History of Universities: Volume XXIII 1

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History of Universities

VOLUME XXIII/1

2008

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 (Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam) 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 VOLUME XXIII/1 2008

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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 2008

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2008 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 Laserwords Private Limited, Chennai, India Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by Biddles Ltd, King’s Lynn, Norfolk ISBN 978–0–19–954104–1 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Contents

Articles Academic Condemnation and the Decline of Theology at Oxford Andrew E. Larsen

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Christ Church Oxford, the Ancients-Moderns Controversy, and the Promotion of Newton in Post-Revolutionary England John Friesen

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The Relationships Between Astronomical Observatories and Universities in nineteenth-century France Jérôme Lamy and Yves Gingras

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A Magnificent Fungus on the Political Tree: The Growth of University Representation in the United Kingdom, 1832–1950 Joseph S. Meisel

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Review Essay Sitting Down at a ‘Thyestean Banquet of Clap-trap’ Sheldon Rothblatt

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Reviews Leonardi Garzoni, Trattati della calamita, ed. Monica Ugaglia (Nick Wilding)

221

Emanuela Scribano, Angeli e beati. Modelli di conoscenza da Tommaso a Spinoza (Francesca di Poppa)

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vi

Contents

L. E. Rodr´ıguez–San Pedro Bezares (ed.), Historia de la Universidad de Salamanca. Saberes y confluencias, (Historia de la Universidad de Salamanca, Vol. III) (Simona Langella)

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William Whyte, Oxford Jackson: Architecture, Education, Status, and Style 1835–1924 (Sheldon Rothblatt)

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Bibliography

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Academic Condemnation and the Decline of Theology at Oxford Andrew E. Larsen

It has long been clear to scholars that the study of philosophy and theology at Oxford declined in the later fourteenth century. The evidence for this is varied but considerable. Fewer commentaries on the Sentences were being written and those that were written were treating fewer questions, while other types of specialist literature were also becoming less common.1 Works on logic tended to be more introductory and elementary.2 Scholars and libraries of this period seem to have shown less interest in collecting the works of contemporaries.3 By the late fourteenth century, the ratio of theology students to law students was dropping, particularly among students in the secular colleges.4 Among members of secular colleges, the percentage of students studying theology dropped from 57% in the fourteenth century to 44% in the fifteenth century, while the percentage of students studying law rose from 39% to 52% during that same period.5 Apart from John Wyclif, Oxford in this period produced no thinkers to rival Parisian luminaries such as Pierre d’Ailly and Jean Gerson, or to rival earlier Oxford scholars like William of Ockham, Walter Chatton, Adam Wodeham, and others. By the fifteenth century, theological innovation had given way to a more conservative approach to theology that emphasized the perpetuation of established theological ideas and gave particular weight to preaching and pastoral instruction.6 This decline is striking enough that many scholars have addressed it and offered various solutions to the problem. Early in the twentieth century, one common explanation for the decline was the impact of the Black Death. But as William Courtenay has demonstrated, the effects of the Black Death on Oxford have probably been exaggerated.7 The mortality rate at Oxford seems to have been relatively low: only five Oxford theologians are known to have died in 1348–49, and most of the major scholars at Oxford during the Black Death are known to have

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survived, including FitzRalph, Wodeham, and Wyclif. Indeed, enrolment in the school of theology actually increased after the Black Death, in response to the pressing need for parish clergy. Courtenay does, however, suggest that the Black Death may have had a delayed effect on Oxford by weakening the system of primary and secondary education available in England, which would have meant that by the 1360s Oxford was receiving students whose understanding of basic Latin and philosophy was insufficient to meet the demands of speculative philosophy and theology.8 But changes brought on by the Black Death certainly do not provide a complete answer to the problem. Another important factor was the development of English alternatives to Oxford, including Cambridge University and the mendicant studia of London, Norwich, York, and elsewhere.9 These rising institutions mostly drew their students from England rather than elsewhere in Europe, and in doing so would have reduced the pool of qualified students arriving at Oxford. A third significant factor is the shift from theology to law as the subject for career-minded men. This is due at least in part to the developing importance of a law degree in episcopal appointment, but it may also relate to the growing presence of the English aristocracy at Oxford, since there is a strong correlation between high social status and the taking of a law degree. Thus the most talented students at Oxford, who in the 1330s would have gravitated toward theology, were tending to gravitate toward law in the later fourteenth century. But in this article I would like to explore a different facet of this problem. While declines in both the quantity and the quality of men studying theology are undeniably important to this question, they do not completely address what seems to be a shift in the dynamics of intellectual activity within the faculty of theology at Oxford. What I want to do is examine the role that academic condemnation may have played in this decline.

A Brief Survey of Academic Condemnations at Oxford

Before we can explore the effects of academic condemnation, we must first spend some time looking at the individual cases and identifying some of their relevant characteristics. In the period up to 1350, academic

Academic Condemnation and the Decline of Theology at Oxford

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condemnation was relatively infrequent.10 The first known condemnation at Oxford occurred in 1277, when Archbishop Robert Kilwardby acted to condemn a series of propositions in grammar, logic, and philosophy.11 Kilwardby convened a meeting of the Full or Great Congregation, an assembly of all regent and non-regent masters. The Full Congregation met only about once every two years, so Kilwardby’s summons marked this as a major event. Kilwardby issued a list of thirty propositions covering a wide range of issues (four in grammar, ten in logic, and sixteen in natural philosophy), which he labeled as ‘errors’ (errores).12 His motives for taking this action are murky. Eleven days before this, Bishop Tempier of Paris had issued a much more sweeping condemnation of 219 propositions, but it is unlikely that the two men were working in co-ordination, as some have maintained, since the two schedules of propositions have relatively little in common.13 Tempier’s list was directed at so-called ‘Averroist’ teachings, while Kilwardby appears to have been more specifically concerned with Thomist doctrines, particularly the Unity of Forms. Each list contained numerous propositions that did not occur on the other list, and while Tempier excommunicated anyone who heard or taught the propositions, Kilwardby simply removed masters from their offices and expelled bachelors from the university for defending the propositions. What prompted Kilwardby to take his action is uncertain, but it is likely that he was called in to deal with the situation by regent masters who were worried about the growth of Thomism at Oxford.14 In a later letter to Cardinal Peter of Conflans justifying his actions, he maintained that he had taken his action with the consent and agreement of all the masters of Oxford, compelled by the advice of those more qualified in theology and philosophy.15 While he may have been exaggerating the degree of unanimity, it is improbable that he was telling a downright lie to a member of the papal curia investigating the condemnation. The Condemnation of 1277 failed to end discussion about Thomism and the Unity of Forms at Oxford, and by 1284 there was a vigorous debate about the subject, including a quarrel between the Dominican Richard Knapwell and the Franciscan Roger Marston, a former student of John Pecham, Kilwardby’s successor as Archbishop of Canterbury and a prominent opponent of Thomas Aquinas at Paris in 1270. Marston may have alerted Pecham to the strength of Thomist ideas at Oxford, and by October 1284 rumours were circulating that Pecham was planning to renew Kilwardby’s condemnation. On October 29th , Pecham summoned

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the masters of Oxford to meet him at Oseney Abbey (although it is unclear if this was the Full Congregation or just the regent masters). When he met with the masters, he ordered a renewal of Kilwardby’s condemnation.16 In a letter of November 10th , he claimed that the condemnation was only temporary, to apply until a committee could be appointed to examine the errors, but this appears to have been a concession made after the fact to appease those who had been upset by the action.17 Whereas Kilwardby’s action had been taken in consultation with the Full Congregation, Pecham’s condemnation was unilateral. Unlike Kilwardby, he never claimed to have been acting in conjunction with the masters, but rather acted in his capacity as visitor of the university to impose a solution to the problem from above. In contrast, Kilwardby at least made a show of acting in partnership with the masters and may in fact have actually been working closely with at least a faction of them. While there is no direct evidence of resistance to Kilwardby’s action, Pecham’s action clearly aroused anger and resentment. Pecham had a great deal of difficulty obtaining an actual copy of Kilwardby’s condemnation. In November of 1284, he wrote a letter to the Chancellor of Oxford, Roger de Rothwell, and to one of the masters of theology, Robert of Fletham, requesting copies of the action.18 Evidently they failed to comply, because in March of 1287, he was still attempting to get a get a copy of Kilwardby’s condemnation, this time from the bishop of Lincoln.19 By June of 1285, an anonymous pamphlet was circulating at Oxford, ridiculing Pecham and urging him to adopt the unique form of silence.20 At some point, Pecham decided to take action against Richard Knapwell, the first known condemnation targeting an Oxford scholar rather than a proposition. Pecham appointed a committee to examine Knapwell’s propositions, and they identified twelve statements, drawn from his Correctorium ‘Quare’, which were identified as either erroneous or heretical.21 Pecham summoned Knapwell to appear before Pecham, but Knapwell ignored the summons, so in April of 1285, Pecham raised the issue at the Convocation that occurred during Parliament. The assembled episcopate excommunicated Knapwell and condemned a list of twelve propositions. The Dominican Prior Provincial objected to this action on the grounds that the only person with jurisdiction over a Dominican was the pope, and an appeal to the pope was initiated. To get around this objection, Pecham convened a committee two days later, made up of three bishops, the Chancellor of Oxford, and a number of other church officials. This committee condemned eight propositions based on the


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previous list of eleven, and excommunicated any person who affirmed the propositions, without mentioning Knapwell by name. Knapwell travelled to Rome to appeal the case, but Nicholas IV, a friend of Pecham’s, upheld the condemnation and imposed silence on Knapwell over these issues.22 It is worth noting that in both 1277 and 1284, the condemnations do not appear to have been particularly effective. Both condemnations included Thomist thought and the Unity of Forms to some degree within the condemned propositions, but the actions of Kilwardby and Pecham failed to suppress Thomist thought at Oxford. It was the failure of the Condemnation of 1284 to silence Richard Knapwell that led Archbishop Pecham to target him specifically. While Knapwell himself ceased to support Thomism at Oxford, sometime around 1286, Nicholas of Ockham opposed Thomas Sutton on the issue of the Unity of Forms, demonstrating that within a year or two of Pecham’s condemnation, the issue was being openly debated. More than thirty years later, in 1315, another condemnation occurred at Oxford, when the theology faculty acted to condemn a series of Scotist propositions put forward by an unknown student.23 In this case, all that we know about the action comes from two copies of the condemnation itself, which list the propositions but provide no information about who had put them forward or who might have objected to them. The propositions all deal with questions about the relationship between the three persons of the Trinity and their role in creation. As Courtenay has demonstrated, these propositions involved Scotist philosophy and the question of prioritas originis, which suggests that the scholar who produced them was a Franciscan.24 This is the first known condemnation at Oxford in which the archbishop of Canterbury was not involved. Instead, this appears to have been an entirely internal action, with the chancellor and the regent masters of theology taking the initiative, to the exclusion of the Full Congregation. The propositions were condemned as erroneous, but no formal punishment was attached to them, nor was there any attempt made (at least in the surviving document) to condemn the scholar who proposed them. As in 1277 and 1284, this condemnation does not appear to have completely suppressed the condemned propositions. The issue of prioritas originis was being debated at Paris in 1316 and again in 1320–1.25 Ockham discussed the issue at some length, and may in fact have made a dismissive reference to the condemned articles seven or eight years later, which suggests that they were still being discussed in some fashion.26

