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Letter XII
Letter XII of 24. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Sur le chancelier Bacon.
Il n’y a pas longtemps que l’on agitait dans une compagnie célèbre cette question usée et frivole, quel était le plus grand homme, de César, d’Alexandre, de Tamerlan, ou de Cromwell. Quelqu’un répondit que c’était sans contredit Isaac Newton. Cet homme avait raison: car, si la vraie grandeur consiste à avoir reçu du ciel un puissant génie, et à s’en être servi pour s’éclairer soi-même et les autres, un homme comme M. Newton, tel qu’il s’en trouve à peine en dix siècles, est véritablement le grand homme; et ces politiques et ces conquérants dont aucun siècle n’a manqué ne sont d’ordinaire que d’illustres méchants. C’est à celui qui domine sur les esprits par la force de la vérité, non à ceux qui font des esclaves par violence c’est à celui qui connaît l’univers, non à ceux qui le défigurent, que nous devons nos respects.
Le fameux comte de Verulam, connu en Europe sous le nom de Bacon, qui était son nom de famille. Il était fils d’un garde des Sceaux, et fut longtemps chancelier sous le roi Jacques Ier. Cependant, au milieu des intrigues de la cour et des occupations de sa charge, qui demandaient un homme tout entier, il trouva le temps d’être grand philosophe, bon historien et écrivain élégant; et ce qui est encore plus étonnant, c’est qu’il vivait dans un siècle où l’on ne connaissait guère l’art de bien écrire, encore moins la bonne philosophie. Il a été, comme c’est l’usage parmi les hommes, plus estimé après sa mort que de son vivant: ses ennemis étaient à la cour de Londres; ses admirateurs étaient les étrangers.Lorsque le marquis d’Effiat amena en Angleterre la princesse Marie, fille de Henri le Grand, qui devait épouser le roi Charles, ce ministre alla visiter Bacon, qui, alors étant malade au lit, le reçut les rideaux fermés. « Vous ressemblez aux anges, lui dit d’Effiat; on entend toujours parler d’eux, on les croit bien supérieurs aux hommes, et on n’a jamais la consolation de les voir. »
On sait comment Bacon fut accusé d’un crime qui n’est guère d’un philosophe, de s’être laissé corrompre par argent. On sait comment il fut condamné par la Chambre des Pairs à une amende d’environ quatre cent mille livres de notre monnaie, à perdre sa dignité de chancelier et de pair.
Aujourd’hui, les Anglais révèrent sa mémoire au point qu’à peine avouent-ils qu’il ait été coupable. Si on me demande ce que j’en pense, je me servirai, pour vous répondre, d’un mot que j’ai ouï dire à milord Bolingbroke. On parlait, en sa présence, de l’avarice dont le duc de Marlborough avait été accusé, et on en citait des traits sur lesquels on appelait au témoignage de milord Bolingbroke, qui, ayant été son ennemi déclaré, pouvait peut-être avec bienséance dire ce qui en était. « C’était un si grand homme, répondit-il, que j’ai oublié ses vices. »
Je me bornerai donc à vous parler de ce qui a mérité au chancelier Bacon l’estime de l’Europe.
Le plus singulier et le meilleur de ses ouvrages est celui qui est aujourd’hui le moins lu et le plus inutile: je veux parler de son Novum scientiarum organum. C’est l’échafaud avec lequel on a bâti la nouvelle philosophie; et, quand cet édifice a été élevé au moins en partie, l’échafaud n’a plus été d’aucun usage.
Le chancelier Bacon ne connaissait pas encore la nature; mais il savait et indiquait tous les chemins qui mènent à elle. Il avait méprisé de bonne heure ce que les universités appelaient la philosophie; et il faisait tout ce qui dépendait de lui, afin que ces compagnies, instituées pour la perfection de la raison humaine, ne continuassent pas de la gâter par leurs quiddités, leur horreur du vide, leurs formes substantielles et tous les mots impertinents que non seulement l’ignorance rendait respectables, mais qu’un mélange ridicule avec la religion avait rendus presque sacrés.
