond Cambridge; he had an important exchange of letters with the Dutch astronomer Willem de Sitter, for instance, that helped him to master the theory. In Warwick’s account, Eddington’s transmission of Einstein’s theory to Cambridge has an aura of inevitability, and it seems that no one else could possibly have achieved this. But this teleological view of Eddington’s preparation makes of Eddington the exceptional genius who proves the plodding rule. For this reason, Warwick’s argument—that the line of influence ran from extra-university sources to mathematics pedagogy, and from there to the internal history of mathematics—is ultimately not as convincing as it might be, for it seems to imply that, with only a few exceptions, mathematicians trained at Cambridge were perfect slaves to that training. If Warwick is right, as I think he is, to suggest that Cambridge pedagogy expressed an idea of the university as a site for producing and ranking mathematicians as efficiently as possible, surely it was also in the interest of the university to produce mathematicians who were not made hidebound by the process—who were, in some way, susceptible to novelty, who were openminded enough to see it, and vulnerable to being surprised. Why was this sensibility not developed in some way through Cambridge mathematics pedagogy? What, in the pedagogy, inhibited this development? Surely the project of becoming an expert in mathematics also involved learning, in some way, to move beyond one’s training. In other words: If Eddington could do it, why couldn’t anyone else? REFERENCES 1. See, for instance, Frederick Holmes, et al., Reworking the Bench: Research Notebooks and the History of Science (Dordrecht, 2003). 2. Ludwik Fleck, Genesis and Development of a Scientific Fact, trans. Fred Bradley and Thaddeus J. Trenn (Chicago, 1989), 112. 3. For instance, Warwick himself relies heavily on more traditional ‘internal’ histories of science, like Jed Buchwald’s From Maxwell to Microphysics: Aspects of Electromagnetic Theory in the Last Quarter of the Nineteenth Century (Chicago, 1985).

Large and Complicated Universities: Toronto and Melbourne William Bruneau

Martin L. Friedland. The University of Toronto: A History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002. xiv ⫹ 764 pp. [Endnotes published separately as Notes, pp. 1–402, available from the Press and as an open website at: http://www.utppublishing.com/uoft_history/notes.html; Richard J. W. Selleck. The Shop: The University of Melbourne 1850–1939. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2003. xx ⫹ 855 pp. In 1969–1973, Princeton’s Shelby Cullom Davis Center for Historical Studies hosted a four-year Seminar on the history of education. A first outcome was three books edited by Lawrence Stone,1 but a longer-term result was broadened commitment among historians to social studies of the university. Mediævalists never doubted the value of university history, but their modernist cousins began to take it more seriously in and after the 1960s. Under the new dispensation, university historians would attend to the university’s social background. They would consider the political economies of public and private higher education. They would locate students and faculty in social classes-of-origin, in multiple cultural environments, not forgetting to explain power and administration inside the academy. The gossipy tales of collegiate intrigue that worked so well in Max Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson, F. M. Cornford’s Microcosmographia academica, C. P. Snow’s The Masters, and David Lodge’s Small World 2—and indeed in many a university history—would no longer do. If there was to be petite histoire (and narrativist, feminist, and post-modernist histories have considerable sympathy for it), it must discuss gender, ethnicity, urbanism, industry and class.3 Beyond this daunting list, historians must presumably ask also about the intellectual life of the university.4 They must surely aim to explain the cursus of humanists and scientists whose work transformed the teacher-researchers who did it. When he retired, to take an example,

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Jacob Burckhardt in Basel was no longer the person, or rather, the intellectual he had been in youth. He was as committed as ever to the history of culture and art, but after a half-century in harness (in 1897) he saw everything, from the arrangement of his furniture and the disposition of his daily timetable to the content of his lectures, sub specie historiae et civitatis, indeed all human history and his personal history through the lens of his research.5 He claimed, and he must surely have been right, that his lifework changed him. One might reasonably ask if university teachers and students are transformed, even if only partially, by their experiences. So must university historians. Enough! We are like the carpenter who visits a wholesale warehouse and is offered hundreds of electric saws and dozens of spirit levels. It is too much. It is bewildering. What tools, from the vast range of possibilities, shall the carpenter choose? Well, of course, the carpenter thinks of the specific requirements of the particular job, then makes the choice. So must historians. Like the professional builder, they have to make hard choices of method, style, and perspective. Lay or professional readers will ask only whether university historians have visited the warehouse, and knowingly chosen or rejected particular devices. All of us are looking for just one ‘deliverable’: explanations about why institutions work, how they are tied to the world, and how they affect the people who live and work in them. On these standards, Friedland’s and Selleck’s books on the universities of Melbourne and Toronto are partly successful, although Selleck’s is by far the more readable. Selleck’s university history is that rarest of beasts, an institutional history whose pages one compulsively turns. The Shop has that quality partly because of its unvarnished pictures of remarkable personalities in the University of Melbourne’s past. But Selleck also writes so as to leave open (and inviting) suggestions for future research. By contrast, Friedland’s calm, well-fashioned prose dispenses a peculiar somnolence, although Toronto’s notable personalities are no less marked than Melbourne’s. Who could deny the interest of Canon Henry John Cody (UT president 1932–1945), the man who admired Mussolini, and nearly succeeded in suppressing academic freedom in the late 1930s?6 Friedland began work on his history of that University in 1997, aged 65 and approaching mandatory retirement. These facts are, of course, indicators of the way the history was made, not predictors of its quality. [Hereafter, UT means University of Toronto; UM or ‘The Shop’7 means

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University of Melbourne]. Friedland had been Dean of Law at Toronto, a professor of that subject since 1961 with interruptions for royal commissions, visiting professorships, and the writing of sixteen wellreceived books on legal matters. There was an open competition for appointment as UT historian, and gifted scholars made proposals to the Search Committee. It was something of a surprise that Friedland, almost unknown in historical studies, should be named. But Friedland saw the book as ‘the perfect post-retirement project’. He planned to connect UT’s history to Canada’s growing intellectual independence from Britain, to the rise of new social and natural sciences, and to a revolution in social expectations of the higher learning. Friedland tells (xi) how he chose the end date for his history: ‘I decided to bring the history up to the year 2000. I wanted the story to have a happy ending’. There is a clue here to the difficulty that many readers will have with the book, for now and then, it veers off its explanatory course, and begins to sound uncomfortably like the older, congratulatory, and often just-plain-boring style of university history. By contrast, Selleck came to the writing of The Shop with a halfcentury of successful historical research and publication behind him, much of it in the field of educational history.8 He took on the writing of the book, he once remarked, when he no longer believed the Melbourne administration would fund or support the book in a sustained manner. Selleck did have funding from the Australian Research Council and the Spencer Foundation, but could do his historical work with political and (at least as important) psychological independence.9 In a sense, The Shop is part of a large, continuing, and collaborative exercise in university history, as several dozen Melbourne web sites testify. Selleck sometimes names (and at other times merely hints at) the tools he chose. He writes persuasively, for instance, about the acquisition and uses of administrative and professorial power, and about the delights of political gamesmanship in the growing UM. He systematically connects colonial Australian politics to internal Shop politics. It gives a slightly wrong impression of the book to say that Selleck borrowed directly from the methods of sociology and political science. It would be better to say that he has drawn upon those methods, sometimes explicitly (as on the urban-rural divide in Australian society, and its impacts on the study of art and music). His instincts are historical rather than socialscientific. Thus he may draw on social science without being wholly dependent on it.

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One sees the difference in his accounts of high jinks and low in Melbourne’s governing Council. Many UM Council members were significant political figures on the Melbourne and Australian political scenes. The Melbourne Council was headed in the nineteenth century by a Chancellor, and few readers will forget Selleck’s sharp-edged portrait of the vigorous and conservative Sir Redmond Barry, holder of office over a quarter-century, wealthy and influential, an servant of the crown and at the same time a successful businessman. In 1853, without consulting anyone, Barry simply told Sir John Herschel, the great London astronomer, that Herschel must help find new professors and lecturers for the antipodean university, now competing with ‘Australia’s first’ (Sydney, founded 1850; Melbourne founded 1853) leaving the impression that Barry was its founder, if not its owner! Barry mentioned the recent discovery of gold in Australia, ‘because it helped to explain “the nature of the society for which the Council of the University is to proivde instructors” ’. (Shop, 31) To Barry, the sciences mattered, and the humanities . . . didn’t. Yet the whole fibre of nineteenth-century academic life favoured the classics, especially as so many of the new university’s teachers and technicians had come from the United Kingdom. But by the time Barry left for a year’s leave from government service in the 1870s, The Shop was twenty years old. Council had developed a mind of its own, especially the five schoolmasters who regularly sat as a block in it. Tensions between classes, between rich and not-so-rich (those schoolmasters), between meritocratic and gentle ideas of the world, played themselves out in the Council (and interestingly, in student life). Barry’s temporary absence led at once to a power struggle, partly about the question whether chancellors and vice-chancellors were elected for life. Selleck writes that the sound of barons jousting in the absence of their travelling king soon reached the newspapers, and the Argus declared for Barry, arguing somewhat airily that Council . . . tacitly . . . [had chosen to elect] its chancellor and vice-chancellor for life. (153)

Selleck shows how public opinion finally undermined the exclusivist power of the classics, how student influence and public pressure worked together to produce broadened access to the university, and how the Melbourne curriculum became so varied, so early, and in so many professional fields (from medicine to law to music to engineering). A key moment was the 1880 decision to admit women. But Selleck offers

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detailed argument that the physical university, The Shop’s buildings and their placement, and its rising public endowment were just so many signs that self-confident Melbournians would have a university quite unlike the British or the American ones. Selleck manages to write an essentially historical treatment, yet to show his firm knowledge of work on the history of public opinion (including opinion of the university and its value in times of war and Depression), the history of gender and class, and theories of utility. His method is to pick his facts and his actors with care, keeping the theory in the background. It is an effective method. The examples of agricultural studies at Melbourne (Shop, 453–64) and of music (320–30, 364–73) further illustrate Selleck’s nuanced use of technique, and of course, his grasp of curricular theory and practice in the period c.1840–1940. He notes the importance of agriculture in turn-of-the-century Australia, giving us relevant statistics about agricultural practice and product to make his point. Selleck reminds us that The Shop was experiencing at the turn of the twentieth century a period of severe financial stress (The Shop, 430–7) brought on by the embezzlement of a huge sum by one of its officials, Frederick Dickson. Dickson made off with £23,838 6s over the fifteen years ending 1900, at a time when a full year’s government endowment was just £14,833 6s 8d. A Royal Commission of Inquiry (under one Theodore Fink) considered the situation. Commissions were the usual curative for all such crises in the Dominions of the British Empire, but this particular Commission recommended in 1904 that UM must now hew very closely indeed to its priorities. There would be no new public funding. The best thing, indeed the only possible thing, would be to continue to build a curriculum like that of the British Redbricks, and the largest American state universities. Besides, in the name of economy and modernity, UM could now take over agricultural colleges established as long as twenty years earlier (Shop, 453). In short, UM must respond to its financial emergency by reasserting its practical orientation, accepting direct obligations to the Australian economy, and expanding its empire by opening a Faculty of Agriculture (1906). Farmers mostly continued to learn the job on the family farm, but UM meanwhile grew ever larger. As for music, the first professor, George Marshall-Hall, began work in 1891. He and the UM Council agreed on the aims of musical study: they were nationalist (to prove that Australians could perform just as well as Englishmen), a means of shaping character, and a programme