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The anonymous scholar who copied the condemnation into the Liber Cancellarii some time in the late 1350s must certainly have thought the condemnation was still relevant in some fashion, again suggesting that the ideas might still have been circulating in some form. This is the entirety of known condemnations prior to the 1350s, a total of three (or four if we treat Knapwell’s condemnation separately) over roughly forty years.27 There were two Oxford scholars investigated for heresy in the 1320s and 30s, namely William of Ockham and Thomas Waleys. However, neither case appears to have originated at Oxford, and both cases were dealt with at Avignon rather than Oxford, and so are not relevant to this discussion. When we turn to the second half of the fourteenth century, we find that academic condemnation was occurring more frequently. In 1358, the Augustinian Friar John Kedington was forced to recant a pair of propositions relating to the controversial subject of dominion and to apologize for calling Oxford ‘a school of heretics’.28 During a debate in the winter of 1357–8, Kedington had declared that the mendicants had a greater right to tithes than the rectors of churches did, and that the king had the right to deprive ecclesiastics of their benefices for bad living. Kedington was certainly drawing on the controversial theories of Archbishop Richard FitzRalph, who was at that time engaged in a running dispute with the friars. The chancellor and regent masters of Oxford suspended Kedington, but were unable to compel him to make a public revocation, and went so far as to write to FitzRalph at Avignon for assistance. Kedington appealed his suspension to the archbishop of Canterbury, claiming that the action had been taken without legitimate cause or due process. This was evidently against the wishes of his superiors in the order, because his local prior and the Augustinian Prior Provincial subsequently supported the university’s position. Kedington ultimately lost his appeal, since in October of 1358 he was forced to publicly recant his two propositions and his insult to the university. He was forced to pay a hundred-shilling fine and was forbidden ever to teach again without the unanimous consent of the chancellor, the proctors, and the masters of theology. In this case, it appears that the condemnation was successful, because Kedington vanishes from the records, although the debate over dominion continued. About a decade later, William Jordan and several other Dominicans got into a vocal dispute with the Benedictine Uthred of Boldon, which culminated in Archbishop Simon Langham’s condemning a series of Uthred’s propositions as well as several held by Jordan.29 By the


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early 1360s, Boldon had taken up the mantle of Richard FitzRalph as an anti-mendicant, championing the rights of the ‘possessioner’ clergy (the regular, non-mendicant religious orders), writing at least two treatises dealing with the question of ecclesiastical endowment. He was attacked by at least four different writers, John Hilton, William Jordan, Richard Tryvytlam, and John Klenkok.30 By December of 1366, the Dominican William Jordan had launched an attack on Uthred, using a list of propositions drawn from Uthred’s Sentences commentary and his disputations and determinations in the period 1354–9.31 The propositions involved dealt with the rather startling notion that human salvation depended entirely on the soul’s reaction to the vision of God at the moment of death. It is likely that both Klenkok and Hilton were involved in the creation of the list, which was probably produced at York, but Jordan seems to have taken the lead at Oxford. Uthred maintained that the friars had taken a scholastic debate out of the classroom because they were unable to refute his arguments, but he responded by issuing his own Contra querelas fratrum against Jordan and the friars.32 In 1367, Uthred was recalled from Oxford by his monastery, ostensibly to be made the prior of Finchale, but one suspects that this was an attempt by his order to end an embarrassing dispute. If so, the attempt failed, because by February of 1368, Archbishop Simon Langham had become involved. In a letter to the chancellor of Oxford, he noted that the matter had been brought before him, but did not indicate by whom.33 The obvious suspect is Jordan, since he is mentioned in Langham’s letter.34 Uthred’s curious theological ideas must have been well known at Oxford, since he had been teaching there for about a decade, but there is no evidence that the university ever investigated him. It is possible that the friars were unable to arrange a normal condemnation, and took the debate first out of the classroom and then out of Oxford entirely in an effort to secure the condemnation of their prominent opponent. Regardless of who got Langham involved, he wrote a letter to the newlyconfirmed chancellor of Oxford, William Courtenay, ordering him to silence both parties in the dispute and indicating that the matter would be settled judicially. Langham convened a committee to examine the case, composed of theologians and canon and civil lawyers, but it is not clear if the committee was based in the university or whether, as is more likely, it operated outside the university under the archbishop’s direct authority. In November of 1368, Langham issued a list of thirty propositions that he forbade to be defended in the schools.35 The list mentions no names, but

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twenty-two of the propositions clearly belong to Uthred and correspond to those listed in his Contra querelas fratrum. Despite the radical nature of the propositions, they were labelled merely erroneous rather than heretical. Why this should have been the case is open to debate, but it is worth pointing out that Langham was himself a Benedictine and may have hesitated to fully condemn one of the most prominent members of his own order. The remaining eight propositions are not Uthred’s and are of an entirely different nature, dealing with the principle that things cannot change their basic nature. They appear to be based on statements made by William Jordan, and Langham inserted into his register a letter from Jordan denying having held such opinions.36 Thus Langham and the committee chose to condemn ideas of both Uthred and Jordan, perhaps because they did not want to give the friars an unqualified victory over Uthred. Roughly a decade later, at some time in the mid-1370s, a group of seculars, probably led by William Barton, engineered the condemnation of an anonymous Franciscan who advocated for the poverty of the primitive church.37 Our only source for the undated incident is John Wyclif ’s De veritate sacrae scripturae, in which he describes how a group of secular students brought charges against the Franciscan for preaching that the Church had become imperfect on account of its endowment. The Franciscan was forced to recant his propositions and assert the opposite. In February of 1377, Archbishop Sudbury, prodded by William Courtenay, now the bishop of London, attempted to condemn John Wyclif at a famous meeting at St Paul’s Cathedral in London, which collapsed into a dispute between Courtenay and John of Gaunt. However, as this incident arose primarily from Wyclif ’s preaching in London and his political association with Gaunt, it falls outside the scope of this article, although it might have contributed to another attempt to condemn Wyclif, this time at Oxford. Late in 1377, Pope Gregory XI issued a series of bulls, including one that directed the university to forbid conclusions that sounded contrary to the faith and to arrest Wyclif and his pertinacious supporters. Archbishop Sudbury ordered Chancellor Adam Tonworth to secretly investigate whether Wyclif had held the views imputed to him and cite him to appear at St. Paul’s. At issue here was Wyclif ’s teaching on dominion over ecclesiastical property, ecclesiastical authority to excommunicate, and similar issues. Instead, Tonworth convened a meeting of the Full Congregation, which debated whether to obey Gregory’s instructions to arrest Wyclif,


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with Wyclif ’s supporters arguing that it was illegal to arrest a ‘man of the king of England’ (hominem Regis Angliae) on papal authority alone.38 Fearful of offending either the pope or the Crown, the chancellor’s commissary requested that Wyclif stay in Black Hall under house arrest. The university then established a committee of theology masters, who individually evaluated the propositions condemned in Gregory’s bulls, and then reported to Tonworth, who announced that the propositions were true, but ill-sounding (veras esse sed male sonare in auribus auditorum).39 The fact that Tonworth and the committee chose to reject Gregory’s condemnation is startling, and probably reflects anxiety about offending the Crown, an issue that Wyclif ’s supporters probably played up effectively. This anxiety was stoked by an incident that happened at the same time, but which was probably unrelated. Wyclif was subsequently freed when a brawl between some students and some members of the royal household brought Wyclif ’s house arrest to the notice of the chancellor of England, who responded by deposing Tonworth from his office and arresting the commissary. This whole incident was followed by an attempt to reconvene the aborted trial at St. Paul’s, this time at Lambeth, but the Princess of Kent and a London mob intervened, so that the assembled bishops declared the condemned propositions to be true, but that Wyclif should not discuss them further because they were scandalizing the laity.40 Less than four years later, early in 1381, William Barton, the chancellor of Oxford, convened a committee that did declare two of Wyclif ’s propositions heretical.41 The committee was composed of a range of scholars, including theologians, canon lawyers, and civil lawyers, and one scholar was a doctor of theology and medicine. While it included seculars, mendicants, and monks, it was dominated by monks and friars (eight out of twelve, including three Dominicans). This time, the issue was Wyclif ’s teaching on the Eucharist and his rejection of transubstantiation. It investigated a list of Wyclif ’s propositions, possibly as many as twelve of them, and after considerable debate it finally condemned two propositions, probably by a margin of seven to five (as Wyclif claimed). While the committee was clearly focusing on Wyclif, it did not mention him by name. Rather it declared the propositions ‘erroneous and repugnant to the declarations of the church’ (erroneas, atque determinationibus ecclesiae repugnantes) and forbade anyone to hold, teach, or defend either of them, under penalty of imprisonment, suspension from all school-related activity, and excommunication. Word reached Wyclif at the Augustinian house, where he was teaching his

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views on the Eucharist, presumably in open defiance of the committee. Surprised by the condemnation, Wyclif declared that he would not change his opinions on the matter. Not long after Barton’s committee issued its ruling, Courtenay, now the archbishop of Canterbury, convened the first session of the Blackfriars Council, which condemned a total of twenty-four propositions, ten of which were declared heretical and fourteen of which were declared erroneous, although Wyclif was not named as their author.42 While Barton and several other members of the committee were part of the Blackfriars Council, this condemnation was again outside Oxford, so I have chosen not to include it in the condemnations under consideration, although a case could be made for its inclusion. Over the summer of 1382, in the later sessions of the Blackfriars Council, Archbishop Courtenay led a purge of Oxford directed at Wyclif ’s followers and received the submissions of Philip Repyndon, John Aston, and Laurence Bedeman, while Nicholas Hereford held out and only submitted in 1390.43 The relationship between the events at Oxford and the actions of the Blackfriars Council is complex and cannot be easily recounted here, especially since the Council did not issue any additional condemnations, but rather examined the men for their opinions on the condemnation issued at the first session. They were all forced to submit eventually, with the exception of Hereford, who appealed to the pope and left the country for several years. However, the purges at Oxford were triggered by a series of radical sermons preached by Hereford and Repyndon in 1382, starting before Lent and culminating in Hereford’s Ascension Day sermon and Repyndon’s Corpus Christi sermon.44 From what we know of the content, these sermons were attacks on the mendicants and to a lesser extent the regulars. Hereford’s Ascension Day sermon explicitly invoked FitzRalph and developed Wyclif ’s call for disendowment led by the Crown. Protest was made against these sermons by the Carmelite Peter Stokes and to a lesser extent by the Benedictine John Wells: Wells had participated in Barton’s committee that condemned Wyclif ’s propositions and was, just two days after the Ascension Day sermon, to participate in the Blackfriars Council. At some point, Stokes became Courtenay’s informant about what was happening at Oxford, and the most likely scenario is that Wells and Stokes worked together to alert Courtenay to the radical sermons. The sources give the impression that these sermons polarized a substantial segment of the Oxford student body. Chancellor Robert Rygge, a secular, openly sided with Hereford and Repyndon, refusing to act


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on Stokes and Wells’s complaints about Hereford’s Lenten sermon and appointing them to preach the official university sermons on Ascension Day and Corpus Christi. When Courtenay commissioned Stokes to publicly read the decrees of the Blackfriars Council before Repyndon’s Corpus Christi sermon, Rygge gathered the proctors and a group of secular regent masters and claimed that Stokes was undermining the university’s privileges. On Corpus Christi, Stokes was intimidated into not appearing by a group of students wearing swords. Repyndon and Stokes sparred in the classroom, which led a dozen armed students to threaten Stokes in his classroom.45 During the second session of the Blackfriars Council, Rygge, his two proctors, and two other scholars were examined on various issues, and Rygge agreed that the 24 articles condemned at the first session of the Council were heretical and erroneous. Courtenay ordered Rygge to publicize the condemnation and to suspend Wyclif, Hereford, Repyndon, Aston and Bedeman, to which Rygge replied that he feared death if he followed Courtenay’s instructions. Nevertheless he did obey, and in doing so, ‘he then excited the seculars against the religious, so that many feared death, crying that they wished to destroy the university’ (et sic tunc excitavit seculares contra religiosos, quod timebant plures mortem, clamando quod ipsi vellent destruere universitatem).46 Later sessions of the Blackfriars Council focused heavily on Hereford and Repyndon, and to a lesser extent on John Aston and a few other figures at Oxford. Rygge drew Courtenay’s ire by suspending the Cistercian Henry Crumpe (who, like Wells, had participated in both Barton’s committee and the first session of the Council), who, like Stokes, was acting on Courtenay’s behalf. Courtenay voided the suspension and ordered the chancellor, proctors, and regent masters not to interfere with Stokes, Crumpe, the Carmelite Stephen Patrington, or anyone else who was supporting them in their efforts against Wyclif and his followers.47 The final session of the Blackfriars Council met at Oxford. Rygge demonstrated his submission to Courtenay by preaching the sermon that opened the session and by helping convince a reluctant John Aston to make his submission.48 Repyndon also submitted at this point. One final twist happened during this session, when Rygge accused Crumpe, Stokes, and an unnamed Franciscan of teaching unspecified heresies that had been condemned by Urban V.49 We will look at this incident in more detail below. Finally in 1392, Henry Crumpe, who had participated in Barton’s condemnation and the Blackfriars condemnation, was himself condemned in