Il est le père de la philosophie expérimentale. Il est bien vrai qu’avant lui on avait découvert des secrets étonnants. On avait inventé la boussole, l’imprimerie, la gravure des estampes, la peinture à l’huile, les glaces, l’art de rendre en quelque façon la vue aux vieillards par les lunettes qu’on appelle bésicles, la poudre à canon, etc. On avait cherché, trouvé et conquis un nouveau monde. Qui ne croirait que ces sublimes découvertes eussent été faites par les plus grands philosophes, et dans des temps bien plus éclairés que le nôtre? Point du tout: c’est dans le temps de la barbarie scolastique que ces grands changements ont été faits sur la terre: le hasard seul a produit presque toutes ces innovations, et il y a même bien de l’apparence que ce qu’on appelle hasard a eu grande part dans la découverte de l’Amérique; du moins a-t-on cru que Christophe Colomb n’entreprit son voyage que sur la foi d’un capitaine de vaisseau qu’une tempête avait jeté jusqu’à la hauteur des îles Caraïbes.
Quoi qu’il en soit, les hommes savaient aller au bout du monde, ils savaient détruire des villes avec un tonnerre artificiel plus terrible que le tonnerre véritable; mais ils ne connaissaient pas la circulation du sang, la pesanteur de l’air, les lois du mouvement, la lumière, le nombre de nos planètes, etc., et un homme qui soutenait une thèse sur les catégories d’Aristote, sur l’universel (a parte rei) ou telle autre sottise, était regardé comme un prodige.
Les inventions les plus étonnantes et les plus utiles ne sont pas celles qui font le plus d’honneur à l’esprit humain. C’est à un instinct mécanique, qui est chez la plupart des hommes, que nous devons la plupart des arts, et nullement à la saine philosophie. La découverte du feu, l’art de faire du pain, de fondre et de préparer les métaux, de bâtir des maisons, l’invention de la navette, sont d’une tout autre nécessité que l’imprimerie et la boussole; cependant ces arts furent inventés par des hommes encore sauvages.
Quel prodigieux usage les Grecs et les Romains ne firent-ils pas depuis des mécaniques? Cependant on croyait de leur temps qu’il y avait des cieux de cristal, et que les étoiles étaient de petites lampes qui tombaient quelquefois dans la mer; et un de leurs plus grands philosophes, après bien des recherches, avait trouvé que les astres étaient des cailloux qui s’étaient détachés de la terre.
En un mot, personne avant le chancelier Bacon n’avait connu la philosophie expérimentale; et de toutes les épreuves physiques qu’on a faites depuis lui, il n’y en a presque pas une qui ne soit indiquée dans son livre. Il en avait fait lui-même plusieurs; il fit des espèces de machines pneumatiques, par lesquelles il devina l’élasticité de l’air; il a tourné tout autour de la découverte de sa pesanteur; il y touchait; cette vérité fut saisie par Torricelli. Peu de temps après, la physique expérimentale commença tout d’un coup à être cultivée à la fois dans presque toutes les parties de l’Europe. C’était un trésor caché dont Bacon s’était douté, et que tous les philosophes, encouragés par sa promesse, s’efforcèrent de déterrer.Nous avons vu qu’on trouve dans son livre, en termes exprès, cette attraction nouvelle dont Newton passe pour l’inventeur.
Ce précurseur de la philosophie a été aussi un écrivain élégant, un historien, un bel esprit. Ses Essais de morale sont très estimés; mais ils sont faits pour instruire plutôt que pour plaire; et, n’étant ni la satire de la nature humaine comme les Maximes de M. de La Rochefoucauld, ni l’école du scepticisme comme Montaigne, ils sont moins lus que ces deux livres ingénieux. Sa Vie de Henri VII a passé pour un chef-d’œuvre; mais comment se peut-il faire que quelques personnes osent comparer un si petit ouvrage avec l’histoire de notre illustre Thou?
En parlant de ce fameux imposteur Perkins, fils d’un juif converti, qui prit si hardiment le nom de Richard IV, roi d’Angleterre, encouragé par la duchesse de Bourgogne, et qui disputa la couronne à Henri VII, voici comme le chancelier Bacon s’exprime:
« Environ ce temps, le roi Henri fut obsédé d’esprits malins par la magie de la duchesse de Bourgogne, qui évoqua des enfers l’ombre d’Édouard IV pour venir tourmenter le roi Henri. Quand la duchesse de Bourgogne eut instruit Perkins, elle commença à délibérer par quelle région du Ciel elle ferait paraître cette comète, et elle résolut qu’elle éclaterait d’abord sur l’horizon de l’Irlande. »
Il me semble que notre sage de Thou ne donne guère dans ce phébus, qu’on prenait autrefois pour du sublime, mais qu’à présent on nomme avec raison galimatias.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the French text of all twenty-four letters (Garnier edition, 1879, French Wikisource) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity.