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suited to women wanting to enter the university. As with many of UM’s degrees, it was thought that music might help to renovate the entire Australian education system, become a means of adult education and extension, and produce a cultural spark in the grim Antipodean atmosphere. As with agriculture, most musicians continued to learn their craft in conservatories and private studios, not at The Shop. In the name of practical education, UM founded its own Conservatorium, even as it maintained its theoretically oriented B.Mus. degree. Melbourne’s music teachers, and those in the larger state of Victoria, poured scorn on the professor and on the B.Mus., just as he poured scorn on them (372). The UM marriage of practicality and high culture continued all through the next hundred years. John Poynter and Carolyn Rasmussen, whose book on the history of UM deals with the period 1935 to the late 1980s and beyond, shows10 how music remained marginal to the great economic interests of the university, yet could not be scrapped altogether, even at the height of the efficiency movement, with the advent of performance indicators, and after the triumph of a new managerialism under Vice-Chancellor Allan Gilbert. It is initially surprising that Selleck should pay so much attention to agricultural and music studies, especially given the great weight of the sciences, of medicine, of business training, of engineering, and of the largest departments in Arts. But his choice makes sense in light of recent work in general social and cultural history. *** Friedland’s book is rather more orderly than Selleck’s, its themes established early and firmly. Friedland and his researchers did research for their volume as carefully and thoroughly as did Selleck and his asisstants at Melbourne. Yet Friedland’s book resists a sustained reading. Is Friedland’s outlook altogether too predictable? After all, his History is a celebration of a large and hardy institution’s survival. It does indeed have ‘a happy ending’. If there is a larger, but unstated theme in Friedland’s book, it is that the University of Toronto was a little too pliant, too open to public pressure and political preference. It gladly approved civil engineering programmes just because the mining and forest industry, and the provincial government close behind, demanded them. It quickly built dentistry and medicine faculty buildings because UT aimed to compete with large American state universities, most of whom had built big and built early. Friedland does not tell us where the demand for doctors came from,

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how closely UT modeled itself on the reform-minded University of Chicago, just across the Great Lakes,11 nor exactly how the tension between pure and applied science worked. That is, we are left with the institution and its development, and little else. The happy ending is a UT whose leaders are very good at fund-raising, a UT capable of good science and good humane study, despite thirty years of severe cuts in public funding. In 1914, the University of Toronto enrolled more than 4,000 undergraduates, nearly twice as many as McGill (2,600 students). Among university-educated English-Canadians, the University of Toronto was already the ‘U of T’, just as the University of Melbourne was ‘The Shop’. UT was a popular, ambitious place and looked the part. University College and its Library, the Mining Building on College Street, the Dentistry building, the newly federated Victoria University (a university within a university), Convocation Hall (complete with impressive threemanual organ), a medical school, a meteorological centre, all had been built since 1903. In stone and in brick, not just in matters of mind, UT was a more striking presence than the nearby Provincial Legislature of Ontario.12 Under Robert Falconer, president from 1907 to 1932, Toronto outpaced and outgrew its eastern and western competitors in Canada. But if UT was the best English Canada could do, the University could not avoid the worst. In October and November 1914, UT’s two teachers of German and a third German-born professor of Oriental languages were suspended and finally removed from campus. Two of these university teachers finished their careers in the United States, the third (the Orientalist) landing in Toronto’s much smaller McMaster University. Even as the Germanists were leaving UT, John G. Hume, Head of the Department of Philosophy, announced in 1915 that two courses dependent on German-language primary sources would be replaced (Friedland, 260). President Falconer had tried at first to resist the proBritish Empire rants of the local press and of the federal and provincial governments, but in the heat of the Great War he finally gave in. The Germanists left, and by summer 1915 Germanic studies were gone, if not quite dead. In philosophy, history, the social sciences, and all natural sciences excepting chemistry, the Germanic ‘model of inquiry and study was to be rejected’. Anthony B. McKillop’s general history of Ontario higher education argues that the field did not truly flourish in Ontario for a half-century or so, and most notably at UT. Michiel Horn quite correctly wrote that academic freedom was then, as before and later, a ‘losing cause’.13

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In the late 1940s, UT began to restore Germanistik, and made Ph.D. students in many science fields pass a German proficiency test before final acceptance in the School of Graduate Studies. But by then, UT had added depressing new chapters to its already-unhappy record in matters of nationality and liberality. In the period ending 1945, Friedland writes that the University had hired no fewer than ten refugee professors from Nazi Germany (343), drawing on the research of Paul Stortz.14 But several student generations had come and gone without the possibility of meeting and understanding the language and culture of most of central Europe. Friedland discusses the fate of the three German nationals in two pages (260–1). Here as everywhere else, the endnotes show how carefully Friedland (and his remarkable assistant Charles Levi)15 did necessary homework, using relevant published works, presidential correspondence, and UT’s published annual reports to write the discussion of this single, if revelatory event. And as always, Friedland’s text is well-written, his narrative moves quickly along, and his rhetoric is consistently restrained. The vast and sometimes confusing records of UT have defeated many a scholar, but not the able Friedland and historian Charles Levi.16 And yet, and yet: we wonder why UT of 1914 so willingly pandered to public and political pressure. Stortz concludes that UT professors were not remarkably different in attitude and social practice from the surrounding society. But another reason for the disasters of 1914 (and the late 1930s) may have to do with the history of humane and scientific studies at Toronto. As Friedland suggests (261–2; 352–6), UT was well behind its American counterparts in research capacity, despite all those spectacular new buildings on campus. Perhaps the fluid and uncertain status of the new social and literary sciences made it easier for Senate, President, and Board of Governors to dispense with German language and literature. For if it was not entirely clear what Germanic studies were, did it matter if they disappeared? Perhaps the power of Anglo-Canadian imperialist sentiment in still-rural, still-conservative Ontario was too great. Perhaps connections between UT on the one hand, and Ontario’s rising middle classes on the other, meant that the arts and humanities were dispensable. More than half of middle-class Ontarians were second- or third-generation Canadians, whose wealth was based on small business, the management of service companies, farming, dairying, and so on. These were not rentiers, nor was there a numerous aristocracy of wealth in Toronto before the greedy 1980s.17

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Friedland never gets around to sustained argument on matters like these. He comes closest in a chapter on the ‘Good Years’, the 1920s, with a discussion of UT’s rising English and History departments (Friedland, 302–8). Still ‘basking in the glow of the Nobel prize, for insulin’, (302) the natural and social sciences were doing well. Even here we wonder who all the profs were, where the students came from, and where they went upon graduation in English, History, Physics, Mathematics, and so on. The best-argued sections of the book are about students (most particularly the difficulties of a mainly non-residential university that hoped to act in loco parentis; the changing forms of student association; the great problem of student discipline; and the feminization of enrolment (for example, Friedland, 325) over the twentieth century). But on the history of curriculum, on the care (and control?) of the professoriate,18 and on the quality of day-to-day administration— any of which would have helped to explain the fate of those three Germanists—we hear too little. On a related question, we should like also to know more about the competing claims of ancient and modern studies at UT. Friedland mentions (305) Maurice Hutton, Gilbert Norwood, and Charles Cochrane, all of whom had trans-Atlantic renown in classical studies. But never learn in Friedland’s treatment how or why the classics waxed, then waned at UT. Yet this was the subject of desperately anxious debate, much of it with an eye to matriculation requirements in the burgeoning Ontario secondary school system.19 We know too little at the end of four hundred well-written pages about the financial claims of any one branch of learning, until we come to the Great Depression. Friedland then moves off into a useful-but-distracting sub-narrative on the Royal Ontario Museum, on the occasional gifts of the Carnegie and Rockefeller Foundations, and on repeated attacks on academic freedom in 1931 and 1939. Much of Friedland’s ‘distraction’ may be explained by two authorial tendencies—a fondness for readable chronology, and the wish (no, the need) to sort out UT’s messy administrative and legal structures. Friedland thought that somehow he must explain how UT became a savvy instrument of the twenty-first-century ‘knowledge economy’. Founded in 1826, re-founded in 1850 as a public and non-sectarian body, UT was buffeted by a thousand contrary political currents over the next century-and-a-half. On the administrative and legal sides of this long history, Friedland does a remarkably good job, but on the intellectual and cultural sides, not so good.

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A further, small illustration of Friedland’s historical strengths and weaknesses comes from his use of engravings, signs, and photographs. Bits of iconography appear all through the book at exactly the right chronological places. There are hundreds of pictures and engravings, all well-indexed. Yet these images are nowhere mined for the inferences and argument they could and should permit. At 534, we have a photograph of an ‘unruly’ 1969 meeting at Hart House, in the Debates Room of that fine neo-gothic pile. Greg Kealey and Andrew Wernick, now distinguished (if contrarian) academics in Newfoundland and Ontario, are shown in the full flower of youth, taking over a meeting about governance at UT. A dozen inferences and arguments suggest themselves. President Claude Bissell is meanwhile shown on 536 addressing yet another bunch of demonstrating students (this time about daycare) in 1970. (I should declare an interest: I am depicted in the background of this meeting, and remember the excitements of that sit-in.) I would be the first to say how difficult it is to draw inferences about curriculum, power, and leadership from photographs and other images. But the answer to that difficulty surely is to make the attempt. Here and there, a caption shows the beginnings of inference and argument, but text and photos are rarely in argumentative relation. The raw materials of another, parallel history of UT are everywhere present in Friedland’s pages. One wonders what Friedland would make, speaking methodologically, of Christopher Stray’s work on the fate of classical studies in Britain, or Annabel Robinson’s recent biography of the Cambridge classicist Jane Ellen Harrison.20 For Stray and Robinson make full and effective use of the techniques of singular and collective biography and, of course, of iconographical inference. The odd thing is that UT is well-served by biographical (if not iconographical) studies. There is, too, recent and intriguing work on UT’s Department of History (seen through the lens of a law-suit in which UT historians played a crucial role),21 and a collection of essays on the first president of the federal UT, Daniel Wilson.22 Add to this the long list of informative research on the architecture of UT, and one sees the outlines of an institution whose political and cultural significance is not quite what Friedland allows it to be. Thus Friedland gives a straightforward administrative and, occasionally, social history of UT. His book makes a foundation for more specialist work, beginning (one hopes) with many more biographical researches, new culturally-tinged investigations of icons and images of the university, careful work on the internal and external politics of the place, and