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a process that probably began within the university but somehow became a matter for the royal council.50 Crumpe had clearly been teaching things that riled the mendicant orders, since the Crown ordered the chancellor of Oxford to suspend him. But the charges were brought against Crumpe outside the university, at the order of the Crown. On May 28th , he appeared before Archbishop Courtenay and a panel of bishops and masters of theology and both laws, where he was questioned about a list of ten propositions probably drawn from his lectures, although Crumpe himself insisted that he had never actually maintained the propositions. The list involved various questions about the right of friars to hear confessions, an issue on which Crumpe had been condemned as a heretic by the bishop of Meath several years previously. Courtenay gave Crumpe two days to prepare his defence, and by May 30th , he had presented the panel a list of nine propositions that he was willing to defend. On the 30th , Crumpe was formally denounced by Friar John Parys, who may have been quarreling with Crumpe at Oxford.51 Three of the nine propositions were deemed objectionable, probably being found erroneous rather than heretical, and Crumpe himself was convicted (convictus), although probably not declared a heretic.52 If we include the failed condemnation of Wyclif in the Full Congregation in 1377, there were a total of seven condemnation actions involving figures at Oxford in less than thirty-five years (two did not actually take place at Oxford, but clearly originated there). If we include the individual charges brought against Hereford, Repyndon, Aston, and others, the number climbs significantly, but these were essentially prosecutions for violating the condemnation issued at Blackfriars. Thus, from 1277 to 1315, there were three or four condemnations (depending on how one counts the action against Richard Knapwell), followed by forty years in which no condemnations occurred. Then suddenly, there was a relative explosion of condemnation activity, and I would like to suggest that these condemnations played a role in the decline of theology at Oxford.

The Impact of Academic Condemnation

One obvious way that condemnation adversely affected Oxford was by discouraging or silencing the condemned thinkers. While the two condemnations directed at Wyclif failed to silence him, they did ultimately


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drive him out of Oxford, and Courtenay’s purge in 1381 pushed some talented men out of Oxford and forced others into submission. John Kedington’s condemnation seems to have effectively ended his career as both a scholar and a candidate for clerical advancement, since he vanishes from the sources after 1358, while Richard Knapwell was effectively silenced (at least at Oxford) by Pecham’s condemnation. Without knowing the identity of the Franciscan condemned in the mid-1370s, we cannot speculate about the effects of his condemnation. Only Uthred of Boldon clearly continued to be active as a scholar within the university system; he was subsequently chosen for service on a royal mission, but had been briefly recalled from Oxford by his order in the wake of the condemnation. Crumpe was forbidden to teach without archiepiscopal license, but five years later he was again renting rooms in Oxford, so it is possible that he returned to teaching, although the evidence is not clear. So condemnation had a small effect on Oxford simply by discouraging the handful of scholars who attracted condemnation from pursuing theological and philosophical speculation. Unlike the earlier condemnations of 1277–1315, the later condemnations were relatively effective, severely restricting the circulation of Wycliffite ideas at Oxford. While Thomism was to provide a fruitful avenue of philosophical and theological speculation at late 13th century Oxford, the same cannot be said of Wycliffism. The suppression of his followers sharply curtailed the possibility that Wyclif ’s ideas could have developed into a major school of thought at Oxford. A small group of Lollards was active in the arts faculty at Oxford from 1406 to 1411, but most abandoned their adherence and opposed Wyclif ’s ideas when they became theologians.53 The result of this brief flare-up was Archbishop Arundel’s well-known visitation, during which he issued his Constitutiones. If the impact of condemnation ended there, it would not be of much account for understanding this decline. But the effects of condemnation ran deeper than just the lives of the men who were targeted. It is tempting but misleading to assume that medieval Oxford scholars were like modern intellectuals, pursuing their ideas purely for the love of ideas. But the vast majority of Oxford scholars were primarily interested in building a career within the Church or English government, and most scholars left Oxford after their regency, never to write another academic work again. Seen in this light, men like Wyclif, Uthred, and Crumpe, whose intellectual activity continued past their regencies, were uncommon. Philosophical and theological speculation played an important role in advancing the

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careers of scholars in the early fourteenth century. University students and masters improved their prospects for ecclesiastical advancement in part by building reputations as talented thinkers. Such reputations were built by engaging in bold speculation and successfully defending propositions that might seem dubious on the surface. In modern terms, the university system rewarded students who ‘pushed the intellectual envelope’. Scholars who pushed the envelope too far were restrained by having their ideas condemned, but as long as the scholar himself did not insist on maintaining the condemned propositions, his career was unlikely to suffer. (Part of the reason for the harshness of Kedington’s punishment was that he insisted on defending his ideas and caused trouble by appealing to the archbishop of Canterbury.) In the early fourteenth century, the infrequency of condemnation made pushing the theological envelope a reasonable gamble, and this helps to account for the vibrant intellectual life at Oxford in the 1320s and 30s. But the growing frequency of condemnation in the later half of the fourteenth century must have made pushing the envelope a less attractive idea, because it was more likely to attract condemnation, particularly once Archbishop Courtenay began bringing accusations of heresy against scholars themselves and not simply against their ideas. In such an atmosphere, a scholar’s career was best served by not being too bold. Thus, while intellectual adventurousness was a positive career strategy early in the century, by the 1370s it must have begun to be seen as a risky or even failing career strategy, and as a result theological speculation became less appealing to students, especially since arts and theology were no longer the leading career-building subjects. There is another layer to this issue that is worth discussion. Academic condemnation did not happen purely because scholars at Oxford were concerned for theological rectitude. Classroom debate enjoyed a privileged position in which scholars were granted considerable leeway to speculate, and I would argue that there was at least some notion of intellectual freedom within the classroom, as scholars insisted that they had the right to speculate about ideas within an academic context, although it was certainly a much more limited concept of intellectual freedom than the one that developed in nineteenth-century Europe and which currently influences modern academic activity.54 That scholars at Oxford felt they should enjoy some freedom to discuss ideas in the classroom is clear from some of the condemnations that occurred. The condemnation of 1284 provoked a certain amount of resistance from scholars, and Pecham had considerable difficulty getting


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a copy of Kilwardby’s condemnation. Pecham was ridiculed for his attempt to ban the doctrine of the unity of forms, with one pamphleteer encouraging Pecham to adopt the unique form of silence.55 Nicholas Trivet mockingly suggested that it was inappropriate to prefer Aquinas’ solution to the problem of the Unity of Forms to Pecham’s solution, noting that since Pecham had not explained how to resolve the problem, Trivet would not risk misrepresenting him.56 John of Baconthorpe expressed frustration that Parisian scholars were permitted to discuss the idea but that Oxford scholars were not.57 William of Ockham, commenting about the Condemnation of 1277, assumed that Oxford scholars in 1277 had felt that Kilwardby had overstepped his authority in restricting their rights to discuss ideas.58 In fact scholars in 1277 do not seem to have expressed any such objections, but the fact that Ockham assumed they had tells us that scholars in the 1320s assumed some degree of intellectual freedom. Most strikingly, Uthred of Boldon was allowed to propose rather extreme notions about the basis for salvation. How long he maintained these ideas is unclear, but he incepted in 1357 and was teaching at Durham College for almost a decade before the Dominicans finally engineered his condemnation with an aggressive campaign against him, and it is likely that the propositions that were condemned were drawn from Uthred’s writings from the late 1350s, at least half a decade before these propositions attracted condemnation.59 This strongly suggests that Oxford scholars in the 1360s assumed that Uthred had the right to offer such speculation undisturbed within the confines of the classroom. In 1381, when Burton’s committee condemned Wyclif ’s views on the Eucharist, Wyclif received word of the condemnation while he was teaching those same views in a classroom, in what must have been an intentional gesture of defiance toward the committee and an assertion of some right to teach as he chose. The underpinning of this freedom was a system that granted classroom discussion a real measure of protection from charges of heresy. By at least the 1330s and probably somewhat earlier, it was standard at Oxford for a student to swear an oath just before incepting that he would not intentionally teach anything contrary to the faith. Any theologically unacceptable ideas that they discussed in class, would be considered only as a quotation of another’s opinion (recitative) or for the sake of discussion (disputative), but not as an actual assertion of proper belief (assertative).60 This oath, termed the revocatio conditionalis, the protestatio generalis, or the protestatio praemissa, protected the scholar from accusations of teaching heresy by granting the scholar a

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presumption that if he had taught an unacceptable idea, he had not taught it pertinaciously, which meant that he had not in fact committed heresy.61 If university authorities determined that he had taught an unacceptable idea, he would make a formal recantation, termed the revocatio actualis or the protestatio specialis, in which he renounced the idea and affirmed its opposite, and this gesture of renunciation demonstrated his orthodoxy and lack of pertinacity. In essence, the revocatio actualis was the academic equivalent of canonical purgation.62 One of the documents in the condemnation of John Kedington is the record of his revocatio actualis, and Wyclif makes mention of the revocatio actualis made by the anonymous Franciscan in the mid-1370s. So long as a scholar was willing to make the revocatio actualis if his ideas were condemned, he enjoyed considerable freedom to propose and explore theological ideas, and given the benefits of pushing the theological envelope for a scholar’s later career, there was good reason to take advantage of this system. The purpose of the revocatio conditionalis was to combat the potential for heresy, but in practice it created a certain amount of safe space for intellectual discussion, so long as that discussion remained within the classroom and did not transgress accepted boundaries. Similarly, the distinction between a statement made assertative and a statement made disputative or recitative demonstrates a space for free if limited discussion of ideas. But Uthred’s case marks something of a turning point. Archbishop Langham stepped into Oxford and condemned Uthred’s teachings, even though Uthred asserted that it was the Dominicans who had taken the debate outside the classroom. From that point on, there was a growing level of outside interference at Oxford in cases of condemnation, with the University first resisting Gregory XI’s demands for a condemnation, then following William Barton’s lead to condemn Wyclif ’s ideas, and then finally allowing Courtenay to purge the university of Wyclif ’s followers. All of this must have considerably undermined the notion of academic freedom at Oxford, weakening the defence that the classroom offered for theological speculation and encouraging scholars to restrict their public speculations. If notions of academic freedom were strong enough at Oxford to allow considerable room for theological speculation, we cannot assume that condemnations happened purely for religious reasons. It is not enough to say that an idea was condemned because it was theologically dubious, since academic freedom and the privilege of the classroom offered some protection for dubious ideas. For a condemnation to occur, there had to


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be other factors strong enough to overcome the protections of academic freedom and classroom speculation.