On Chancellor Bacon
Not long ago, in a distinguished company, people were debating the worn-out, frivolous question of which was the greatest man: Caesar, Alexander, Tamerlane, or Cromwell. Someone answered that it was undoubtedly Isaac Newton. He was right: for if true greatness consists in having received a mighty genius from heaven and using it to enlighten oneself and others, a man like Newton, scarcely one of whom appears in ten centuries, is truly a great man; while those politicians and conquerors, of whom no century has been without its share, are ordinarily no more than illustrious scoundrels. It is to the man who rules minds by the force of truth, not those who enslave by force; to the man who knows the universe, not those who disfigure it, that we owe our respect.
The celebrated count of Verulam, known throughout Europe as Bacon, his family name, was the son of a keeper of the seals and served for many years as chancellor under King James I. Yet amid the intrigues of court and the duties of an office that demanded a man's whole attention, he found time to be a great philosopher, a good historian, and an elegant writer; still more remarkably, he lived in an age that knew little of the art of writing well and less still of sound philosophy. As so often happens among men, he was more esteemed after his death than during his life: his enemies were at the London court; his admirers were foreigners. When the marquis d'Effiat brought Princess Marie, daughter of Henri the Great, to England to marry King Charles, this minister went to visit Bacon, who was then ill in bed and received him with the curtains drawn. “You are like the angels,” d'Effiat told him; “one always hears of them, believes them far above men, and never has the consolation of seeing them.”
Everyone knows how Bacon was accused of a crime hardly becoming in a philosopher: allowing himself to be corrupted by money. Everyone knows how the House of Lords sentenced him to a fine of about four hundred thousand livres in our currency and the loss of his dignity as chancellor and peer.
Today the English revere his memory so deeply that they scarcely admit he was guilty. If you ask what I think, I shall answer with a remark I once heard Lord Bolingbroke make. People were speaking in his presence of the avarice of which the duke of Marlborough had been accused, and citing incidents for which they appealed to Lord Bolingbroke's testimony; as Marlborough's avowed enemy, he might perhaps have said what he knew without impropriety. “He was such a great man,” he replied, “that I have forgotten his vices.”
I shall confine myself, then, to speaking of what earned Chancellor Bacon the esteem of Europe.
The most remarkable and best of his works is the one least read today, and the least useful: I mean his Novum scientiarum organum. It is the scaffolding with which the new philosophy was built; once the building was raised, at least in part, the scaffolding was no longer of any use.
Chancellor Bacon did not yet know nature; but he knew and pointed out every road that leads to it. He had early come to scorn what the universities called philosophy; and he did everything in his power to prevent these institutions, established to perfect human reason, from continuing to corrupt it with their quiddities, their horror of a vacuum, their substantial forms, and all the foolish terms that ignorance had made respectable and an absurd mixture with religion had made almost sacred.
He is the father of experimental philosophy. It is quite true that astonishing secrets had been discovered before him. People had invented the compass, printing, engraving, oil painting, mirrors, the art of restoring sight in some measure to the elderly by means of spectacles, gunpowder, and so forth. They had sought, found, and conquered a new world. Who would not believe that these sublime discoveries were made by the greatest philosophers, in an age far more enlightened than our own? Not at all: it was in the age of scholastic barbarism that these great changes were wrought upon the earth. Chance alone produced almost all these innovations; and it even seems very likely that what we call chance played a large part in the discovery of America. At least, it has been believed that Christopher Columbus undertook his voyage only on the word of a ship's captain whom a storm had carried as far as the latitude of the Caribbean Islands.
Be that as it may, men knew how to travel to the ends of the world; they knew how to destroy cities with an artificial thunder more terrible than the real kind; but they did not know the circulation of the blood, the weight of the air, the laws of motion, light, the number of our planets, and so on; and a man who defended a thesis on Aristotle's categories, on the universal (a parte rei), or some other nonsense was regarded as a prodigy.