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the curriculum and practical pedagogy of everyday life in the vast panoply of UT’s many schools and faculties. But where are the political economies of Ontario and Canada in all of this? Those political economies shaped Toronto’s buildings, its curricula, the daily experience of student life, and the choice of professors at the university, just as surely as did the university’s constituent disciplines shaped it. The vast and impressive neo-Gothic Hart House, a student centre and a grand landmark at UT, was completed in 1919 at a cost of $2,000,000, a huge sum provided by the Massey family. The Masseys were grand Ontario capitalists whose fortune came from the manufacture of agricultural implements and machines. It was a fortune that grew with the westward agricultural expansion of the country. Just as the Masseys saw the entire country as their natural market, UT had come to see itself at the natural ‘university of the nation’. In the 1950s and 1960s, it could and did claim to have the means of educating the professoriate for the rest of Canada. In the story of Hart House lurks a much larger story. It is the visible sign of a political economy that could not and would not be denied. Selleck gives many pages, possibly too many, to the historic and cultural significance of buildings— their architecture and their placement certainly included—at UM. Friedland gives too few. It is a missed opportunity. Friedland successfully depicts the quantitative history of science and the social sciences, tracing professorial appointments in those areas of research and teaching, sometimes mentioning the declining power of religion in the university’s life. But I wanted to know why religion declined in the first place, why and how science and social science largely (but never completely) displaced the old humanities. The word ‘shaped’ may be too weak, as the rising and falling fortunes of various industries and professions can be so closely linked to developments at UT. At all events, Friedland provides almost no economic or demographic data about the province or the country to show links between the outside and the inside of UT. This he could have done. On the analogy of carpentry, we are left with the raw lumber of a large construction site, and architects’ drawings, but no final product to view or evaluate. *** Both books, and especially Friedland’s, give a remarkable picture of the magnitude and complexity of modern and post-modern higher education. At UT, student and professorial activism finally transformed

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the very structures of governance in the university. We are never told how Toronto’s sheer size became an historical proxy for those features of higher education that are usually said to have the power of transformation, those things about a university that change the professors and students and staff members who pass through it. But size did matter at Toronto. UT was big and, by and large, it was good. These things went hand in hand, Friedland tries to demonstrate. At various times in the 1960s and 1970s, one might even say the place had a magical quality, embodied in the tonish residential Massey College (mastered for some time by Robertson Davies, among Canada’s finest novelists), but also in the innovative outreach programmes for part-time students offered at Woodsworth College (founded 1974). From physics to mediaeval studies, UT seemed to allow for remarkable intellectual and psychological developments in its denizens, and maybe in the whole citizenry of Ontario and Canada. With the diversification of higher education in Canada and in the world, and the lasting crisis of public funding that began in the 1970s, Toronto lost some of its allure. Still UT had a marked impact inside and outside its walls. How did it produce that impact? Was it merely the result of exclusivist policies on admissions, the sure sign of an elite space and place? Was it lucky in its leaders (as for instance, the great Robert Falconer, president 1907–1932 during Canada’s great expansion? Was it transformative just because it embodied so completely the Anglo-Canadian values of its surrounding city, province, nation, and (for long) mother-Empire? Once again it helps to think how Toronto (and Melbourne) fit in larger and longer persectives. Toronto and Melbourne grew fast, just as their sister public (and sometimes private) universities did across North America, parts of Australasia, and Europe. We know that across the world, universities were on the way to becoming numerous and confusingly various in aims and structure after 1900. Fritz Ringer, Brian Simon, Konrad Jarausch, and the Oxford University history team have suggested themes that tie these broad developments together.23 Might those themes have been helpful to Friedland? Did Selleck miss any crucial themes from the list? Let us take a simple physical fact about both universities, exactly the sort of thing one would find treated in Stone’s volumes, or in Ringer, Simon, et al.: we have, in UM and UT, two large institutions set in immense geographical spaces, serving scattered and (until 1945) mostly rural populations. Both would claim to be intellectual centres to which

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the surrounding lay folk must come. They could claim to be fundamentally different from the rough, even rapacious society around them. Australia more than Canada had to cope with the ‘tyranny of distance’, as Geoffrey Blainey called it.24 Melbourne and Toronto are waterfront cities, with clienteles from ‘away’. Until at least the 1970s, and perhaps even in the 2000s, it was a life-changing experience to leave home as an eighteen-year-old and move into residence or into student digs, forsaking home and psychological safety for higher education. What made students willing to do this? What happened to students once they had made their move? (The question applies mutatis mutandis to adult students of all ages.) If we had an answer, or even a partial answer, we would be some way to explaining the larger question of these universities’ survival, their quantitative and qualitative ‘success’, and the practical meaning of the term ‘transformative’ in their institutional histories. In Australia and Canada, elementary and secondary school teachers must have had a good deal to do with the decision of younger students to enter university, as school teachers encouraged the young to think of the freedom and the fun of life away from home. Besides, in both countries the tradition of municipal or regional universities, founded by colonial governments and chartered by the Crown, came from a distance—an imperial distance. As cultural historians have shown these past forty years, colonial mentalities were immensely strong, capable of permeating family and communal life in the most rural and isolated places. A student deciding whether to finish secondary education and then matriculate at Melbourne or Toronto (or Sydney or McGill or Cape Town) might very well have thought of the fun and the freedom, but also the sheer excitement of connecting to the world and the Empire, their governance, their business, and their opportunities. For the young person from ‘away’, it was by definition a life-changing choice to attend UT or UM.25 The idea of distance, understood in these many ways, raises questions with which few historians had energetically dealt until the advent of historical/social geographies of education in the 1970s.26 The books under review veer away from such questions, yet allow readers to ask them. Keeping still to the problem of education as an operation committed to change and transformation: what of the broader politics of the cities and states in which UT and UM operated? Once again, there is much to be learned from work done elsewhere in Europe and North America. In Germany, limiting the inquiry to

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English-language works, a great deal of writing since 1968 has shown how liberal politics were connected to the apparently ‘disinterested’ Humboldtian idea of the university, and the unhappy outcomes of that connection in 1914 and 1933. Fritz Ringer’s books gave a careful reading of the intellectual and political entrails of the German professoriate, the larger social class from which it came, and the relation of professors and students to the project of a Great War.27 He, like Konrad Jaruausch, suggests and in the end persuades the reader that a university is incomprehensible without some help from intellectual and political history. Detlef Müller and Peter Lundgreen found connections between industrial and financial development in Germany, the rise of well-funded science institutes in (and out of) the traditional Philosophische Fakultäten, and the politics of state education and popular culture. Suddenly, it was practically possible to see the history of the University of Munich or Berlin in a new perspective: the rise of ‘modernity’ in the German state, variously expressed, and the national-imperial project of economic and imperial success in the wider world. In much the same vein, the University of Oxford started in 1968 a three-decade-long project28 for a history of itself. The framework for that vast project attended to students’ and professors’ social origins, the rise and fall of most subjects of research and teaching, questions of practical pedagogy and administration, but always in national–international perspectives. Like the German studies, the Oxford history balanced carefully the ‘interior’ histories of professions and fields of study at Oxford, with the histories of the university’s connection to social and political power in Britain and in the British Empire. Thus there are chapters in all eight volumes of the Oxford history showing where students came from (geographically, socially), and where they went (as for instance, to take up administrative posts in the Home Office or the Post Office or the India Office, and the like). One is not sure exactly how and why women were rebuffed for so long at Cambridge, nor do we know for certain why classics, then philosophy, then the natural sciences became dominant in Oxford. But the Oxford and the German projects have ways of asking these questions and producing reasoned and persuasive answers. Few if any projects elsewhere in the OECD countries did or could match the breadth and depth of the vast Oxford enterprise. Still, despite occasional lapses in research funding during periods of ThatcheriteReaganite restraint across much of the world, researchers enthusiastically wrote about universities, allied institutions, and people, whole fields and whole professions all through the last thirty years.29 In France,

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Pierre Bourdieu, J.-Cl. Passeron, and their colleagues of the 6e Section led the way, as did Fritz Ringer and Konrad Jarausch and Brian Simon, in the United States, Germany, and the United Kingdom.30 Whiggish institutional histories continued to be published after 2000 as before, but few would now deny that university history has taken a turn for the better. At the least, we have new criteria on which to evaluate studies like those of Toronto and Melbourne by Professors Friedland and Selleck. We are in sight of historical argument that would show how and why some features of university life have the power to modify a person’s psychology, her calculation of life-chance; why some kinds of university programme really do matter in the larger society and economy. *** Let us return for a dose of realism to Germans and Germanistik, this time at The Shop, the University of Melbourne. In late spring 1915, 2,000 Australians died at Anzac Cove, Gallipoli. Between 3 May and 25 June 1915, there were altogether 10,000 Australian casualties. By 1915, The Shop had been operating for sixty years. When the War began, the students displayed a self-confident and ‘hilarious excitement’ (The Shop, 528), not unusual in so well established a public university. But then the early weeks and months of excited conflict gave way to anxious worry. The casualty lists arrived daily, and a gloomy mood settled on The Shop. In the wider public, ‘Australians with German names became the subject of abuse, suspicion and hostility; many were sacked, and newspapers carried acuusations of disloyalty and calls for their internment or deportation’. (The Shop, 530) The university considered taking away the degrees of aliens, but found it could not legally do that. Then it was time to review the appointment of Eduard Scharf, distinguished German musician at the Conservatorium. His fifteen-year residence in Australia and marriage to an Australian woman saved him from instant dismissal, but not from eventual expulsion. Walter von Dechend, instructor in French and German language and literature, was even less lucky. He was accused of taking photographs (no one was sure what he was photographing) and riding a motorcycle. By December 1915, these men’s fates were sealed. Scharf was eventually deported (1919) to Germany, and von Dechend (although naturalised in 1922) did not again teach at The Shop. Selleck gives twice as many pages to his cases as did Friedland. In part this is the effect of having elected to write a big book about a shorter

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time period. The benefit of his spacious treatment is that Selleck can explore at length the condition of the disciplines and fields from which his Germanists came. It turns out musical instruction at Melbourne (yes, music again) was approaching a condition of anarchy in 1915. A disgruntled claimant to The Shop’s own conservatory, Marshall-Hall, had founded a competing music school. By summer 1915, Marshall-Hall had managed to negotiate an amalgamation of the two, and to be offered the directorship. At the key moment, he died of appendicitis; things at The Shop now got worse, as various factions decided if any Germanextraction teachers could be allowed in the amalgamated conservatory. Madame Nelly Melba, perhaps the most famous soprano then singing and teaching in the English-speaking world, and a raving Australian patriot, made vast claims on whole swaths of the musical curriculum at The Shop. In the end, the amalgamation failed. Now, it is a fair distance from (a) the fate of German nationals in Melbourne to (b) the ups and downs of a conservatory whose fate was by no means crucial to the long-term success of The Shop. One might even accuse Selleck of writing a disorderly book (one reviewer has done just that).31 But from a narrative standpoint, Selleck’s choice makes eminent good sense. Using professorial biography to raise questions about the good or bad health of a discipline is helpful, especially when the professor in question had his fingers in every aspect of public and private provision of teaching and research in his field, and also as Selleck is careful to keep us informed about overall student enrolments, the ups and downs of finance (in both competing conservatories), and the endless fight to persuade the citizens of Melbourne that their fondness for law, medicine, engineering, and agriculture should extend at least as far as a smattering of music. And remember, the question was constant: could German, French, British, or any other particular national musical tradition be allowed to dominate? The connected and still more important questions were about ethnicity and race in wartime, and about academic freedom. The methods of collective biography are a way in to all these questions, and the Germanist, music, and many more stories illustrate the point well, at Melbourne as at Toronto. In music as in most schools at Melbourne, there were inevitable differences between professors and students about power—who has it, who wants it, and who ‘deserves’ it. In the minds of professors there was little doubt: The Shop was theirs to direct. In the absence of strong central administrative authority, and if might made right, then