Condemnation as a Tool of Conflict between Orders

Academic condemnation should be seen at least in part as a manifestation of political tensions within the university. In many cases, it is possible to identify motives for condemnation that are only indirectly related to abstract theology. All of the cases apart from the condemnation of Henry Crumpe occurred during or shortly after periods of significant inter-order conflict at Oxford (if we can classify the secular masters as an ‘order’ in the sense that they had a common identity that distinguished them from other groups such as the friars or the monks), and conversely, all periods of such conflict saw at least one academic condemnation. The period from 1259 to the 1290s was a period of considerable conflict and tension at Oxford between the Franciscans and Dominicans, particularly over questions of recruitment by the two orders, and in the late 1260s the Dominicans succeeded in forcing the suspension of one Franciscan lector and the complete removal of another.63 There was also vigorous dispute between the two orders about the question of the Unity of Forms, with the Dominicans championing the position and the Franciscans opposing it. This is the background to the Condemnations of 1277 and 1284 and the Condemnation of Richard Knapwell: all three addressed to some extent the Unity of Forms, which has however specifically mentioned only in Knapwell’s condemnation. The period from 1303 to 1320 saw the Dominicans engaged in a long-running quarrel with the University as a whole over the question of Dominican privileges, particularly the privilege of Dominicans to receive the doctorate in theology without having first received a master of arts.64 Two Dominicans were refused degrees and a third was expelled from the Oxford Congregation. Most seriously, the Dominicans were temporarily suspended from regency and the Dominican regent master of theology, Nicholas Trivet ( Trevet), essentially went into exile for about seven years.65 The suspension was resolved just after the Condemnation of 1315, and although Trivet was not present for it, the document notes that when he returned to Oxford, he gave his assent to the actions the faculty had taken.

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The Condemnation of John Kedington occurred during another period of severe tension between the friars and the rest of the university. In the period from 1357 to 1361, numerous controversies sprung up around mendicants, including a friar who insulted a Benedictine monk, and another friar who insulted the arts students. There was an attack on mendicant recruiting techniques, and a quarrel over so-called ‘wax doctors’, mendicants granted special exemptions from normal degreegranting procedures. This was also the period during which Archbishop FitzRalph was engaged in a quarrel with the Augustinian Friars, and elements of this quarrel occurred in and around Oxford, including the statements made by John Kedington that earned him condemnation.66 In the 1350s the disputes had been between the mendicants and the seculars. In the 1360s, the friars continued to attract hostile commentary. Some time in the late 1350s or early 1360s, mendicant recruitment again became an issue, because the University passed a statute forbidding the friars from accepting recruits who were younger than eighteen. In 1365, Urban V overturned the statute and Edward III similarly nullified it. Edward added a prohibition against the friars making use of any papal bulls that might relax the University’s statutes in their favour.67 But the Benedictines were also arousing controversy. There was also a long-running quarrel between the seculars and the Benedictines over the status of Canterbury College.68 In 1366, the Benedictines persuaded Archbishop Langham to rule in favor of their order and evict the seculars from the college. These two strands of tension merged in the dispute between the Dominican William Jordan and the Benedictine Uthred of Boldon, who was himself one of the most prominent anti-mendicant voices at Oxford. Less than a year after the Benedictines triumphed in their dispute over Canterbury College, Jordan lodged his complaints about Uthred’s teachings. The impression that condemnation was in part driven by conflict between orders is enhanced by the fact that the accusers in the condemnations were almost always, so far as evidence allows us to see, of a different order from the accused. In 1284, the Dominicans protested that Archbishop Pecham, a Franciscan, was motivated by hostility to Thomas Aquinas and the Dominican Order, and Richard Knapwell, the scholar Pecham directly condemned, was a Dominican. In the case of the Condemnation of 1315, the accused was probably a Franciscan, but we have no information about who denounced him. In 1358, the Augustinian John Kedington was punished by a secular chancellor and his secular proctors for having suggested that friars deserved the tithes of churches


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more than their (secular) rectors did, and Simon Islip, the archbishop of Canterbury who turned the case back to the University after Kedington’s appeal, was clearly pro-secular in University matters. Uthred of Boldon, a Benedictine monk, was accused by a group of Dominican friars, while the only person known to have offered any sort of defense of Uthred was Adam of Riwley, a Cistercian. If Jeremy Catto is correct in seeing William Barton as the man behind the condemnation of the anonymous Franciscan in the mid-1370s, that is another manifestation of this tension, since Barton was a secular. In 1382, there is ample evidence for inter-order tensions, this time between seculars on the one hand and mendicants and regulars on the other hand. Almost all of Wyclif ’s prominent supporters were seculars, including Robert Rygge, Nicholas Hereford, John Aston, Laurence Bedeman, and William James, among others. The only non-secular was Philip Repyndon. Their chief opponents were the Carmelite Peter Stokes, the Benedictine John Wells, and the Cistercian Henry Crumpe. Hereford’s Ascension Day sermon explicitly invoked the notorious anti-mendicant archbishop of Armagh, Richard FitzRalph. Rygge very aggressively sought to persuade the seculars that the regulars and mendicants were trying to undermine the University’s privileges, and armed violence was threatened or occurred several times over the course of the year, chiefly with seculars threatening regulars. The situation in 1392, when the royal council investigated and condemned Henry Crumpe, is more complicated. There is no evidence of deep conflict between orders at this time, but the condemned propositions were mostly directed against mendicant confessional privileges, and Crumpe’s accuser was the Dominican John Parys. Although Crumpe was condemned, he was evidently not condemned as a heretic, which prompted the Dominicans to discover a document proving that in 1385 the bishop of Meath had condemned Crumpe as a heretic, a document that the Carmelite John Langton inserted into his account of the condemnation.69 Crumpe’s case provides us with another indicator of the complex interaction between academic freedom and academic condemnation. The evidence that the case arose within the university is strong. The letter from the Crown to the chancellor of Oxford describes Crumpe as teaching (scholatizans), and orders him suspended. Langton’s account says that he had maintained his conclusions ‘in different determinations at Oxford’ (in diversis determinationibus Oxoniae), and Courtenay ordered him not to teach without permission. John Parys acted as accuser, which

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required that he had already made efforts to correct Crumpe. But if the matter arose in the classroom, it is curious that it was not handled within the university, and quite odd that the Crown became involved in the matter. The most reasonable conclusion is that the mendicants had attempted to orchestrate a condemnation of Crumpe and failed. Given that Crumpe’s propositions were in direct conflict with the established canon law on mendicant confessions, the most likely reason why a condemnation would have failed was that there was not enough anger at the regulars to over-ride classroom protections. This forced Crumpe’s accusers, almost certainly mendicants and probably John Parys and John Langton, to pursue alternative avenues for condemnation, much as the Dominicans had when trying to condemn Uthred of Boldon. In some cases, the propositions condemned considered explicitly questions about the relative merits of particular orders and their rights and privileges. The Dominican adherence to the doctrine of the Unity of Forms made Pecham’s actions at least indirectly an attack on the Dominican Order, and Pecham was accused of condemning the doctrine out of hostility toward Aquinas and the Dominican Order. The Dominican Prior Provincial specifically complained that Pecham’s first action against Knapwell was a violation of Dominican rights. In 1358, the propositions condemned specifically dealt with the notion that the mendicant life was superior to the secular life and the rights of secular rectors to their livings and tithes. In the mid-1370s, the Franciscan who was condemned was asserting the Franciscan doctrine of Apostolic Poverty. In 1377, the propositions examined dealt substantially with Wyclif ’s theory of dominion, which again dealt with ecclesiastical property rights. Crumpe’s propositions dealt extensively with mendicant rights to confession, and one proposition alleged that Crumpe had asserted that John XXII had inappropriately condemned three conclusions of Jean de Pouilly in 1321.70 Pouilly’s conclusions also dealt with mendicant rights of confession. In some cases, the scholars involved may have been targeted because of their personal role in controversies of the day. In the case of Boldon and Jordan, none of the propositions dealt with the orders at all, but both men were prominent controversialists. Boldon had very aggressively defended the rights of the possessioner clergy against the mendicants, while Jordan had disputed the issue of the Immaculate Conception with the Franciscan John Marchiley (and may have participated in a debate with Marchiley in York that resulted in charges being brought against the Franciscan). We do not know much about John Kedington, but


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his condemnation seems in part to have been caused by his refusal to be reigned in by the university authorities and by his insult to the university. It seems more than coincidence that Knapwell debated with Roger Marston, a student of Pecham, not long before Pecham choose to renew Kilwardby’s ban on Thomism at Oxford. It is clear from all this that condemnation was to some extent used as a tool for one faction to attack another faction, by focusing their efforts on a representative of the second group who was seen as vulnerable because of dubious statements made during teaching or in a written work. The hostility felt by one faction against another provided an impetus to overcome the normal protections allowed to classroom debate. Accusations of academic heresy thus served as a weapon and perhaps as a release valve for political tensions within the university. For example, in the 1350s, there were considerable tensions at Oxford between the mendicants and the seculars, many of whom felt that the mendicants were abusing their privileges, and who must have hoped that FitzRalph’s quarrel with the Augustinians might lead to real changes. Then Kedington imprudently made some bold statements about the relative merits of the secular and mendicant clergy, and compounded it by insulting the university and resisting its efforts to silence him. One can easily imagine that secular masters might have brought charges against him not simply because of what he said but as an attempt to put the Augustinians in their place. The fact that his own order refused to support his appeal of his suspension suggests that the order was anxious to put the matter behind them. The extremely steep fine of one hundred shillings would have been paid by his order and must have been intended as a rebuke. Likewise, the Dominican attack on Uthred of Boldon may have been prompted as much by Boldon’s attacks on the friars and the Benedictine victory in the matter of Canterbury College as it was by the unorthodox ideas he was teaching in the classroom. We even have two explicit claims that condemnation had political elements. As already noted, in 1284, Pecham felt it necessary to defend himself against charges that his actions were motivated by hostility to the Dominicans. In 1392, Henry Crumpe claimed that the Dominicans politicized heresy investigations, asserting that those (presumably nonmendicant) doctors who supported the friars’ privileges had feared to speak the truth because they worried that the friars would launch inquisitions of heresy against their books.71 This is not to suggest that academic condemnation was merely a cynical exercise in university politics. Clearly, serious theological issues

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such as the Unity of Forms were involved in the three condemnations issued in the late 1200s, while William Jordan was quite reasonably concerned about Uthred of Boldon’s speculation about the clear vision of God at the moment of death, and Crumpe’s attack was part of a controversy over mendicant privileges going back to the 1310s. The condemnations of Kedington and the anonymous Franciscan, the failed condemnation of Wyclif, and the disputes in 1382 between the mendicants and the early Lollards all involved very important questions of dominion and ecclesiastical property. Barton’s condemnation and the Blackfriars Condemnation involved major questions about the Eucharist. Nor should we over-estimate the importance of inter-order conflict. The first condemnation to be issued at Oxford came from the Dominican Archbishop Kilwardby, and was directed at least partly against the teachings of the Dominican Aquinas, while Simon Langham condemned the teachings of his fellow Benedictine Uthred. The attempts to condemn John Wyclif and his followers cut across the boundaries of the orders. In 1381, William Barton was a secular presiding over the condemnation of the secular Wyclif, who was clearly enjoying at least some support among the Augustinians, since he was teaching in the Augustinian convent when the condemnation was announced. And a year later, the secular William Courtenay initiated a purge against the largely secular adherents of Wyclif using monks and friars as his agents. During periods of relative harmony between orders, the modest concept of academic freedom at Oxford allowed scholars to propose dubious theories in the classroom with relative confidence. Their teachings might make others uncomfortable, but in the absence of strong tensions, the classroom protection was sufficient to shield such scholars. But during a period of high tension and conflict, these scholars could become a lightning rod for hostility, and anger over issues unrelated to the content of teaching could be strong enough to override the limited protection of the classroom. Perhaps the clearest indication of the political possibilities of academic condemnation came late in 1382, after Robert Rygge had been appointed by Archbishop Courtenay to a committee to root out traces of Wycliffism at Oxford. Rygge tried to use this appointment to settle old scores. He accused Henry Crumpe, Peter Stokes, and an unnamed Franciscan of teaching heretical statements.72 Stokes and the Franciscan protested that they had made the statements purely for the purpose of encouraging discussion and to clarify doctrine. Crumpe pointed out that he had made clear that the proposition in question had been condemned by Urban V