The most astonishing and useful inventions are not those that bring the greatest honor to the human mind. We owe most of the arts to a mechanical instinct found in most people, and in no way to sound philosophy. The discovery of fire, the art of making bread, of smelting and working metals, of building houses, the invention of the shuttle—all these are far more necessary than printing and the compass; yet these arts were invented by people who were still savages.
What prodigious use the Greeks and Romans later made of machinery! Yet in their day people believed there were crystal heavens and that the stars were little lamps that sometimes fell into the sea; and one of their greatest philosophers, after much research, concluded that the heavenly bodies were stones that had broken away from the earth.
In short, before Chancellor Bacon no one had understood experimental philosophy; and of all the physical experiments carried out since his time, there is scarcely one not suggested in his book. He performed several himself; he made kinds of pneumatic machines by which he divined the elasticity of the air; he came very close to discovering its weight; he nearly touched that truth, which Torricelli grasped. Soon afterward, experimental physics suddenly began to be cultivated in almost every part of Europe at once. It was a hidden treasure of which Bacon had suspected the existence, and which all the philosophers, encouraged by his promise, strove to unearth.
We have seen that his book expressly mentions that new attraction whose inventor Newton is thought to be.
This forerunner of philosophy was also an elegant writer, a historian, a man of wit. His moral Essays are highly esteemed; but they are intended to instruct rather than delight, and, being neither a satire on human nature like the Maxims of La Rochefoucauld nor a school of skepticism like Montaigne, they are less read than those two ingenious books. His Life of Henri VII has been taken for a masterpiece; but how can some people dare compare so small a work with the history of our illustrious de Thou?
Speaking of the famous impostor Perkins, son of a converted Jew, who so boldly assumed the name Richard IV, king of England, with the encouragement of the duchess of Burgundy, and contested the crown with Henri VII, Chancellor Bacon expresses himself thus:
“Around this time, King Henri was beset by evil spirits through the magic of the duchess of Burgundy, who summoned the shade of Edward IV from hell to torment King Henri. Once the duchess of Burgundy had instructed Perkins, she began to deliberate in which region of the heavens she should make this comet appear, and resolved that it should first blaze forth on the horizon of Ireland.”
It seems to me that our wise de Thou scarcely indulges in such bombast, once taken for sublimity but now rightly called gibberish.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the French text of all twenty-four letters (Garnier edition, 1879, French Wikisource).
On Chancellor Bacon
Not long ago, a famous group was discussing the old, pointless question of who was the greatest man: Caesar, Alexander, Tamerlane, or Cromwell. Someone answered that it was undoubtedly Isaac Newton. He was right. If true greatness means receiving a powerful mind from heaven and using it to enlighten yourself and others, then a man like Mr. Newton, who appears scarcely once in ten centuries, truly is a great man. Those politicians and conquerors, who have appeared in every century, are usually just celebrated scoundrels. Our respect belongs to the person who wins over minds by the power of truth, not to those who enslave people by force. It belongs to the person who understands the universe, not to those who ruin it.
The famous Earl of Verulam was known across Europe by his family name, Bacon. His father was a keeper of the seals, and he served for many years as chancellor under King James I. Yet amid the plots at court and the demands of an office that could have taken all his time, he found time to become a great philosopher, a good historian, and an elegant writer. What is still more remarkable is that he lived in an age that barely knew how to write well, much less how to practice good philosophy. As so often happens, people valued him more after his death than during his life. His enemies were at the London court; his admirers were foreigners. When the Marquis d'Effiat brought Princess Marie, daughter of Henry the Great, to England to marry King Charles, he visited Bacon. Bacon was ill in bed and received him with the curtains closed. “You are like the angels,” d'Effiat told him. “We always hear of them, we believe they are far above mankind, and yet we never have the pleasure of seeing them.”
Everyone knows how Bacon was accused of a crime hardly suited to a philosopher: allowing himself to be bribed with money. Everyone knows how the House of Lords sentenced him to a fine of about four hundred thousand livres in our currency and stripped him of his rank as chancellor and peer.