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the professors were indeed correct. Still, Melbourne students appear again and again in Selleck’s pages, insisting on their curricular preferences, voting with their feet, communicating when they like with the daily press. It was a more even struggle for power than Selleck suggests. *** Returning to the analogy of the warehouse, it is fair to say that Friedland and Selleck might usefully have chosen their questions, their techniques, their ‘tools of trade’—more explicitly and knowingly. Why not make use of our detailed knowledge of the Canadian and Australian societies? Why not draw on the relatively recent, but well-organized historiography of education and society in Australia (as for instance, the famous 1985 Daedalus Symposium on Australia) and in Canada (the regular historiographical essays published in the Canadian Historical Review, and in the Journal of the Canadian Historical Association, not to mention the Revue d’histoire de l’Amérique française)? Why not use the powerful devices of biography and prosopography, the analytical might of political economy, and the new historical sociology of the disciplines? The worry might be that these long and demanding books would have become longer still. But like the Mr. Fink, the Royal Commissioner at Melbourne in 1904, I would assert that it is a matter of priorities. Melbourne and Toronto are large and complicated universities. Their historians consequently must think big. It is not just a matter of encompassing vast archives, but also of using the conceptual means available in this new millennium. University of British Columbia 3817 West 16th Avenue Vancouver, Canada V6R 3C6 REFERENCES 1. Lawrence Stone (ed.), The University in Society. I: Oxford and Cambridge from the 14th to the Early 19th Century; II: Europe, Scotland, and the United States from the 16th to the 20th Century (2 vols, Princeton, 1974); Lawrence Stone (ed.), Schooling and Society: Studies in the History of Education (Baltimore and London, 1976). As for Stone’s life and writings as prosopographer, social historian, and general gadfly, see the necrology at http://www.princeton.edu/pr/news/99/q2/0617-stone.htm

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2. Max Beerbohm, Zuleika Dobson (London, 1911); F. M. Cornford, Microcosmographia academica (Cambridge, 1908); C. P. Snow, The Masters (London, 1952); David Lodge, Small World: An Academic Romance (London, 1984). 3. Compare Michael Sanderson’s The Universities and British Industry, 1850–1970 (London, 1972), a resolutely contextualist work, with the nuanced discussions of applied and basic science research at Oxford in the twentieth century in Brian Davis (ed.), History of the University of Oxford: IX: The Twentieth Century (Oxford 2000). The Oxford study leaves room for the actors’ subjective appreciations of their working conditions, the reasons for their laboratory or library work, the pleasures and perils of grant-getting and publication when ‘performance indicators’ and Research Assessment Exercises began to decide the fates of whole departments—even in Oxford. Davis’s authors succeed because they manage, taken together, to preserve a balance between highly personal accounts of research and teaching on one hand, and the pre-emptive and destructive effects of national assessment and funding exercises on the other. This is petite histoire, but firmly set in grand and persuasive perspectives. 4. As Jacques Le Goff did, to take a remarkable case, in his Intellectuals in the Middle Ages, trans. Teresa L. Fagan (Cambridge, MA and Oxford, 1993). 5. Lionel Gossman, Basel in the Age of Burckhardt: A Study in Unseasonable Ideas (Chicago, 2000), 201–410; Werner Kaegi, Jacob Burckhardt: Eine Biographie (8 vols, Basel, 1947–1982), vols. VII–VIII passim); and Max Burckhardt, Jacob Burkhardt: Briefe (Basel, 1986), vol. X, ‘Das Lebensende’, 322–332. 6. Historians and many Toronto alumni think of Cody to this day only on account of his campaigns in the 1930s to limit the speech rights of several internationally known Toronto professors. Among those he sought to repress were George M. A. Grube, Harold Innis, Frank R. Scott, Bora Laskin, Frank Underhill, all highly reputed in various fields of the arts and social sciences. Whether it was these professors’ desire to free Canada from the grip of imperialism, or their frank interest in the most modest forms of socialism, they raised Canon Cody’s blood pressure. Indeed, Cody was eventually nicknamed ‘Loose Canon Cody’. See Michiel Horn, Academic Freedom in Canada: A History (Toronto, 1999), 88–123. 7. The Shop is a fond student nickname for the University of Melbourne (The Shop, 146). 8. Richard J. Selleck and Stuart Macintyre produced a shorter and photographically enriched Short History of the University of Melbourne (Melbourne, 2003); also see Selleck’s James Kay-Shuttleworth: journey of an outsider (London, 2003); and his widely-known Frank Tate, a biography (Melbourne, 1988). 9. Selleck made this point in correspondence with William Bruneau, June 2004. To be fair, Friedland insists on the guarantee of authorial independence he received before taking on the history of the University of Toronto.

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10. John Poynter and Carolyn Rasmussen, A Place Apart: The University of Melbourne (Melbourne, 1996), 385–7. 11. Stephen Diner, A City and its Universities: Public Policy in Chicago, 1892–1919 (Chapel Hill, 1980) discusses the Settlement House Movement, the appearance of a university-supposed reform slate in Chicago’s municipal politics, and the creation of Chicago’s schools of social work, education, and nursing, all in aid of sustained social change. 12. Anthony B. McKillop, Matters of Mind: The University in Ontario, 1791–1951 (Toronto, 1994), 180ff. McKillop’s A Disciplined Intelligence. Critical Inquiry and Canadian Thought in the Victorian Era (Kingston and Montreal, 1979) makes out a case that English-Canadian academics and academic administrators had found ways simultaneously to maintain idealist and empiricist views of science and the humanities. This uneasy alliance helped English-Canadian universities to insist that their social good works had moral and religious grounds, but also to claim the support of ‘objective science’ as they built schools of social work, nursing, education, and engineering. On this dual theory of knowledge/ethics, see Leslie Armour and Elizabeth A. Trott, The Faces of Reason: An Essay on Philosophy and Culture in English Canada, 1850–1950 (Waterloo, Ontario, 1981). Carl Berger’s Science, God, and Nature in Victorian Canada (Toronto, 1983) shows how the Canadian-English educated public, with its fondness for natural history, museums, and cabinets de physique, had prepared the ground for the high-minded theory that came from UT, Queen’s, and McGill from 1890 to 1914. See also Samuel E. D. Shortt, The Search for an Ideal: Six Canadian Intellectuals and Their Convictions in an Age of Transition, 1890–1930 (Toronto, 1976). Neither Armour and Trott’s volume, nor Berger’s essay, nor Shortt’s book appears in Friedland’s otherwise excellent bibliography; but then Friedland has no full discussion of idealist-empiricist tensions. 13. Michiel Horn, Academic Freedom in Canada: a History (Toronto, 1999). 14. Paul Stortz, ‘Rescue Our Family From a Living Death’: Refugee Professors and the Canadian Society for the Protection of Science and Learning, 1939–1946’, Journal of the Canadian Historical Association, 14 (2003): 231–61, and at URL: http://www.erudit.org/revue/jcha/2003/v14/n1/ 010326ar.pdf 15. Cf. Charles M. Levi, Comings and Goings: University Students in Canadian Society, 1854–1973 (Kingston and Montreal, 2003). 16. The end notes to Friedland’s history are published separately as Notes, 1–402, available from the Press for $Can 25.68, and as an open website at: http://www.utppublishing.com/uoft_history/notes.html. This was a ‘first’ in the publishing world, at any rate, in the publication of university histories. The result was a volume one can hold in one’s hand, with some effort, rather than a 1,200-page monster. 17. Paul Axelrod, Making a Middle Class: Student Life in English Canada During The Thirties (Montreal and Kingston, 1990).

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18. On women in the professoriate, and on questions of political ‘control’, see E. Smyth, et al. (eds.), Challenging Professions: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives on Women’s Professional Work (Toronto, 1999), passim; cf. William Bruneau, ‘Quietly Flow the Dons: Toward a History of the Professoriate’, in L. Panayotidis and P. Stortz, eds., The Professoriate in History (Toronto, 2005), forthcoming. 19. Cf. R. D. Gidney and W. P. J. Millar, Inventing Secondary Education: The Rise of the High School in Nineteenth-Century Ontario (Kingston and Montreal, 1990). 20. Christopher Stray, Classics Transformed: Schools, Universities, and Society in England, 1830–1960 (Oxford, 1998); Anabel Robinson, The Life and Work of Jane Ellen Harrison (Oxford, 2002), the latter reviewed by William Bruneau in Russell, 23 (2003–4): 185–90. 21. A. B. McKillop, The Spinster and the Prophet: Florence Deeks, H.G. Wells, and the Mystery of the Purloined Past (Toronto, 2001), reviewed by William Bruneau in History of Intellectual Culture, 5 (2005): forthcoming. 22. E. Hulse, ed., Thinking with Both Hands: Sir Daniel Wilson in the Old World and the New (Toronto, 1999), useful for its treatment of the history of anthropological teaching and research in nineteenth-century Victorian UT. 23. Fritz K. Ringer, Education and Society in Modern Europe (Bloomington, 1979), and his Fields of Knowledge: French Academic Culture in Comparative Perspective, 1890–1920 (Cambridge, 1992); D. Müller, F. Ringer, and Brian Simon, (eds.), The Rise of the Modern Educational System: Structural Change and Social Reproduction, 1870–1920 (Cambridge, 1987); Konrad Jaurausch, (ed.), The Transformation of Higher Learning, 1860–1930 (Chicago, 1983); ibid., Students, Society, and Politics in Imperial Germany: The Rise of Academic Illiberalism (Princeton, 1982); and Brian Davis, (ed.), History of the University of Oxford: IX: The Twentieth Century (Oxford, 2000). 24. Geoffrey Blainey, The Tyranny of Distance: How Distance Shaped Australia’s History (Melbourne, 1962; 2nd edn, 1982). 25. For a memoir of this kind of student experience, see Jill Kerr Conway’s The Road from Coorain (New York, 1989). Kerr was a Sydney undergraduate, graduate, and teacher between 1952 and 1960, having come from an isolated Australian sheep farm. 26. See, for example, Victor Morgan and Christopher Brooke, A History of the University of Cambridge: 2: 1546–1750 (Cambridge, 2004), esp. Ch. 6, by Morgan, on ‘Cambridge and “the country” ’. 27. Fritz Ringer, The Decline of the German Mandarins: The German Academic Community 1890–1933 (Cambridge, 1969). 28. On the origins of the Oxford history, see Ralph Evans, ‘Aston, Trevor Henry (1925–1985)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford, 2004) [accessed 9 Nov 2004: http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/53265]. The History of the University of Oxford came eventually to fill nine volumes in eight thousand pages.

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29. As, for instance, Charles E. McClelland, The German Experience of Professionalization: Modern Learned Professions and Their Organizations from the Early Nineteenth Century to the Hitler Era (Cambridge, 1991); Fritz Ringer, Fields of Knowledge: French Academic Culture in Comparative Perspective, 1890–1920 (Cambridge, 1992); and Elizabeth Smyth, et al. (eds.), Challenging professions: historical and contemporary perspectives on women’s professional work (Toronto, 1999). 30. Annual bibliographies in University History make it possible to follow the development of research and writing in the field from the mid-1960s onward. 31. C. M. Levi, review of Selleck, The Shop: The University of Melbourne, 1850–1939; and Selleck and MacIntyre, A Short History of the University of Melbourne in History of Education Quarterly, 44 (2004), 297–301.