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and that he had not asserted its orthodoxy.73 Courtenay rejected Rygge’s charges, simply commenting that he was disturbed by the discord between the university and the regulars, and forced the men to reconcile. While Rygge’s motives are not directly provable, it seems hard to escape the conclusion that he brought the charges out of hostility toward Crumpe and Stokes and that he intentionally overlooked Crumpe’s disclaimer about papal condemnation. Nor is it accidental that Rygge, a secular, was accusing a Cistercian, a Carmelite, and a Franciscan. Rygge’s charge was driven at least as much by political and personal hostility as it was by concern over doctrinal correctness, and Courtenay’s quick dismissal of the charge demonstrates that the archbishop recognized this. Academic condemnation also tied into other political debates beyond inter-order conflicts. The concept of dominion, which underlay the propositions of John Kedington and the anonymous Franciscan, as well as Wyclif ’s propositions in 1377, had significant implications for the relationship of Church and State. John of Gaunt’s protection of Wyclif at St. Paul’s in 1377 is well-known, and Repyndon and Hereford attempted to get Gaunt’s support against Courtenay in 1382, but he refused to support them and instead lectured them about their errors.74 Wyclif ’s supporters at Oxford successfully emphasized the political element of the situation later that same year, arguing that to arrest Wyclif would be a challenge to royal authority. In 1357–8, Kedington enjoyed the support of unspecified magnates, presumably nobles who appreciated the political implications of his statements and whose power was sufficient to thwart efforts to condemn him, at least for a while. The university’s struggle for independence from outside authorities is also a background to the later cases. In 1367, while the Dominicans were seeking Uthred of Boldon’s condemnation, Bishop Buckingham of Lincoln confirmed the appointment of William Courtenay as chancellor, but advised that future chancellors would have to appear before him in person to obtain confirmation. In 1377, Wyclif was released from house arrest at Oxford after Chancellor Tonworth tried and failed to assert the university’s independence from royal authority, although the issue that initiated the confrontation appears unrelated to Wyclif ’s arrest. For his efforts, he was deposed from office. In 1382, Chancellor Rygge successfully courted the secular students by claiming that Crumpe, Stokes, and other monks and friars were trying to undermine the university’s privileges, charges that spurred violence and threats of violence among the students. And in 1392, Chancellor Redruth and the proctors were

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warned by the Crown that they could ignore the order to suspend Crumpe ‘at their peril’, as much a threat to the university’s privileges as it was to their persons. At least in the second half of the fourteenth century, opposition to a condemnation could be couched in terms of support for the university’s liberties, and those who supported condemnation could be framed as opposing those liberties. How deeply these political issues influenced whether a specific proposition was condemned is unclear, but they were clearly seen as being part of the debate. The implications of these dynamics for intellectual activity are relatively obvious. During periods of conflict, scholars would naturally have been more cautious in their writings and classroom pronouncements, aware that an overly-bold statement could attract hostile attention and perhaps even condemnation. The use of academic condemnation as an inter-factional weapon would undoubtedly cast a chill over philosophical and theological inquiry as just the time when such activity was already declining for other reasons. Such a trend did not discourage a man of Wyclif ’s intellectual talents and personality, but it is exactly the sort of thing that would have discouraged men who were less certain of their education or more focused on career advancement than intellectual activity.

Arundel’s Constitutiones

The most critical blow to academic freedom at Oxford came in 1407, when Archbishop Arundel issued his Constitutiones.75 The Constitutiones were intended to regulate teaching and preaching, initially at Oxford but after 1409 in the whole province of Canterbury. Arundel’s legislation sharply curtailed the intellectual freedom of scholars, for example by forbidding the study of any recent book that had not been unanimously passed by a panel of theologians. Preachers were required to be examined by their ordinaries before undertaking preaching, and the topics for preaching were limited. Most seriously, the eighth Constitution eliminated the entire system of classroom protections for debate by voiding the value of the protestatione praemissa. We most particularly forbid anyone, of whatever grade, status, or condition, from asserting or proposing, in the schools or outside, by disputing or communicating, conclusions or propositions that sound contrary to the catholic faith or good


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morals, except those doctrines necessary for his faculty, whether with or without a prefatory protestation, even if they can be defended with certain curious words or terms.76

The implications of this legislation were enormous. Any idea that could be potentially misunderstood or that sounded bad was open to condemnation, even if the scholar had already made the revocatio conditionalis. By stripping out the presumption of non-pertinacity granted by the revocatio conditionalis, Arundel had also substantially weakened the boundary between an heretical idea and the heretic who proposed it, so that an objectionable idea could more easily develop into an attack on the proposer. The eighth Constitution also undermined the legitimacy of traditional argumentative methods, deriding them as ‘certain curious words and terms,’ so that even methods of asserting ideas were in some sense suspect. Taken as a whole, the eighth Constitution made it much easier for a scholar to be condemned as a heretic at the urging of his opponents. In such a situation, it would take a very bold scholar to risk condemnation, either of his ideas or of himself, in order to put forward dramatic new theological ideas, because new theological ideas were certain to offend someone within the academic community. Even if the ideas themselves did not arouse resistance, they could serve as a justification for attacking a scholar for other political reasons. The Constitutiones also called for a monthly inquiry into the orthodoxy of all students at Oxford, thus multiplying the occasions at which a scholar could be accused of heretical teaching. And it is worth pointing out that after 1401, the penalty for heresy was potentially being burnt at the stake. Arundel’s Constitutiones cannot have had anything but a chilling effect on theological debate, even if they were not fully enforced. It is easy to see why fifteenth-century theology took a turn toward the repetition of established, conservative theological positions and uncontroversial topics such as preaching and pastoral care. Taken as a whole, the chilling effect of academic condemnation on intellectual activity in the arts and theology faculties in later fourteenthcentury Oxford is an important element in understanding the decline of those subjects. While fewer and less talented men were pursuing theology degrees, there were also factors internal to those faculties that combined to discourage intellectual adventurousness, and accounts of late medieval Oxford must take these factors into account. Milwaukee, WI

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REFERENCES 1. William J Courtenay, Schools and Scholars in Fourteenth Century England, (Princeton, 1987), 359–61; J.I. Catto, ‘Wyclif and Wycliffism at Oxford, 1356–1430’, in J.I. Catto and Ralph Evans (eds), Late Medieval Oxford (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. II, Oxford, 1992), 175–261, at 178–80. 2. Courtenay, Schools and Scholars, 358. 3. Courtenay, Schools and Scholars, 365. 4. Courtenay, Schools and Scholars, 365–8; Alan B. Cobban, The Medieval English Universities: Cambridge and Oxford to c. 1500 (Aldershot, 1988), 214–23; John M. Fletcher, ‘Inter-faculty Disputes in Late Medieval Oxford’, in Anne Hudson and Michael Wilks (eds) From Ockham to Wyclif, (London, 1987), 331–42, at 339–40. 5. T.H. Aston, ‘Oxford’s Medieval Alumni’, in Past and Present 74 (1977), 3–40, at 13. However, these statistics reflect only about 15–20% of the total enrolment of the university and thus may be misleading. 6. J. I. Catto, ‘Theology after Wycliffism’, in Catto and Evans (eds), Late Medieval Oxford, 263–80. 7. William J. Courtenay, ‘The Effects of the Black Death on English Higher Learning’, in Speculum 55 (1980), 696–714, at 701–9. 8. Courtenay, ‘Effects of the Black Death’, 706–7. 9. Catto, ‘Wyclif and Wycliffism’, 176–8. 10. For a general discussion of academic condemnations, see William J. Courtenay, ‘Inquiry and Inquisition: Academic Freedom in Medieval Universities’, Church History 58 (1989), 168–81; J. M. M. H. Thijssen, ‘Academic Heresy and Intellectual Freedom at the University of Paris, 1200–1378’ in J. W. Drijver and A. A. MacDonald (eds) Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-Modern Europe and the Near East, (Leiden, 1995), 215–28; Thijssen, Censure and Heresy at the University of Paris 1200–1400 (Philadelphia, 1998), 1–39; Gregory S. Moule, Corporate Theory, Canon Law, and the Censure of Academic Heresy at the University of Paris in the Fourteenth Century, (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1999); Andrew E. Larsen, ‘John Wyclif, c. 1331–1384’, in Ian Levy (ed.), A Companion to John Wyclif (Leiden, 2006), 1–65, at 3–9. For a survey of academic condemnations at Oxford, see Andrew E. Larsen, Popular and Academic Heresy before the Time of Wyclif (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1998), 113–65, 183–216. In this article, I use the term ‘condemnation’ to include both actions taken within the university by the chancellor and actions taken outside the university by the archbishop of Canterbury but which were directed toward the university. 11. The literature on the Condemnation of 1277, usually considered one of the most important events in medieval philosophy, is enormous and can only be summarized here. For the text of the Condemnation, see Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. H. Denifle and E. Chatelain (4 vols, Paris,


12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

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1889–97), i. 558–60 (hereafter referred to as ‘CUP’); La Condemnation Parisienne de 1277, ed. David Piché, (Paris, 1999). The vast secondary literature includes Franz Ehrle, ‘Ein Schreiben des Erzbishofs von Canterbury Robert Kilwardby zur Rechtfertigung seiner Lehrverurtheilung vom 18. Marz 1277’, in Archiv für Literatur- und Kirchengeschichte des Mittelalters 5 (1889), 607–35; Theodore Crowley, ‘John Peckham, O.F.M., Archbishop of Canterbury, versus the New Aristotelianism’, in the Bulletin of the John Rylands Library Manchester 33/2 (March 1951), 242–55; Daniel A. Callus, The Condemnation of St Thomas at Oxford (London, 1955); Leland Wilshire, ‘Were the Oxford Condemnations of 1277 Directed Against Aquinas?’, in New Scholasticism, 48 (1974), 125–32, and ‘The Oxford Condemnations on 1277 and the Intellectual Life of the Thirteenth-Century Universities’, in Gunar Freibergs (ed.) Aspectus et Affectus: Essays and Editions in Grosseteste and Medieval Intellectual Life in Honor of Richard C. Dales, (New York, 1993), 113–24; Jan A. Aertsen, Kent Emery, Jr., and Andreas Speer (eds), Nach der Verurteilung von 1277: Philosophie und Theologie an der Universität von Paris im letzten Viertel des 13. Jahrhunderts. Studien und Texte (Berlin, 2001). See also Gordon Leff, Paris and Oxford Universities in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, (New York, 1968), 290–4, and the following essays in The Early Oxford Schools (History of the University of Oxford, Vol. I, Oxford, 1984): Lawrence, ‘The University in State and Church’, 97–150, at 116–7; P. Osmund Lewry, ‘Grammar, Logic, and Rhetoric 1220–1320’, 402–33, at 419–26; J.I. Catto, ‘Theology and Theologians 1220–1320’, 471–517, at 498–9. CUP, i. 558. Callus, Condemnation of St Thomas, 11–2; Lawrence, ‘University in State and Church’, 117. Courtenay, ‘Inquiry and Inquisition’, 173. Ehrle, ‘Ein Schreiben des Erzbischofs von Canterbury’, 614 For the Condemnation of 1284 and the Condemnation of Richard Knapwell, see Registrum Epistolarum Fratris Johannis Peckham Archiepiscopi Cantuariensis, ed. Charles Trice Martin, (3 vols, London, 1882–5), iii. 864–8 (hereafter referred to as Reg. Pech.); Registrum Johannis de Pontissara, Episcopi Wyntoniensis, ed. C. Deedes, (2 vols, London, 1915–24), i. 307–8; Annales de Oseneia, ed. H.R. Luard, (London, 1869), 298–9; Annales de Dunstaplia, ed. H.R. Luard, (London, 1866), 323–5. See also Decima L. Douie, Archbishop Pecham, (Oxford, 1952), 272–99; D.A. Callus, ‘The Problem of the Unity of Form and Richard Knapwell, O.P.’, in Mélanges offerts a` Etienne Gilson ( Toronto, 1959), 123–60; Maarten J.F.M. Hoenen, ‘Being and Thinking in the ‘‘Correctorium fratris Thomae’’ and the ‘‘Correctorium corruptorii Quare’’: Schools of Thought and Philosophical Methodology’, in Aertsen, Emery and Speer (eds), Nach der Verurteilung von 1277, 417–35. Reg. Pech., iii. 840–3. Reg. Pech., iii. 852–3, 862.