Today the English honor his memory so much that they can hardly admit he was guilty. If you ask what I think, I will answer with something I once heard Lord Bolingbroke say. People were discussing the greed of which the Duke of Marlborough had been accused. They cited examples and asked Lord Bolingbroke to confirm them. Since he had openly been Marlborough's enemy, he could perhaps properly say what was true. “He was such a great man,” Bolingbroke replied, “that I have forgotten his faults.”
So I will confine myself to what earned Chancellor Bacon the respect of Europe.
His most unusual and best work is the one read least today and least useful now. I mean his Novum scientiarum organum. It is the scaffolding used to build the new philosophy. Once the building was at least partly up, the scaffolding was no longer of any use.
Chancellor Bacon did not yet understand nature, but he knew and pointed out every path that leads to it. He had long looked down on what universities called philosophy. He did all he could to stop these institutions, founded to improve human reason, from continuing to spoil it with their talk of quiddities, their horror of a vacuum, their substantial forms, and all the other foolish words that ignorance had made respectable and that a ridiculous mixing with religion had made almost sacred.
He is the father of experimental philosophy. It is true that people had discovered remarkable things before him. They had invented the compass, printing, the engraving of pictures, oil painting, mirrors, eyeglasses that in some measure restore sight to older people, gunpowder, and so on. They had sought, found, and conquered a new world. Who would not think such great discoveries were made by the greatest philosophers in ages much more enlightened than ours? Not at all. These great changes on earth happened during the age of scholastic ignorance. Chance alone produced almost all these innovations. It even seems very likely that what we call chance had a large part in the discovery of America. At least people believed Christopher Columbus made his voyage only because he trusted the story of a ship captain whom a storm had carried as far as the latitude of the Caribbean islands.
In any case, people knew how to travel to the ends of the earth and destroy cities with artificial thunder more terrible than real thunder. But they did not understand the circulation of the blood, the weight of air, the laws of motion, light, the number of our planets, and so on. A man defending a thesis on Aristotle's categories, on the universal as something existing in things (a parte rei), or on some other nonsense was seen as a marvel.
The most astonishing and useful inventions are not the ones that bring the human mind the most credit. We owe most crafts to a mechanical instinct found in most people, not at all to sound philosophy. The discovery of fire, making bread, smelting and working metals, building houses, and inventing the loom's shuttle were far more necessary than printing or the compass. Yet these crafts were invented by people who were still living without civilization.
Think of the extraordinary uses the Greeks and Romans later made of machines. Yet in their day people believed the heavens were made of crystal and the stars were little lamps that sometimes fell into the sea. One of their greatest philosophers, after much study, concluded that the heavenly bodies were pebbles broken off from the earth.
In short, no one before Chancellor Bacon had understood experimental philosophy. Of all the experiments in physics conducted since his time, hardly one is not suggested in his book. He had carried out several himself. He made kinds of air pumps with which he guessed that air is elastic. He came very close to discovering that air has weight; he was almost there. Torricelli grasped that truth. Shortly afterward, people suddenly began practicing experimental physics in nearly every part of Europe at once. It was a hidden treasure Bacon had suspected was there. Encouraged by his promise, philosophers all worked to dig it up.
We have seen that his book explicitly describes the new attraction that Newton is credited with discovering.
This forerunner of philosophy was also an elegant writer, a historian, and a man of wit. His moral Essays are held in high regard, but they aim to teach rather than please. They are neither a satire of human nature like Mr. de La Rochefoucauld's Maxims nor a school of skepticism like Montaigne's work, so they are read less than those two clever books. His Life of Henry VII has been called a masterpiece. But how can anyone dare compare such a small work with the history by our distinguished de Thou?
Speaking of the famous fraud Perkins, the son of a converted Jew, who boldly took the name Richard IV, king of England, and, with encouragement from the Duchess of Burgundy, contested the crown with Henry VII, Chancellor Bacon writes:
“Around this time King Henry was beset by evil spirits through the magic of the Duchess of Burgundy. She summoned the ghost of Edward IV from hell to torment King Henry. Once the Duchess of Burgundy had trained Perkins, she began to consider in which part of the sky she would display this comet. She decided it would first blaze over the horizon of Ireland.”
It seems to me our wise de Thou hardly falls into this flowery language, once taken for lofty writing but now rightly called gibberish.