Book Reviews

Neil Kenny, The Uses of Curiosity in Early Modern France and Germany. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. xiv ⫹ 484 pp. This is a work which is to be noted for its comprehensiveness, its rigour of analysis, and, not least, its originality. In this, his second book on early modern curiosity, Neil Kenny explores vastly different contexts with ease, never failing to observe particular nuances with precision whilst simultaneously pursuing his specialised investigative concerns. In any study of curiosity the reader might expect to find an exploration of familiar concepts such as ‘intellectual curiosity’ (which might roughly signify intellectual inquisitiveness) or an assessment of the practice of the collection of curiosities. Indeed, as the author points out, such anticipation is generally rewarded in other recent studies which present early modern curiosity as a distinct and well-defined concept; one quite recognizable to contemporary readers. What is remarkable about Kenny’s work is that such ready definitions of curiosity are never present. Kenny argues that the concept-orientated analyses of other recent studies of curiosity emerge only at the cost of ‘tidying up’ the ordinary language of the period. The author’s approach, on the other hand, is decidedly language-based; his concern being that very ‘mess of ordinary language’ which typified early modern discourse on curiosity. In Kenny’s view, the family of terms which denoted curiosity comprised a concept only in the sense suggested by Wittgenstein. Curiosity was, therefore, devoid of an ineliminable core of meaning but remained integral as a ‘concept’ in the sense that its meanings comprised numerous chords, neither identical or unrelated to each other, which were unified by the ‘discursive glue’ that was the family of terms denoting curiosity. To Kenny, all competing early modern connotations of curiosity are worthy of attention since all were active in the negotiation of the term’s meanings and functions. The ‘ceaseless contestation of curiosity’ by early modern writers can only become visible, he argues, by concentrating on their ordinary, untidy language. Kenny’s purpose in this study, then, is not to identify the emergence of a select concept of curiosity but to ‘tell the stories of how [. . .] distinctively early modern shapes of curiosity came and went, of how they were constantly created and undone’. The distinct contexts of institution, discursive tendency and sex/gender are examined by the author in his analysis of early modern uses of curiosity. In his investigation of the institutional context Kenny explores the use of curiosity

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by universities, by the church and by those institutions that produced and disseminated knowledge in the public sphere. Kenny’s second context is that of the two discursive tendencies which characterised writing about curiosity: the ‘curiosity-collecting’ tendency and the ‘curiosity-narrating’ tendency. The third context investigated is the use of curiosity in narratives which sought to regulate sex and gender. In his investigation of university discourse on curiosity Kenny focuses entirely on Lutheran universities in the German territories. This selection reflects the peculiarly abundant production of printed dissertations and orations on curiosity in German Lutheran universities between the years 1652 and 1744. Kenny notes that his study comprises the first exploration of this corpus. It seems unlikely, however, that a scholarly concern for curiosity did not exist outside German Lutheran universities. The author points out that German Lutheran universities were unusually active in the printing of academic dissertations and orations since they required large amounts of these texts for the instruction of students. He does not indicate why universities of different confessional hue did not require such printed texts for teaching purposes, however. Kenny lists a number of reasons as to why curiosity was attractive as a topic for university dissertation and oration during this period. The topic’s potential for reflexivity, for example, made it particularly apt for use in oration since these were often opportunities to glorify or lament university study. The topic also exuded the attraction of its newness; it did not feature extensively in the traditional curriculum. From the latter half of the seventeenth century curiosity began to gain prominence as a label for university study, in particular that of an innovative kind. In some instances (particularly in universities that were introducing experimental natural philosophy into the curriculum) curiosity was transformed in university discourse from a quality pejoratively associated with novelty into an attractive one which could virtually signify ‘cutting edge’. This increasing concern for curiosity reflects a shift in normative characterisations of the term in university discourse. Prior to the mid-seventeenth century curiosity had denoted a limited range of bad knowledge. During this period it came to signify knowledge in general, both good and bad. It also came to denote the knowledge sought as well as the knowledge seeker and the relationship between those subjects and objects. The management of curiosity in traditional scientific structures allowed for its manipulation in university discourse. Curiosity was commonly understood as a genus which was divided into numerous species or, alternatively, as a species of an extended genus. These arrangements allowed curiosity to be contested and reshaped while remaining ostensibly the same thing. Curiosity could be restructured in an ambivalent way as having a variety of good and bad applications or characteristics according to the kind of knowledge or action under scrutiny. Such arrangements of curiosity allowed academics to attempt the social regulation of knowledge and behaviour (according to Kenny one of the primary uses of curiosity in this contextual setting) since they supported suggestions that curiosity was either good or bad according to

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perspective or context. Decorum-based understandings of curiosity were applied to two contexts: that of the university world and that of the social world outside the university. Thus, in the first instance, the separateness and integrity of the disciplines could be maintained since it could be suggested that the expression of curiosity outside a scholar’s speciality was inappropriate. In the second context scholars could deem the expression of curiosity in an individual outside of their profession, vocation or station as wholly inappropriate and pernicious. Curiosity in the artisan was, for example, deemed to be a negative characteristic since it was not necessary to the fulfilment of his social or economic functions. The curiosity of the professor on the other hand could be deemed entirely necessary. In this manner, university discourse on curiosity could be used to legitimise the institution. Indeed, the attribution of positive connotations of curiosity could lend a university an element of prestige needed to secure students, funding and patronage. The second context examined by Kenny in his investigation of the institutional uses of curiosity is that of the church. An abundance of available sources allows the author the opportunity to assess the treatment of curiosity within both Catholic and Protestant circles in France and the Germanic territories. Kenny’s approach is to take ‘soundings’ from the vast array of extant sources (the type of source examined being the printed sermon). Kenny identifies a tendency in modern studies of early modern curiosity to marginalise or exclude church discourse on the basis that it did nothing more than repeat opposition to curiosity developed by the medieval church, or, that due to its inherent lack of academic neatness it was nothing more than an unhelpfully debased copy of more philosophically rigorous assessments of curiosity. Kenny argues that church discourse on curiosity should be as central to the assessment of early modern understandings of the concept as any other; that it is misleading to privilege certain genres of writing over others. Kenny also opposes the notion that church attacks on curiosity were either ‘pure repetitions’ of earlier condemnations of curiosity or ‘last-gasp pleas’ issued to prevent the positive reception of curiosity. The author demonstrates that church attacks on curiosity remained widespread well into the eighteenth century; an indication of their popular currency. Kenny argues that although church discourse did tend to repeat patristic or other older condemnations of curiosity it did so in new ways since such arguments were applied specifically to contemporary contexts. Church attacks railed against the various pernicious consequences of early modern curiosity, attempting, for example, to combat new philosophies such as Cartesianism, new fads for luxury or the theatre, or new heresies such as Socinianism or libertinage. In his third assessment of institutional uses of curiosity the author examines what he describes as a ‘cluster’ of institutions that produced and disseminated knowledge outside the confines of university or church. These include relatively formal institutions such as academies or learned societies; commercial organisations such as publishing houses; and various informal networks of savants,

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naturalists, collectors, travellers, and antiquarians. Kenny argues that these groups introduced two significant semantic ‘sea-changes’ to curiosity: the first being that they reshaped curiosity into something that was usually good; the second being that they transformed a wide range of knowledge and matter into curiosities—objects of a material or discursive nature which allowed the consumer to satisfy his curiosity. This ‘cluster’ of institutions includes those which tended to organise and disseminate knowledge as a metaphorical collection of curiosities as well as those that engaged in the collection of material objects. In this sense, printed and published texts were presented as ‘figurative cabinets of curiosities’, as collections of ‘curious’ discursive items. The uses of curiosity by the institutions and groups which comprised the ‘culture of curiosities’ (Kenny adapts Pomian’s ‘culture of curiosity’ in order to reflect the attempts of such institutions to shape curious objects of both a material and discursive nature) were very different from those attempted by churches and universities. Kenny demonstrates how these organisations attempted to use curiosity to legitimise knowledge, to commodify it, to attach financial value to it, to market it, to popularise it, to influence public opinion, to lend social credentials to the individual, to entertain, and so on. Kenny’s second context for exploring early modern uses of curiosity is that of discursive tendency. Two distinct tendencies are described. The ‘curiositycollecting’ tendency was that which presented curiosity as the collecting of discrete objects whether material (shells, clocks, etc.) or discursive (recipes or news items). The ‘curiosity-narrating’ tendency was that in which curiosity, depicted as a passion, was presented as part of a narrative, as one stage in a linear and temporal sequence of events. According to the author, these two tendencies often co-existed within the same discourse. He indicates that the ‘curiosity-collecting’ tendency was predominant within the culture of curiosities. The ‘curiosity-narrating’ tendency, on the other hand, tended to be most prominent in university and church discourse as well as in the fictional narratives which were supported in theatre, opera, ballet, fiction and poetry. The author’s third context for detecting uses of curiosity is that of sex and gender. In this regard Kenny remains within the confines of the curiosity-narrating tendency, although he does recognise that such uses could be easily detected in the collecting tendency. Kenny identifies the process enacted most particularly in exemplary narratives whereby curiosity was used to attempt the regulation of behaviour in both men and women. Although the predominant tendency here was to describe curiosity as something negative, it did come to be re-evaluated in a positive light during the seventeenth-century. Positive curiosity was always characterised as male and its practice encouraged only in males. The practice of curiosity by females remained entirely negative and the practice of negative types of curiosity by males was described as female. Exemplary narratives incorporating curiosity were used to encourage certain kinds of behaviour in men and to discourage the practice of curiosity by women. The latter often

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comprised an attempt to control female sexuality since curiosity in women was deemed to reflect a lack of chastity. This work is crucial to the study of early modern curiosity. Its seminality lies both in its insightful and comprehensive assessment of the many contexts in which curiosity was used, and in the manner in which it challenges the methodological assumptions of other recent studies of the concept. Indeed, Kenny’s innovative approach should provoke healthy debate in this field of study. This work is of notable value beyond that particular area of study, however. Kenny’s investigation of a multiplicity of contexts ensures that this is a significant addition to several fields of study including, amongst others, the history of universities, the study of church discourse, the history of the book, the study of the marketplace for knowledge, linguistic history, the study of early modern discourse, as well as the study of sex and gender in the early modern period.