28 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

History of Universities Reg. Pech., iii. 944–5. Callus, ‘Problem of the Unity of Form’, 135. Annales de Oseneia, ed. Luard, 306–7; Annales de Dunstaplia, 323–5. Annales de Dunstaplia, ed. Luard, 341. Munimenta Academica or Documents illustrative of academical life and studies at Oxford, ed. H. Anstey (2 vols, London, 1868), ii. 100–2. See also William Courtenay, ‘The Articles Condemned at Oxford Austin Friars in 1315’, in Heiko A. Oberman and Frank. A. James III with Eric L. Saak (eds), Via Augustini: Augustine in the later Middle Ages, Renaissance, and Reformation : essays in honor of Damasus Trapp, O.S.A (Leiden, 1991), 5–18; Girard J. Etzkorn, ‘Codex Merton 284: Evidence of Ockham’s Early Influence in Oxford’, in Hudson and Wilks (eds), From Ockham to Wyclif (Oxford, 1987), 31–42. Courtenay, ‘Articles Condemned’, 15–17. Courtenay, ‘Articles Condemned’, 16–17. Francis Kelley, ‘Ockham: Avignon, Before and After,’ in Hudson and Wilks (eds) From Ockham to Wyclif, 1–18, at 7. During the pontificates of John XXII and Benedict XII, which lasted from 1316 to 1342, there was a strong trend for cases of academic heresy to be addressed at Avignon rather than at their home university, but Thijssen has argued that this was due to the accuser’s choice of court in which to lodge a denunciation, rather than an active papal initiative; see Richard Southern, ‘The Changing Role of Universities in Medieval Europe’, in Historical Research 60 (1987), 133–46; Courtenay, ‘Inquiry and Inquisition’, 175–6; Thijssen, Censure and Heresy, 12–19. Thomas Waleys was already in Avignon when he was denounced, while Ockham was at the Franciscan studium at London when he was summoned, and it is unclear who accused him and in what context. The traditional view, that he was accused by John Lutterell, appears to be wrong, since Lutterell was part of the committee that evaluated Ockham and so could not have been his accuser. See William J. Courtenay, ‘Erfurt CA 2 127 and the Censured Articles of Mirecourt and Autrecourt’, in Andreas Speer (ed.) Die Bibliotheca Amploniana. Ihre Bedeutung im Spannungsfeld von Aristotelismus, Nominalismus, und Humanismus (Berlin, 1995), 341–52 at 343 n. 4; Thijssen, Censure and Heresy, 14–15. For the Condemnation of John Kedington, see Munimenta Academica, i. 208–11; Margaret Aston, ‘ ‘‘Caim’s Castles’’: Poverty, Politics and Disendowment’, in Barrie Dobson (ed.), The Church, Politics and Patronage in the Fifteenth Century (New York, 1984), 45–81, at 51 and 72–3, n. 24–25; Andrew E. Larsen, ‘The Oxford ‘‘School of Heretics’’: The Unexamined Case of Friar John’, in Vivarium 37 (1999), 168–77. For this condemnation, see David Knowles, ‘The Censured Opinions of Uthred of Boldon’ in Proceedings of the British Academy 1951 (37), 306–42, and Mildred Elizabeth Marcett, Uhtred de Boldon, Friar William Jordan and Piers Plowman (New York, 1938).


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30. Marcett, Uhtred de Boldon, 8–11; Christopher Ocker, Johannes Klenkok: A Friar’s Life, c. 1310–1374 (Philadelphia, 1993), 36–41. 31. Courtenay, Schools and Scholars, 353–4, n.69. 32. Knowles, ‘Censured Opinions of Uthred of Boldon’, 332. 33. Knowles, ‘Censured Opinions of Uthred of Boldon’, 340–1. 34. Knowles, ‘Censured Opinions of Uthred of Boldon’, 312. 35. Concilia Magnae Britanniae et Hiberniae, ed. David Wilkins (4 vols, London, 1737), iii. 75 36. Knowles, ‘Censured Opinions of Uthred of Boldon’, 328–9. 37. See John Wyclif, De veritate Sacrae Scripturae, ed. R. Buddensieg, (3 vols, London, 1905–7), i. 356; Catto, ‘Wyclif and Wycliffism’, 206–7; Larsen, ‘John Wyclif ’, 4–5. 38. Eulogium (historiarum sive temporis): chronicon ab orbe condito usque ad annum Domini M. CCC. LXVI. a monacho quodam Malmesburiensi exaratum. Accedunt continuatione duæ, ed. F. S. Haydon, (3 vols, London, 1858–63), iii. 347–8; Thomas Walsingham, The St Albans Chronicle: The Chronica Majora of Thomas Walsingham, ed. John Taylor, Wendy R. Childs, and Leslie Watkiss (Oxford, 2003), 174–5; Thomas Walsingham, Historia Anglicana, ed. H.T. Riley, (London, 1863–76), i. 345. See also H.B. Workman, John Wyclif: A Study in the English Medieval Church, (2 vols, Oxford, 1926; repr. Eugene, 2001), i. 306–7; Joseph H. Dahmus, The Prosecution of John Wyclyf, (New Haven, 1952), 61–4; Catto, ‘Wyclif and Wycliffism’, 207–8; Larsen, ‘John Wyclif ’, 38–40. 39. Eulogium, ed Haydon, iii. 348. 40. Walsingham, St. Albans Chronicle, 197–211; Walsingham, Historia Angliciana, i. 356–63; Eulogium, ed. Haydon, iii. 348; Workman, John Wyclif, i. 307–9, Dahmus, Prosecution of John Wyclyf, 68–73; Joseph Dahmus, William Courtenay, Archbishop of Canterbury 1381–1396 (London, 1966), 54–8; Kelly, ‘Trial Procedures’, 8. 41. Fasciculi Zizianiorum, ed. Walter Waddington Shirley (London, 1858), 110–13 (hereafter FZ); Workman, John Wyclif, ii. 141–45; Dahmus, Prosecution of John Wyclyf, 129–34; Catto, ‘Wyclif and Wycliffism’, 213–4; Ian Levy, John Wyclif: Scriptural Logic, Real Presence, and the Parameters of Orthodoxy (Milwaukee, 2003), 232–9; Larsen, ‘John Wyclif ’, 44–9. 42. For the first two sessions of the Blackfriars Council, see Concilia, ed. Wilkins, iii. 157–8; FZ, 275–89 43. The actions of the later sessions of the Blackfriars Council can be found in Concilia, ed. Wilkins, iii. 160–73; Records of Convocation, ed. Gerald Bray (20 vols, Woodbridge, 2005–6), iv. 45–58; FZ, 289–336. For a summary of the events, see Dahmus, Prosecution of John Wyclyf, 89–128; Dahmus, William Courtenay, 78–106; Anne Hudson, ‘Wycliffism in Oxford, 1381–1411’, in Anthony Kenny (ed.) Wyclif in his Times (Oxford, 1986), 67–84; Anne Hudson, The Premature Reformation: Wycliffite Texts and Lollard History (Oxford, 1988), 69–73; Catto, ‘Wyclif and Wycliffism’, 214–19.

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44. An account of the Ascension Day sermon made by a notary survives in Oxford MS Bodley 240, 848–50; S. Forde, ‘Nicholas Hereford’s ascension day sermon’, Medieval Studies 51 (1989), 205–41; references to the Corpus Christi sermon can be found in FZ, 297, 300, 307; see also Hudson, ‘Wycliffism in Oxford’, 69–70; Hudson, Premature Reformation, 71–2. 45. FZ, 302. 46. FZ, 311. 47. FZ, 312–16; Concilia, ed. Wilkins, iii. 166–7. 48. Records of Convocation, ed. Bray, iv. 50–52. 49. Ibid., iv. 52–3. 50. For Crumpe’s condemnation, see FZ, 343–59. 51. In a denunciatio, a formal accuser brought charges against the accused, but the accuser must first have attempted to correct the accused’s errors. Parys is known to have been at Oxford in 1392, and someone at Oxford must have drawn up the list of Crumpe’s objectionable propositions, so it is likely that Parys was chosen to make the accusation because he had opposed Crumpe at Oxford. 52. John Langton, the author of the document in the FZ that records the condemnation, was clearly hostile to Crumpe, but the document does not label either the propositions or Crumpe himself as heretical. The author then goes on to cite a copy of the bishop of Meath’s condemnation, in which Crumpe is explicitly labelled a heretic. Thus it seems that Langton was frustrated that the committee had not branded Crumpe a heretic and chose to include a document demonstrating that Crumpe was definitely a heretic. Had the committee declared either the propositions or Crumpe heretical, it is unlikely that Langton would have omitted this fact. 53. Catto, ‘Wyclif and Wycliffism’, 241–53 54. The notion of academic freedom in medieval universities is a somewhat contentious topic, and the concept of libertas scholastica certainly applies much more to the rights of universities as corporate to operate without outside interference than to the liberty of individual scholars to express ideas. See Mary Martin McLaughlin, Intellectual Freedom and Its Limitations in the University of Paris in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, (New York, 1977); P. Classen, ‘Libertas scolastica—Scholarenprivilegien—Akademische Freiheit im Mittelalter’, in P. Classen, Studien und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter, ed. J. Fried (Stuttgart, 1983), 238–84; Edward Peters, ‘Libertas Inquirendi and the Vitium Curiositatis in Medieval Thought’, in G. Makdisi, Dominque Sourdel, and Janine Sourdel-Thomine (eds), The Concept of Freedom in the Middle Ages: Islam, Byzantium, and the West (Paris, 1985), 89–98; Jurgen Miethke, ‘Bildungsstand und Freiheitsforderung (12. bis 14. Jahrhundert)’ in J. Fried, Das Abendlandische Freiheit vom 10. zum 14. Jahrhundert (Sigmaringen, 1991), 221–247; Thijssen, ‘Academic Heresy, 225–28; Luca Bianchi, Censure et liberté intellectuelle a` l’université de Paris (XIIIe-XIVe siècles) (Paris, 1999); Takashi Shogimen, ‘Academic Controversies’, in G. R. Evans (ed.) The Medieval Theologians (Oxford, 2001), 233–49.

Academic Condemnation and the Decline of Theology at Oxford 55. 56. 57. 58.

59. 60. 61.

62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

71. 72. 73.

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Callus, ‘Problem of the Unity of Form’, 135. Callus, ‘Problem of the Unity of Form’, 158. Callus, ‘Problem of the Unity of Form’, 159. Ellen M.F. Sommer-Seckendorff, Studies in the Life of Robert Kilwardby, O.P. (Rome, 1937), 130–1; P. Mandonnet, Siger de Brabant et L’Averroisme ´ latin au XIIIme Siècle: Etude critique et Documents inédits (Fribourg, 1899), 253. Courtenay, Schools and Scholars, 353, n. 69. Thijssen, Censure and Heresy, 30; Larsen, ‘John Wyclif ’, 6–7. For the revocatio, see Jean Gerson, ‘De Protestatione circa Materiam Fidei’, in Oeuvres Complètes, ed. P. Glorieux (10 vols, Paris, 1960–73), vi. 155–65; Courtenay, ‘Inquiry and Inquisition’, 178–9; Moule, Corporate Theory, 152–64. For an example of the revocatio conditionalis in a scholar’s writing, see Nicholas Radcliff, Dialogus primus de primo homine, London, British Library, Royal 6 D.X., fol. 2v, cited in Mishtooni Bose, ‘The Opponents of John Wyclif ’, in Levy (ed.) Companion to John Wyclif, 407–55, at 412. In the 1330s, Richard Kilvington somehow accidentally failed to take the oath before inception, but he was permitted to take the oath at a later date; Richard Kilvington, Lectura, Erfurt, Wissenschaftliche Bibliothek, MS CA 2, 105, f.134rb. Moule, Corporate Theory, 160–4. M.W. Sheehan, ‘The Religious Orders, 1220–1370’, in Early Oxford Schools, 193–221, at 204; Fletcher, ‘Inter-faculty Disputes’, 341–2. Sheehan, ‘Religious Orders’, 205–7. Courtenay, ‘Articles Condemned’, 12, 14. Larsen, ‘Oxford ‘‘School of Heretics’’ ’, 170, 172, 175–6. Pearl Kibre, Scholarly Privileges in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1962), 310; Sheehan, ‘Religious Orders’, 208. Sheehan, ‘Religious Orders’, 216–17; Larsen, ‘John Wyclif ’, 14. FZ, 349–56. For Pouilly’s case, see McLaughlin, Intellectual Freedom, 250–9; Josef Koch, ‘Der Prozess gegen den Magister Johannes de Polliaco und seine Vorgeschichte’, in Josef Koch, Kleine Schriften, (2 vols, Rome, 1973), ii. 387–421; Thijssen, Censure and Heresy, 174. FZ, 346. Records of Convocation, ed. Bray, iv. 52–3; Joseph Dahmus, William Courtenay, 105–6. From this comment, it is likely that the propositions in question were those of the Franciscan Denis Foullechat, who was forced to recant at Paris in 1369 after Urban V commissioned a cardinal to hear the case. For the proceedings against Foullechat, see Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis, ed. H. Denifle and E. Chatelaine (Paris, 1889–1897), iii. 114–24, 182–86 (hereafter CUP); see also McLaughlin, Intellectual Freedom, 228–30; Gregory Moule, Politics, Patronage, and Learning in Fourteenth Century France: The Case of Denis Foulechat, (Master’s Thesis, University of

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Wisconsin-Madison, 1990), passim; Thijssen, Censure and Heresy, passim. While it might seem curious that Crumpe, a vehemently anti-mendicant Cistercian, would be accused of teaching a proposition of a condemned Franciscan, we have seen that Crumpe was accused in 1392 of defending the teachings of Jean de Pouilly, another condemned Franciscan. 74. FZ, 318. 75. The Constitutions can be found in Concilia, ed. Wilkins, iii. 314–9. Recent discussions of Arundel’s Constitutions include Catto, ‘Wyclif and Wycliffism’, 244–6; Nicholas Watson, ‘Censorship and Cultural Change in Late Medieval England: Vernacular Theology, the Oxford Translation Debate, and Arundel’s Constitutions of 1409’, Speculum 70 (1995), 822–64; Fiona Somerset, ‘Professionalizing Translation at the Turn of the Fifteenth Century: Ullerston’s Determinacio, Arundel’s Constitutiones’, in The Vulgar Tongue: Medieval and Postmedieval Vernacularity, ed. Fiona Somerset and Nicholas Watson (University Park, PA, 2003), 145–58; Bose, ‘Opponents of John Wyclif ’, 410–12; Kathryn Kerby-Fulton, Books Under Suspicion: Censorship and Tolerance of Revelatory Writing in Late Medieval England (Notre Dame, 2006), 397–401. 76. ‘. . . specialissime inhibemus, ne quis, vel qui, cujuscunque gradus, status, aut conditionis existat, conclusions aut propositiones in fide catholica seu bonis moribus adverse sonantes, praeter necessariam doctrinam, facultatis suae, in scholis, aut extra, disputando aut communicando, protestatione praemissa vel non praemissa, asserat vel proponat, etiamsi quadam verborum aut terminorum cusiositate defendi possint.’ Concilia, ed. Wilkins, iii. 317.

Christ Church Oxford, the Ancients-Moderns Controversy, and the Promotion of Newton in Post-Revolutionary England John Friesen

After the Glorious Revolution, Christ Church Oxford was known as a centre for Toryism, High Anglicanism, and classical studies. The college was the home of Francis Atterbury: Dean of Christ Church (1710–1713), leader of the Christ Church wits in the ancients-moderns dispute (or Battle of the Books), and opponent of the Whig Hanoverian regime. Given large claims made for the superiority of modern knowledge in the late seventeenth century, the following statement by Atterbury is significant. Writing to his French correspondent Nicholas-Claude Thierot on Fontenelle’s eulogy of Newton after his death, Atterbury commented: M. Fontenelle’s praise of Sir Isaac’s modesty (and of modesty in general) is to me the most pleasing part of that description he has given us of him. It is that modesty which will teach us to speak and think of the Ancients with reverence, especially if we happen not to be thoroughly acquainted with them. Sir Isaac certainly was, and his great veneration for them was one distinguishing part of his character, which I wonder (or rather do not wonder) that M. Fontenelle has omitted. His opinion of them was, that they were men of great genius and superior minds, who had carried their discoveries (particularly in Astronomy and other parts of the Mathematics) much farther than now appears from what remains of their writings.1

Newton’s veneration for the ancients was proof to Atterbury of the value of ancient knowledge, even in disciplines such as astronomy and mathematics. Standing at the pinnacle of early eighteenth-century natural philosophy, Newton’s authority could be marshalled to defend the ancients. Fontenelle’s eulogy also mentioned Newton’s posthumous manuscripts relating to antiquity, history, and divinity. Atterbury hoped ‘for

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the honour of our country that they may be as excellent in their kind as those he published [on natural philosophy]’, but fears ‘the case is otherwise; and that he will be found to have been a great Master only in the one way to which he was by nature inclined’.2 Many of Newton’s manuscripts were later published in 1728 as the Chronology of Ancient Kingdoms Amended, a year which also saw the publication of several editions of Fontenelle’s eulogy in English translation. The above statement of Atterbury suggests a familiarity with Newton’s studies on ancient history, but also a degree of ignorance about the substance of those inquiries. This is noteworthy considering Atterbury’s strong assertions in the same letter of Newton’s great respect for the ancients, particularly in astronomy and mathematics. Where did Atterbury’s image of the modest Newton, a natural philosopher that respected ancient knowledge, come from? In this paper, I will argue that Atterbury’s image of Newton originated in the first two decades of the eighteenth century at Christ Church Oxford. This college was the home of several early exponents of Newtonian natural philosophy such as David Gregory, John Keill, and John Freind, as well as the Christ Church wits, a circle of literary men including Atterbury, George Smalridge, William King, Anthony Alsop, and Robert Freind. These men are known for defending ancient knowledge against the leaders of the moderns led by Richard Bentley and William Wotton.3 At Christ Church, this dispute had a clear political dimension: Atterbury, his literary colleagues, and the Newtonians within the college were Tory High Churchmen; Bentley and Wotton supporters of the Whigs and the Low Church. I will argue that Christ Church Newtonians along with their literary colleagues were active participants in the ancients-moderns dispute, attacking the moderns, while simultaneously promoting the convergence between ancient knowledge and Newtonian ideas. This essay seeks to illustrate the links between mathematics, astronomy, natural philosophy, and larger issues debated among literary scholars in the ancients-moderns quarrel. The most recent historian of the dispute, Joseph Levine, has concluded that the root cause of the battle was a debate over the nature of history.4 The quarrel between the Christ Church wits and the moderns was over the proper use of history: the ancients believed the aim of history was to instruct students in important moral lessons; the moderns attempted to validate the claims of ancient historical texts through the new sciences of philology and archaeology. While Levine’s analysis is invaluable, Oxford Newtonians,

The Ancients-Moderns Controversy

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some of whom had connections to the literary wits, were always quick to emphasize their debt to ancient sources. This does not imply a belief that the ancients were superior to the moderns in the sciences among them; instead, it indicates a strong desire to appeal to the notion of ancient wisdom in philosophical debate. This was especially the case at Christ Church Oxford, an institution that prided itself on being a citadel of classical learning. Christ Church Newtonians frequently emphasized continuity with the past instead of a radical disruption and the contributions of ancient thought to the present corpus of knowledge. Once this fact is highlighted, the relative merits of ancient natural knowledge become an integral part of the larger ancients-moderns battle identified by Levine. Support for Newton among Tory High Churchmen at Christ Church also illustrates that the promotion of Newton cannot be seen as the preserve of a specific political and religious party. Indeed, recent scholarship has largely discredited Margaret Jacob’s attempts to weld the support of the Newtonian cosmos to the promotion of a Whig Low Church Anglican ideology. The work of Anita Guerrini has documented the existence of Tory High Church Newtonians in Scotland and England. Recent studies on the religion of Newton have also shown how the anti-Trinitarian views of Newton and some of his followers became entangled in the thickets of theological controversy; Newton was thus a questionable supporter of orthodox Anglicanism of any stripe, high or low. The present state of scholarship suggests that the vast corpus of Newtonian natural philosophy, along with Newton’s writings on religion and history, could be used to support a multiplicity of political and religious ideas from radical Whiggery and anti-Trinitarianism to Tory High Anglicanism. By analyzing how Newton’s authority could be marshalled by Tory High Churchmen at Christ Church Oxford, one can understand how, within certain contexts, Newton could be championed by individuals opposed to the post-1688 political and religious settlement.5 The essay will be structured as follows. First, I will examine the place of Christ Church in the quarrel. Second, I will show how Oxford Newtonians actively engaged in the controversy on the side of the ancients, promoting mathematics, Newtonian natural philosophy, and the convergence between Newtonian thought and ancient wisdom. Lastly, I will argue that the debates at Oxford were of significance for the more general acceptance of Newton within Tory High Church circles.

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History of Universities The Institutional Context

In the late seventeenth century, Oxford was known as a centre of opposition to the new regime of William and Mary. Christ Church was one of the largest and most influential colleges at the university, and it quickly gained a reputation for Toryism and High Anglicanism. Amid fears that the monarchy and the Anglican Church were in danger from republicans, social levellers, and religious dissenters, Christ Church remained a staunch advocate for the Anglican Church. Indeed, Atterbury became the de-facto leader of the High Church movement after the publication of his Letter to a Convocation Man in 1697, a work arguing Anglican Convocation had the right to regularly convene to censor heterodox thought.6 Atterbury was alarmed with the rational theology of Low Churchmen, anti-Trinitarians, and deists which threatened patristic traditions established by the Church Fathers. For his supporters at Oxford, the study of the Church Fathers and other ancient authors was intimately connected with the advancement of religious values and the support of traditional institutions; this curriculum seemed increasingly under threat by the promotion of rational theology and experimental philosophy. It is not surprising that prominent members of Christ Church attacked the writings of Bentley and Wotton, works which advanced historical practices akin to the methods of natural historians and experimental philosophers jeopardizing the traditional role of the classics in the university curriculum. From the Restoration until the end of Queen Anne’s reign, Christ Church was led by a succession of deans who were passionate defenders of the Anglican religious establishment. John Fell, Dean of the college from 1660–86, was a staunch royalist. Fearing the return of the turbulent decades of the Interregnum, Fell sought to make ‘Christ Church a bastion of Anglicanism and loyalty through which, by the education of the governing classes and the training of a learned clergy, the collapse of authority might be averted and the security of the state preserved’.7 His successor Henry Aldrich shared similar commitments: he was an ally of Atterbury in the Convocation controversy and was succeeded by him in 1710. To be a Dean of Christ Church was significant: along with Magdalen, Christ Church was one of the largest and most powerful colleges at the university; its vast financial resources gave the college the ability to influence university policy unlike poorer colleges dependent on royal patronage.8 The college was in a strong position to guide university politics.