Richard Kirwan Department of Modern History Trinity College, Dublin Ireland

Sarah Bendall, Christopher Brooke and Patrick Collinson, A history of Emmanuel College, Cambridge. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 1999. xvii ⫹ 741 pp. The history of Emmanuel College falls easily into two very different parts, divided by the English civil war when the parliamentarian regime, having ejected the heads of ten Cambridge Colleges, appointed no less than seven Emmanuel graduates among their replacements. By contrast, when England’s troubles returned in the ‘Glorious Revolution’ later in the century, Emmanuel’s most prominent graduate, and former Master, was William Sancroft, archbishop of Canterbury, first and foremost of the Non-Jurors. The College had been founded as ‘a seed-plot of learned men for the supply of the Church’, in 1584, with statutes that imposed residential obligations so strict as to make it impossible to combine senior membership with ecclesiastical preferment and, in a constantly contentious provision, prohibited fellows from ‘tarrying in the College’ for more than eleven years after commencing MA. The effect, it was alleged, was that fellows were ‘turned out to starve with the title of Doctor’. In reality, they benefited, like their graduates, from a quasi-subversive job placement service established by the first Master, Laurence Chaderton, for Emmanuel was the heart of organized Puritanism within the Church of England. Well-endowed by its founder, Elizabeth’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Henry Mildmay,

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and his friends, it quickly outgrew its resources as it swelled to become the largest of the Colleges. As it did so, it fulfilled Mildmay’s purposes more thoroughly than he had planned by pursuing admission policies that appeared to contradict its seminarian mission. The sons of the gentry and professional classes were favoured and many fewer sizars were admitted than in other colleges: accordingly, fewer of its students graduated, fewer entered the ministry (less than two in five) and more went on to the Inns of Court. Its success was due to its fashionable attraction for godly and socially well-connected gentry families who combined membership of the church with reservations about its laws and liturgy. They saw the ethos of the College as conducive to saving the souls or protecting the morals of their sons and used their powers of ecclesiastical patronage to provide places for the godly preaching ministers that it produced. The secret of its influence, in short, lay in its attention to demand as well as supply, to producing both the ‘magistry’ and the ‘ministry’. In time, its influence extended beyond the pulpits and manors of old England across the Atlantic to New England, most notably in the persons of John Cotton, Thomas Hooker and, of course, John Harvard. In its early years, in short, the history of Emmanuel was an integral part of the history of the Reformed Church and Patrick Collinson, an authority on early modern English Protestantism, deftly guides the less informed reader through the nuances of the issues, the intricacies of the relationships and, not least, the protean meanings of the term ‘puritan’. In the Restoration period and thereafter, all was changed and the College slipped from being an institution that saw itself playing a role of national importance to one that made few claims to local significance. Royal mandates altered its statutes and its character, to the relief of some—‘It is easier to obey than to choose’, wrote Charles II’s first Master, Sancroft. It became conservatively Anglican in its religion, Tory in its politics and unremarkable in its fellowship and scholarship. Its buildings deceptively suggest that it flourished—a Wren chapel was followed by extensive eighteenth century additions and refurbishments—but 100 years after it had been the largest Cambridge College it had become one of the smallest, with fewer than 40 undergraduates where once there had been more than 250, and it remained among the least distinguished of the Colleges well beyond the eighteenth century. The years 1797–1871, we are told, ‘in learning were the most silent in the history of the College’. Christopher Brooke is a lucid and patient guide to the minutiae, the personalities and the parish pump politics of this backwater, but his spirit lifts perceptibly when the later nineteenth century is reached and modernization begins. The outlines are familiar—growth, diversification, professionalism, the admission of woman and so on—but the detail of the transition, as College appointments ceased to be a form of apprenticeship for young clergymen and research was grudgingly accepted as a necessary adjunct to learning, is often informatively and entertainingly distinctive. The records of the administration of Emmanuel and the management of its estates are enviably well preserved, if at times less than businesslike in their

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form, and a valuable feature of this work is the series of chapters (with a weighty appendix) in which Sarah Bendall has used them to reconstruct the history of the College’s management of its assets and resources from Mildmay’s endowment to the Quatercentenary appeal that made it possible at last for the College significantly to expand the original site.

Aidan Clarke Department of Modern History Arts Building Trinity College Dublin

Hartmut Rüdiger Peter (ed.), Schnorrer, Verschwörer, Bombenwerfer? Studenten aus dem Russischen Reich an deutschen Hochschulen vor dem 1. Weltkrieg. Frankfurt am Main, Peter Lang GmbH /Europäischer Verlag der Wissenschaften, 2001. 188 pp; Hartmut Rüdiger Peter & Natalia Tikhonov (eds.), Universitäten als Brücken in Europa / Les universités: des ponts à travers l’Europe. Studien zur Geschichte der studentischen Migration / Etudes sur l’histoire des migrations étudiantes. Frankfurt am Main, Peter Lang GmbH / Europäischer Verlag der Wissenschaften, 2003. 339 pp. Both books are offered as ‘work in progress’. They probe issues connected with student migration, especially from Russia to pre-First World War Germany from the 1880s to 1914. Within the broad frame of the history of universities the project might eventually be made to dovetail with the study of urban myths and the investigation of minorities (‘the alien in our midst’ syndrome). Here the editors declare themselves interested in intercultural encounters at third level institutions, their significance for the formation of the images of ‘the foreigner’ and ‘the enemy’. At this stage the contributors deliberately restrict themselves to formulating questions rather than dishing out ready-made answers. Only a few authors are sufficiently advanced in their researches to present some of the results already gained. All, however, permit their readers to inspect their primary material in its ‘raw state’ and invite them to evaluate their strategies of inquiry. Concentrating on Russian students at German third level institutions in the pre-First World War period, the first volume is better coordinated; the second cannot help but be more diffuse since it extends the geographical range and the timescale of the inquiry. It is possible, however, to verify the progress of the project in the articles of the second volume written by some of the contributors to the first, especially when they concentrate again on the effect of Russian migration. The consensus among the contributors to both volumes is encapsulated in

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the call for a more ‘systematic’ sifting of evidence, the search for new sources, preparing for an equally systematic matching of quantifying methods with qualifying purposes; the latter, however, will only make historical sense if the authors are prepared to treat statistics as a means to an end, not an end in itself. Hartmut Rüdiger Peter, the editor of the first volume, has taken his coordinating title from the a speech Chancellor von Bülow made before the German Reichstag in 1904, which used the first two nouns: Schnorrer (scroungers, a very nasty, eventually anti-semitic epithet) and Verschwörer (conspirators, here implying that the students were intent on causing trouble in the host country; German public opinion was not so much concerned with what these students might do in Russia). Bombenwerfer may hint at hooliganism, but the word becomes sinister and threatening when used in conjunction with conspiracy. The allusion to detonating hand-made bombs was mobilized to insinuate contacts with the revolutionary Social Democrats in Germany. Von Bülow had merely lent words to a perception and prejudice that had already gained common currency in Germany. The title of the volume is particularly appropriate, since one of the aims of the colloquium at which the papers were presented was to explode the myth of an invasion of ‘underqualified, loose-living Russians/Slavs’. Dr. Peter and his team at Halle as well as scholars from predominantly Eastern European countries seek to make a contribution to the exploration of public opinion in relation to two specific, prominent educational institutions: universities and Technische Hochschulen. They are also interested in establishing what conditioned the formation of public perceptions. When discussing individual contributions below, I shall say more about the methods and strategies adopted. The question of what prompted the migration of Russian students to the West (mostly to Germany) in the first place emerges only incidentally in individual articles: the inadequacy of Russian higher education institutions, the restrictive legislation in Russia, which excluded especially Russian Jews from attending universities. All this is more or less taken as read, but it ought to have been given greater prominence in the introductory discussion. The migration was after all the response to specific government measures, which provide an identifiable reason for leaving the country and lend a common purpose to the migration movement. It is understandable that a detailed examination of the reasons for the migration could not be the task of the colloquium, whose contributors were on the whole concentrating on the ‘effect’. The reader, however, needs to be informed more comprehensively about the context or conditions, not least because otherwise he has to garner this information from the generalizing analyses in political histories, often marred by the merely anecdotal assertions that the contributors feel so doubtful about. The other advantage of providing a reliable account is that this ‘background’ is needed to be able to evaluate how and why the attraction of especially German institutions of higher education was so strong: neutral statistics lead to materialist-positivist interpretations. There are in fact two conflicting strands of migrations that have to be distinguished: enforced migration (as a result of the restrictive policies), and simultaneously

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the encouraged migration subsidized by the Russian government with state scholarships. There is no doubt that the latter was only too aware that Russian society could not prosper until energized by well-educated experts with specialized training, first and foremost in engineering and the health services. Several contributors to both volumes concentrate on the investigation of the impact of this second strand with great skill from a clearly defined, but more limited perspective. They are guided by Hartmut Rüdiger Peter’s definition of the purpose of the initial colloquium, ‘to explore the actual motives and reasons of student migration from Russia which has remained fragmentary’. Peter is referring to social and cultural aspects that had been neglected, while political accounts had traditionally been given comprehensive consideration. It will, however, be necessary to subject the political context to a more differentiated appraisal to be able to appreciate the social and cultural dimensions, otherwise they will remain fragmentary. The editors and contributors impress most in two respects. In the first instance there is the successful realization of their intention to provide a meeting for the assessment of research problems—the state of research—in the ‘home countries’ (Russia, Poland, Germany, France, Switzerland) of the participating scholars ‘to determine compatibility of such research’. The second is the laudable endeavour to assess as many sources as possible and to open up new ones. The primary intention is to apply and test out quantifying methods as well as to develop strategies to explore the potential of a study of the perception of and by the foreign students: ‘the Ausländerfrage’. True, the quantifying methodologies are more advanced than the study of perception (as the editor of volume one states). The research strategies developed for the exploration of different aspects of life and learning of Russians abroad, the educational dimension of the general Russo-phobia that concealed anti-Polish and anti-semitic prejudices, are all given a ‘statistical underlay’. It is accepted that the relevant information— consolidated in databases—has to allow the researchers to deal with human emotions, intentions, assumptions, intellect, prejudices, and not just statistics. The authors are only too aware that careful, appropriate screening of evidence and its statistical evaluation is essential so as not to end up elaborating new myths. The strategies if they are to yield worthwhile insights are bound to become more and more complex as the work progresses. The investigation of public opinion and prejudice calls for very refined ‘listening devices’; the construction of these still has to be debated more fully. To give an impression of the range of studies it may suffice to give the briefest of summaries of the following contributions. Victor Karady (vol. 2) offers an important and compact, albeit all too brief, appraisal of questions raised by ‘unequal’ student exchanges before 1930. He points out the constraints imposed on migration research and the difficulties of designing strategies appropriate to counter these shortcomings. Other authors have restricted themselves to the construction of smaller scale models applicable to Germany and other European countries. They report on a specific set of sources and assess possibilities of

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quantifying the information thus gathered. Anatolij E. Ivanov (vols. 1 & 2) highlights the range of sources available and the questions that they raise. He specifically draws attention to the potential of material in the Russian police archives. Witold Molik (vol. 1) concentrates on the records of Polish student organisations. Mario Klotzsche (vols. 1 & 2) explores the perception of ‘Russian students as Ausländer’ by German students and his source materials are student publications. Sergij Stel’mach (vols. 1 & 2) reports on the experiences of Ukrainian students, while concentrating more on Kiev professors in the second article. Aleksandra Bekasova (vol. 1) investigates the impressions of Russian students in Germany in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Hacik Rafi Gazer (vols. 1 & 2) has two discussions of German-Armenian academic relations. Pierre Moulinier (vol. 2) discusses the social origin and courses studied by Russian students at Paris on the basis of a great mass of statistical evidence. Andrea Cammelli (vol. 2) looks at foreign students in Italy from 1945–1998 on the basis of the UNESCO annuals. Abdelkader Latreche (vol. 2) examines the case of the students from the African colonies (now former) in France in the twentieth century. Irina Manitz (vol. 2) reviews the ‘Ausländerfrage’ in Russian language periodicals published in Germany. Irina & Dmitri Gouzévitch (vol. 2) deal with East European migration to France for technological instruction between 1800 and 1940. Their presentation culminates in a case study of Nancy. Florian Kemmelmeier (vol. 2) sifts through the material that can throw more light on the cultivation of a sense of identity among Polish student associations (i.a. the Philomathia) in Halle between 1880 and 1914, which the authorities viewed with great distrust. Nicole Fouché’s contribution (vol. 2) explores an entirely topical issue: The American University in Paris, 1962–2002, from American exclusivity to internationalization. In the remaining part of this review the articles by Peter, de Boor, Weill, Tikhonov and Andreev will be assessed in greater detail as representative examples best suited to highlight the perceived advantages and limitations of the quantitative method and the strategies adopted to explore aspects of the perception of the ‘Ausländerfrage’ so far. Hartmut Rüdiger Peter (vol. 1) concentrates on patterns of perception and on stereotypes that informed the attitudes to Russian students in the decades prior to the First World War. He adverts to several important facts. German society as a whole was worried about the presence of ‘Ausländer’. The anti-foreign reaction was also reworked in the party-political debates, although many expressions of anti-Russian sentiments were frequently triggered by violent student confrontations. Significantly, at universities, the foreign students were singled out as a convenient means of channelling a deep sense of malaise that was very little to do with their presence (12). For his specific purpose Peter consults various sources from which to extract information on contemporary stereotypes. While the cooperation of the Russian secret police with German officialdom—both concerned with flushing out ‘anarchists’—is confirmed, a comparison of sources produced by the universities themselves with official state documents reveals

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that universities were far less obsessed with the ‘anarchist’ question. It appears that for their part the students from Russia were interested in furthering their careers, repressive legislation in Russia providing the overall motive of student migration, without turning them into revolutionaries (22/3). Peter postulates that the ‘motivation’ for migration must be subjected to a much more differentiated analysis that distinguishes between academic, cultural and political reasons. As far as the German perception of the ‘Russian’ student is concerned, research has often reduced it to the ‘Judenfrage’ (25). The importance of ‘Jewish students’ among the Russian migrants is not denied: what awakens the author’s concern is the overstretching of such a partial aspect, since it can lead to misunderstandings. A broad spectrum of the public press and official as well as private records can be consulted. The academic publications suggest that German professors maintained a national-liberal attitude towards the Russian students, stressing their usefulness to the spread of German cultural influence. The reader will readily appreciate that the perception of Russian students by Germans has to be matched by an investigation of the Russian students’ experience of German conditions as well as the self-perception of these students (29). It will be agreed that this must be one of the most difficult parts of the project, given the limitations of traditional sources. Peter expects much new information from an appropriately systematic evaluation of a hitherto neglected source, the Russian secret service documentation (31) that can also throw light on cultural orientation and everyday life. The author’s interim assessment leads to the inevitable conclusion that close cooperation between Russian and German scholars is crucial and that extension to other parts of Europe is desired. As the most helpful methodology he approves of the design of comprehensive, compatible databases to discover the diversity of perceptions of the friend-enemy image. This, however, can only be beneficial to the overall yield of the project, if one does not make the mistake of expecting the accurate, comprehensive picture to explain physical aggression against foreign students, often mobilized by a prejudiced clique of opinion-leaders. The method can help to identify stereotypes and prejudices, not explain their origin and force. Peter is, of course, very much aware of this problem. He also offers two significant contributions to the second volume. In the first one he acknowledges the work by Claudie Weill (Etudiants russes en Allemagne 1900–1914. Quand la Russe frappait aux portes de l’Europe. Paris 1996) as a methodological inspiration of the project; he proposes to extend it generally to national elite formation with implications for policies, political life, national consciousness and social dynamics. In the second Peter highlights the Prussian policies (with Saxon and Baden variations) to restrict the activities of foreign students between 1905 and 1913. This study is focused on high politics. The findings for Prussia are very instructive; Peter compares the restrictive measures recommended by the Kaiser and national student bodies with the much more ‘liberal’ measures adopted by the Rectors’ conference. Throughout the various tactics to reduce

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the influx of Russian students, the Prussian Minister for Culture, Adam von Trott zu Solz, showed himself singularly unimpressed with the official arguments and even imperial wishes to adopt strong-armed tactics. He invariably asked for ‘hard evidence’, but he was never given any firm facts that would have confirmed massive participation by Russian students in social-democratic and social revolutionary activities (vol. 2, 184). Even in December 1910 when more stringent admissions criteria were allegedly devised, they constituted no more than the resurrection of the old general guideline instructions. This contribution combines the necessary quantitative research with an informed qualitative judgment. It is ideally suited to show the way to an appropriate strategy. Andreas de Boor reports on the construction of a comprehensive database of foreign students in Halle, made possible by the relative wealth of material from which information can be extracted. This is truly ‘work in progress’ that will provide a solid resource for systematic inquiry, especially into the social status of students. The ultimate aim is to construct a network of European student migration (115), which hopes to extend in less flamboyant terms the two volumes by R. G. Plaschke and K. Mack entitled Wegenetz des Europäischen Geistes (published in 1983 and 1987 respectively). The author’s regret that historians are still not prepared to accept the application of quantitative methods may well be justified, but whether his account can significantly further their appreciation of the structure and function of databases remains to be seen. Databases are, after all, an incredibly painstakingly constructed means to an end. Several months of careful work may eventually have to be distilled into a short paragraph in the text that has to rely on narrative and other non-quantifiable sources as well. De Boor stresses the significance of a vital distinction between the Halle database and that of Zurich; the Halle database registers students by name rather than matriculation numbers, thus also developing a much more differentiating structure with a filtering process to avoid duplication while at the same time—one hopes—permitting people, even personalities, to surface. His design is verifiable in tables, pie-charts and graphs that are, unfortunately, barely readable without a magnifying glass. Extending his previous scope but adopting the same criteria, de Boor seeks to demonstrate the possibilities and limitations of a combination of quantitative and qualitative evaluation of a mass of data. He is convinced that this can quite reliably provide insights on nationality and social status of Russian students at Halle in the second half of the nineteenth century. He has matched, in the first place, nationality with student associations, and secondly, social status with motivation to study. This creates a useful starting point for further research into prejudice and political manipulation. The contributions by Claudie Weill deserve special attention, because she is already applying new methods while restricting the area of investigation to a less ambitiously comprehensive frame. She concentrates on the social life of Russian students at German universities, and the role of their political organizations

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and she also re-examines the Munich questionnaire of 1904 (vol. 1, 72). This is a very plausibly worked out presentation, where human needs and aspirations, even ethical decision-making are not neglected at the expense of neutralising data. The creation of the Munich Russian Student Bank of 1892 and the one in Berlin in 1902 (vol. 1, 75) constitute the culmination points of these caring organizations. In Professor Weill’s estimation the students who received support were just as highly regarded as those who could finance their own studies. Such an observation may not always stand up to the test of statistics, but it constitutes the kind of scholarly judgement that is eliminated from most of the other contributions, which are either at earlier stages in their research or seek their answers in comprehensive systematic quantitative assessments alone. Claudie Weill’s exploration of the Russian students’ rejection of the German confraternities is trenchant and convincing. The forms of bonding sought by the Russian migrating university candidates is traced in the congresses organised to coordinate Russian students right across Germany; the plan for a Russian university abroad proved abortive while the Jewish University in Jerusalem was founded in 1914. The wide-ranging judicious appraisal of these developments uses student newspapers of different ideological persuasions to good effect. The same sources also yield the prolific and graphically presented wealth of information on the cultural activities extending from theatre, cinema to popular recreation of Russian students. The broad spectrum of relationships of different political persuasions and commitments rounds off the article. Clearly set out and perceptively analyzed, this contribution can act as a stimulating model for the further directions of the project as a whole. In her other contribution (vol. 2) Claudie Weill singles out one component of the ‘Ausländerfrage’ by concentrating on Russian-Jewish student associations in Germany between 1900–1914, their activities and the clashes between Zionists and Socialist Internationalists. Her sources are the records of the various corporations; they reveal the splintering of these small groups into even smaller fragments. The author attempts no more than to show diversification of those students who considered themselves Jewish. Much attention is given to the ‘Bund’ as the opinion-leader among Russian-Jewish students. Natalia Tikhonov (vol. 2) presents two carefully researched, seminal studies; both single out aspects of female migration. The first article combines consideration of migration in general with the admission of Russian female students to foreign universities. The statistics assembled from various statistical handbooks reveal that Switzerland saw the largest influx of foreign students (men and women), 89% of them Russian (vol. 2, 44/45). As far as the admission of women students was concerned, Germany lagged about thirty years behind France and Belgium. Natalia Tikhonov’s database is designed to grant detailed ‘hard fact’ insights and to compare the influx of foreign students in general with the admission of women students (local and foreign) in four countries: Switzerland, France, Belgium and Germany. It is obviously her intention to provide much systematic information about what these women studied

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(medicine, nursing, arts?) in future; at the moment she can pay only little attention to such issues. In her second article (also vol. 2) she devotes herself to a further exploration of Russian female students in Switzerland and Germany in terms of welcoming or ‘arms-length’ policies adopted by the universities. She rightly points out that one is dealing with two models of admission of female students; but one may quarrel with her description of this process as ‘feminization’. (Admitting women to universities in most cases amounted to the ‘masculinization’ of the female students). The Swiss model—between 1870 and 1910 about three quarters of women students were from Russia— encouraged female medical students who indeed made it possible for women to practise their professions. Most female professors, lecturers, assistants in Switzerland were foreigners. In the German model, characterized by the later admission of women to universities (from 1908), the Russian students do not seem to play such a leading and defining role. The general prejudice against the ‘Slav invasion’ affected Russian women in particular. The two graphs are intricately constructed and reveal the disparity between the two models. One should, however, not forget that the actual numbers involved here were, relatively, very small. In a thought-provoking article, Andrej Andreev takes a step back in time to look at Russian student migration to German universities at the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries, subtitling it ‘Überlegungen zu einer sozialen Analyse’. It is his intention to supply a complete statistical overview as well as a social portrait (vol. 2, 71). His statistical appendices are impeccably based on matriculation records. The tables and graphs can easily be assimilated even by the non-specialist. In the preceding text he refines and qualifies the tables and graphs, demonstrating awareness of the limitations of the statistical approach. He never claims to be able to throw light on the political decisionmaking mechanism, but in his interim conclusions and outlook he calls for precisely this to be explored afresh as the proper context of his findings. It is already evident that aristocratic as well as students of lesser status [Andreev speaks of a growing democratization of migration] preferred Protestant, newer ‘liberal’ universities like Göttingen and Halle. The reader also catches a glimpse of their influence on the development of Russian higher education. All in all the two volumes of ‘work in progress’ repay closer scrutiny. They offer methodologies and design strategies for the study of student migration which are worth considering and debating.

Helga Robinson-Hammerstein Department of Modern History Trinity College Dublin 2 Republic of Ireland

Bibliography

Publications on University History since 1977: A Continuing Bibliography Edited by Marc Nelissen Produced with the co-operation of the International Commission for the History of Universities

Preface This issue contains 886 references to books and articles on the history of universities in the world. We can offer bibliographical lists for Austria, Belgium and The Netherlands, The British Isles, Bulgaria, Germany, Italy, Poland, Russia, Spain and The United States, together with some titles for France and Switzerland. The reports are grouping publications about the universities in a given country, and often also publications on other universities that have appeared in the same country. The editor is most grateful to all contributors for their continuing help. The following have contributed reports for this issue (membership of the International Commission for the History of Universities is indicated by an asterisk): Kurt Mühlberger* (Austria—56 items) Anuschka De Coster (Belgium and The Netherlands—98) Robert A. Anderson* (The British Isles—67) Helga Robinson-Hammerstein* (The British Isles (Ireland)—4) Georgeta Nazarska (Bulgaria—28) Marie-Luise Bott*, with the help of Jana Papke (Germany—218) Maria Teresa Guerrini (Italy—161) Veronika Kiku (Poland—24) Albina Krymskaya (Russia—65) Juan Luis Polo Rodríguez and Luis E. Rodríguez-San Pedro* (Spain—53)

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Marcia Synnott (The United States—75) Individual contributions were received from Suse Baeriswyl (7), Marian Füssel (13), and Natalia Tikhonov (12) Anyone wishing to contribute (or to take up again their former co-operation) by supplying bibliographical references about a specific university or a broader geographic region, is welcome to contact Marc Nelissen at the address below. Apart from this, contributions from individuals are really welcome, and should be addressed to Drs. Marc Nelissen, Bibliography editor—History of Universities, University Archives K.U.Leuven, Mgr. Ladeuzeplein 21, B-3000 Leuven, Belgium, fax ⫹32 16 32 47 09, e-mail [email protected]

Austria Additions to Earlier Lists For 1994 Crystal, Malcolm Lee, Medicine in Vienna in the sixteenth and seventeenth Centuries, s.l., 1994 (Phil. Diss. University of Virginia) [Vienna]. For 1995 Heindl, Waltraud, ‘Zur Entwicklung des Frauenstudiums in Österreich’, in Flamm, Dieter (ed.), Hochgeehrter Herr Professor! Innig geliebter Louis! Ludwig Boltzmann, Henriette von Aigentler, Briefwechsel (Beiträge zur Wissenschaftsgeschichte und Wissenschaftsforschung, 2), Vienna—Cologne— Weimar, 1995, 257–267 [Vienna]. Heindl, Waltraud, ‘Friedrich Engel-Janosi als Lehrer und Historiker. Eine Auseinandersetzung mit einer ungewöhnlichen Persönlichkeit’, ÖGW. Österreichische Gesellschaft für Wissenschaftsgeschichte, 15, 1995: 217–225 [Vienna]. Stadler, Friedrich, and Peter Weibel (eds.), The Cultural Exodus from Austria, revised and enlarged edn., Vienna—New York, Springer Verlag, 1995 (first edn. Vienna, 1993) [Vienna]. For 1996 Stadler, Friedrich, ‘Die andere Kulturgeschichte. Am Beispiel von Emigration und Exil der österreichischen Intellektuellen (1930–1940)’, in Steininger, Rolf, and Michael Gehler (eds.), Österreich im 20. Jahrhundert, Vienna, 1996, 1, 499–558 [Vienna]. For 1997 Stadler, Friedrich, Studien zum Wiener Kreis. Ursprung, Entwicklung und Wirkung des Logischen Empirismus im Kontext, Frankfurt am Main, 1997 (Sonderausgabe 2001) [Vienna].

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Stadler, Friedrich, and Kurt R. Fischer (eds.), “Wahrnehmung und Gegenstandswelt” —Zum Lebenswerk von Egon Brunswik, 1903–1955, Vienna—New York, 1997 [Vienna]. For 1998 Rautschka, Rudolf, and Christian Stanek, ‘Aus der Universitätsklinik für Orthopädie bei Huf- und Klauentieren der Veterinärmedizinischen Universität Wien. Zur Frühgeschichte der Wiener tierärztlichen Bildungsstätte (II): Johann Gottlieb Wolstein und der Wiener Jakobinerprozeß’, Wiener Tierärztliche Monatsschrift, 85, 1998: 310–318 [Vienna, Veterinary Medicine]. Riedl-Dorn, Christa, ‘Eduard Poeppigs Briefe an Stephan L. Endlicher und seine Bilder im Naturhistorischen Museum in Wien’, in Morawetz, W. and M. Röser (eds.), Eduard Friedrich Poeppig 1798–1868. Gelehrter und Naturforscher in Südamerika anläßlich seines 200. Geburtstages, Leipzig, 1998, 87–143 [Vienna]. Riedl-Dorn, Christa, Das Haus der Wunder—Zur Geschichte des Naturhistorischen Museums in Wien, Vienna, 1998 [Vienna]. Stadler, Friedrich, ‘Karl Popper und der Wiener Kreis’, in Padilla Galvez, Jesus, and Raimondo Drudis Baldrich (eds.), Wittgenstein y El Circulo de Viena— Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis, Cuenca, Ediciones de la Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha, 1998, 285–304 [Vienna]. Stadler, Friedrich, ‘Der “Wiener Kreis” ’, in Krohn, Claus-Dieter and others (eds.), Handbuch des deutschsprachigen Exils 1933–1945, Darmstadt, 1998, 813–824 [Vienna]. For 2000 Jezek, Martha Jennifer, Funktionen des Lesens im 18. Jahrhundert, s.l., 2000 (Univ. Wien Diplomarb.). Riedl-Dorn, Christa, Johann Natterer und die Österreichische Brasilienexpedition, Petropolis, 2000 [Vienna]. For 2001 Fettweis, Günter B. L., ‘Über Beiträge aus den Ländern der Habsburger Monarchie zur Entwicklung der Montanwissenschaften und damit auch der Geowissenschaften im 16. und 18. Jahrhundert’, Mensch—Wissenschaft—Magie. Mitteilungen der Österreichischen Gesellschaft für Wissenschaftsgeschichte, 21, 2001: 1–16. Heindl, Waltraud, Höslinger Annette, Finck Liebhart and Karin Liebhart (eds.), Genderforschung im östlichen Europa, special issue of Österreichische Osthefte, 43.4, 2001 [Vienna]. Jabloner, Clemens, and Friedrich Stadler (eds.), Logischer Empirismus und Reine Rechtslehre. Beziehungen zwischen dem Wiener Kreis und der HansKelsen-Schule, Vienna—New York, Springer, 2001 [Vienna]. Kral, Elisabeth, ‘. . . Das Schulwesen aber ist, und bleibt immer ein Politikum’. Elementarunterricht unter Maria Theresia und Joseph II, s.l., 2001 (Dipl. Arbeit Univ. Wien).

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France Noiriel, Gérard, ‘Le jugement des pairs. La soutenance de thèse au tournant du siècle’, Genèses. Sciences sociales et histoire, 5, 1991. Wang, Nora, ‘Chinese Worker-students in France after the First World War’, in Migration, Integration, Minorities since the 17th Century. European Encyclopaedia, Osnabrück, 2004 [China]. Wang, Nora, Emigration et politique, les étudiants-ouvriers chinois en France, 1919–1925, Paris, Les Indes savantes, 2002 [China].

Germany Additions to Earlier Lists For 1981 Fläschendräger, Werner, and Günter Steiger (eds.), Professoren und Studenten und Hochschulen im Ueberblick, Leipzig, Urania Verlag, 1981. For 1983 Elm, Ludig, and Günter Steiger (eds.), Alma mater Jenensis. Geschichte der Universität Jena, Weimar, Hermann Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1983.

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Russia Additions to Earlier Lists For 1986 Mishin, E. M. (ed.), Biobibliograficheskij slovar professorov i prepodavatelej Kazanskogo universiteta, 1905–1917, Kazan’, Izdatelstvo Kazanskogo universiteta, 1986 [Professors of Kazan’ State University]. For 1994 Chervonenko, V. N., Uchenye Omskogo sel’skohosjajstvennogo instituta (1918–1993): K 75-letiju instituta: Professora, dozenty-rukovoditeli vuza, dekany, zavedujushchie kafedroj, Omsk, 1994 [Professors of Omsk Agricultural Institute]. For 1995 Mihelkevich, V. N. and V. M. Nesterenko (eds.), Professora Samarskogo gosudarstvennogo tehnicheskogo universiteta, Samara, SamGTU, 1995 [Professors of Samara State Technical University]. Tsogoev, V. G., Doktora nauk, professora Severnoj Osetii: Biobibliograficheskij spravochnik, Vladikavkaz, Izdatelstvo Sev.-Osetinskogo gosudarstvennogo universiteta, 1995 [Biobibliographical dictionary of professors and doctors of philosophy of Severnaja Osetija]. For 1996 Grimza, A. Ju. (ed.), Pochetnye chleny, doktora i professora Moskovskogo universiteta 1804–1994: Biograficheskij slovar, Moscow, MALP, 1996 [Honoured members, doctors of philosophy and professors of Moscow State University].

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Spain Additions to Earlier Lists For 2003 Álvarez Villar, Julián, ‘Cronología del aula “Fray Luis de León” ’, Miscelánea Alfonso IX, 2003: 203–206. Astorgano Abajo, Antonio, ‘Meléndez Valdés y el helenismo de la Universidad de Salamanca durante la Ilustración’, Cuadernos del Instituto Antonio de Nebrija, 6, 2003: 11–86. Barrientos García, José, ‘La cátedra de Filosofía Moral (1560–1607) de la Universidad de Salamanca a través de los Libros de Visitas’, La Ciudad de Dios, 216.2–3, 2003: 1053–1128 [Homenaje al P. Saturnino Álvarez Turienzo]. Cura de coyuntura . . . La traumatología en la Historia y su representación en la Biblioteca de la Universidad de Salamanca. Exposición bibliográfica

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Switzerland Additions to Earlier Lists For 2004 Ackermann, Felix, Christian Franz Freiherr von Eberstein (1719–1797). Ein gelehrter Domherr des Basler Domkapitels im 18. Jahrhundert, Basle, Verein Freunde des Domes zu Arlesheim, 2004. Döring, Detlef, and Hanspeter Marti, Die Universität Leipzig und ihr gelehrtes Umfeld 1680–1780 (Texte und Studien, 6), Basle, 2004. Flury, Theres, Karl Schmucki and Ernst Tremp, Karl der Grosse und seine Gelehrten. Zum 1200. Todesjahr Alkuins (gest. 804). Katalog zur Ausstellung in der Stiftsbibliothek St. Gallen (22. Dezember 2003–14. November 2004), St. Gallen, 2004. Gäbler, Ulrich, Hochschulmedizin wohin? Die Medizinische Fakultät der Universität (Basler Universitätsreden, 120), Basle, 2004. Schnyder, Marco, ‘Un nobile ecclesiastico nella sua comunità. Il conte abate Francesco Saverio Riva di Lugano (1702–1783)’, Bollettino Storico della Svizzera Italiana, 107, 2004: 149–170. Steinke, Hubert (ed.), Claudia Profos (ed.) and Pia Burkhalter (collab.), Bibliographia Halleriana. Verzeichnis der Schriften von und über Albrecht von Haller (Studia Halleriana, 8), Basle, 2004. For 2005 Stuber Martin, Stefan Hächler and Luc Lienhard (eds.), Hallers Netz. Ein europäischer Gelehrtenbriefwechsel zur Zeit der Aufklärung (Studia Halleriana, 9), Basle, 2005.

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