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Studies at Christ Church emphasized classical and patristic learning. The classics were viewed as essential components of a liberal education. The purpose of a liberal education was to instill virtue, taste, and civility in future leaders of the nation. Classical learning was championed for its utility; ancient texts taught valuable moral lessons for future English statesmen and clergymen. Every year Christ Church elected at least three pupils to Westminster Studentships. Under its headmaster, Richard Busby, Westminster School developed an outstanding reputation for the cultivation of classical studies; in the aftermath of the ancientsmoderns dispute many young scholars accepted the offer of Westminster Studentships to study at Christ Church.9 College undergraduate studies emphasized the writing of Latin verse and the study of Greek and Hebrew. Emblematic of the high status of classical studies at the college was the production of new-years books. These works were sponsored by the Dean. Henry Aldrich often used bright young students such as Charles Boyle and John Freind to edit editions of classical texts which were then distributed to the student body.10 Within this context, the study of mathematics was encouraged. Mathematics was considered a part of a unified body of knowledge including astronomy, optics, logic, geography, and chronology. The mathematical arts were considered useful for the gentleman scholar to master; knowledge of geometry and arithmetic helped the landowner to manage his estate more efficiently and the military officer to lead his army into battle. The usefulness of mathematics for the practical affairs of life made the discipline an integral part of the classical humanist curriculum. The deans of Christ Church took an active interest in mathematics. In his younger days, Aldrich was a mathematics tutor; he applied this knowledge to architecture and was responsible for building several notable buildings in Oxford, including the Peckwater.11 Atterbury tutored the young Charles Boyle on a variety of subjects including Euclid’s geometry.12 The statutes defining the duties of the Savilian Professors of Geometry and Astronomy emphasized the importance of lecturing on both ancient and modern topics as well as practical mathematics. Among the astronomy professors was the notable classicist Edward Bernard, professor from 1673–1691; his work aimed at collecting and publishing ancient texts of mathematicians and astronomers.13 If mathematics and related disciplines were part of the existing humanist curriculum, natural philosophy was more problematic. Experimental philosophy and natural history were far from absent at Oxford. Indeed, chemistry and natural history were cultivated by Robert Plot, keeper of

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the Ashmolean Museum. Later, John Freind gave lectures on chemistry at the Ashmolean that incorporated the Newtonian concept of active principles.14 As deputy to the Sedleian Professor of Natural Philosophy Thomas Millington, John Keill performed experiments before his students. However, in the seventeenth century the promotion of experimental philosophy was often associated with attacks on classical and scholastic training in universities, especially during the Interregnum, when Puritans urged the reform of the university curriculum. Apologists of the new science highlighted the progress the moderns had made in comparison to their predecessors. Defenders of traditional university learning were often criticized by leading members of the Royal Society of London.15 There were also suspicions of the new philosophy among university authorities, especially the materialism of Descartes and the pantheism of Spinoza, philosophies that fuelled religious heterodoxy.16 For some scholars like Roger North, the forbidden fruit of Cartesian philosophy had irresistible appeal; most urged that their young pupils read the new philosophies with a critical and sceptical eye.17 It is within this context that one is to understand opposition at Christ Church to the scholarship of Richard Bentley and William Wotton. The Battle of the Books in England began in earnest after the publication of Wotton’s Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning in 1694. This work was a response to several essays of William Temple, a man who defended the superiority of the ancients in both the arts and sciences. Temple’s Essay upon Ancient and Modern Learning (1692) answered Fontenelle’s Digression on the Ancients and Moderns (1688) and Charles Perrault’s Parallèle des Anciens et des Modernes (1688–97). The latter work declared the moderns triumphant in the arts as well as the sciences: the modern thinkers Descartes and Pascal illustrated the greatness of the moderns. The quarrel in France—which had its own ancient and modern camps—antedated the controversy in England; but the debate quickly spread across the channel.18 Wotton’s Reflections championed the cause of the moderns; it was republished in 1697 and 1705. The second edition contained Bentley’s ‘A Dissertation upon the Epistles of Phalaris’. Both Wotton and Bentley advanced a critical approach to the study of historical texts that challenged the educational ideals of the Christ Church establishment. Bentley’s letters on Phalaris utilized knowledge derived from archeology, philology, and numismatics to argue that the letters were a forgery, a claim that led to a collective response by the Christ Church literary wits: Francis Atterbury, George Smalridge, Anthony Alsop, William King,


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and John and Robert Freind.19 Their opposition was rooted in the belief that modern historical criticism threatened the traditional role of classics in the training of future statesmen and clergymen. For the Christ Church wits, the authenticity of the letters was not of utmost importance; what mattered were the moral lessons that classical texts conveyed, lessons that could be of practical use. For the ancients, there was a close connection between the methods of modern criticism and the promotion of natural history and experimental philosophy. As the historian or antiquarian searched for relics of the ancient past, the natural philosopher collected fossils and other curiosities to reconstruct the earth’s history. Proponents of the new science of the Royal Society, Thomas Sprat and Joseph Glanvill, attacked ancient textual authorities; they promoted the fact-collecting and experimentalism championed by Francis Bacon.20 Such actions challenged the Oxford ideal of the gentleman well-versed in the classics and scripture; Dean Fell went so far as to oppose attempts to replace Aristotle and other ancient writers with modern authors.21 The new philosophy also appeared to garner little practical fruit. The great hopes that the Royal Society would serve as a powerful institution for the promotion of useful knowledge had floundered by the end of the seventeenth-century.22 Supporters of the ancients were quick to satirize the activities of experimenters, natural historians, and modern critics. The Christ Church wit William King authored two works, Dialogues of the Dead (1699) and The Transactioneer (1700), mocking the usefulness of the new philosophy. The modern critic and virtuoso were portrayed as foolish men who dug in ditches, examined insects and worms, and hunted for spiders; in King’s opinion, the activities of the Royal Society’s fellows were trivial—they studied exotic curiosities, such as fossils from abroad, rather than useful knowledge.23 Similar sentiments were echoed by the Tory Scriblerus club—a group of literary wits including Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, John Gay, and John Arbuthnot—in the collaborative works, Three Hours after Marriage (1717) and the Memoirs of the Extraordinary Life, Works, and Discoveries of Martinus Scriblerus. These same opinions were held at Christ Church. Indeed, Swift’s The Tale of the Tub (1704), a thorough critique of modern criticism and philosophy, was rumored to have been written by a Christ Church man; this was the early opinion of Atterbury.24 Even worse, the methods of antiquarians and natural historians, which often involved examining the contents of the earth’s crust for information

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on early human history, were similar to those natural philosophers who attempted to explain the earth’s early history according to the principles of modern philosophy. The late seventeenth century witnessed numerous efforts to account for the history of the earth—the creation, flood, and final consummation of all things—mechanically. The biblical flood was a popular subject of analysis. Thomas Burnet’s Sacred Theory of the Earth (1694–1690), John Woodward’s Essay toward a Natural History of the Earth (1695), and William Whiston’s New Theory of the Earth (1696) explained the flood and the location of terrestrial fossils through various physical mechanisms. The Cartesian Burnet believed the crust of the primitive earth cracked from the heat of the sun causing subterranean waters to issue forth. Woodward claimed the earth dissolved during the flood; fossils descended after the deluge according to their specific gravities, accounting for their location in geological strata. Whiston used Newtonian theory to explain the flood; in this latter case the universal deluge was caused by the ‘‘choc’’ of a comet passing nearby the earth.25 Since geological speculations of the earth’s history were closely tied to the activities of fossils collectors, natural historians, and antiquarians, the theories of Burnet, Woodward, and Whiston were prime targets of the ancients. This was especially the case with Woodward. He was well known for his studies on ancient antiquities. Like Bentley and Wotton, Woodward attempted to reconstruct the past by collecting ancient relics; he purchased an antique shield in 1693 believing that diagrams on its surface depicted the story of an ancient military attack on the Roman capital. His conjectural theories about the flood and antiquarian activities made him a perfect target for satirists. Woodward was derogatorily labelled ‘‘Dr. Fossil’’ in the Scribleran play Three Hours after Marriage. In the Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus, the fictional character Cornelius was mocked for his interest in ancient relics and for taking his son Martinus ‘to the Puppet Show of the Creation of the World, where the Child with exceeding delight gain’d a notion of the History of the Bible’.26 Martinus’ early education was quite disastrous; he became a critic and projector pursuing such projects as the perpetual motion and new theories of the deluge.27 Late in life, Woodward entered a heated dispute with the Christ Church’s John Freind over the proper treatment of smallpox, a battle that was fuelled by Woodward’s previous activities.28 However, the root cause of attacks on the theories of Burnet, Woodward, and Whiston was religious. Mechanical explanations of the flood appeared to restrict God’s providence in the causal workings of nature;


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the miraculous nature of extraordinary events in the Bible was rendered meaningless. There was also a constant tension between theories of the deluge and a literal reading of Genesis, leading to claims that the Mosaic description of man’s early history did not provide an exact historical account of the flood. In the hands of Burnet, the Bible became a mere parable designed to convey moral not philosophical truths. This gave encouragement to freethinkers and deists who believed that scripture was merely a tool used by crafty priests to maintain their authority.29 It is not surprising that histories of the earth were attacked by Anglican clergymen. Many clergymen feared that natural philosophy threatened to undermine respect for scripture in an age when deists were increasingly promoting a religion free of mystery. A few years after the publications of Woodward and Whiston, the Cambridge non-juror Richard Marsh despaired that: the great design of these Men is to give a Rational Account of the Mosaical Creation; and where the Sacred Writer is either silent, or goes off from Mechanical Rules, there the Philosopher steps in, to help him out in the matter; and rather than Mechanism must be broke, the Sacred Text must be rack’d into Confession of it.30

Referring to theories of the creation and the flood, Atterbury noted those men who attempted to ‘advance nice explications of mysteries which are inexplicable; by the misapplication of mathematical reasoning to matters of mere revelation’.31 Those Oxford Newtonians who attacked their colleagues in the scientific community for such speculations were quick to receive the praise of clerical High flyers. The above point is significant. Oxford Newtonians at Christ Church and other colleges faced a problem of legitimacy. The practice of mathematics, astronomy, and experimental philosophy could be problematic. These fields of study were celebrated by the moderns. The promotion of experimental philosophy and natural history, with its links to modern criticism and religious heterodoxy, boded ill for the classical humanist curriculum. Within this context, Newton’s Oxford supporters would have to paint a particular image of Newton that would be acceptable within an institution that prided itself as a defender of classical learning and the Anglican Church. This was possible because Newton’s supporters were mathematicians who could integrate their studies within the existing framework of humanist scholarship. Newton’s legacy was also something that was highly contested: he could be portrayed as a champion of ancient wisdom as well as the leader of the moderns. Oxford

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Newtonians were eager to ingratiate themselves with their political allies and college patrons.

Christ Church Newtonians and the Quarrel

Christ Church Newtonians like Gregory and Keill actively supported the literary wits in their battles against Bentley and Wotton. They were assisted by Arbuthnot, an active supporter of Newton, who joined University College in 1694. Gregory and Keill initially entered Balliol College and later transferred to Christ Church in 1700 and 1703.32 Gregory’s and Keill’s transfers were likely influenced by Henry Aldrich, a defender of the ancients and a patron of mathematical learning.33 While Gregory and Arbuthnot were active participants in the dispute, Keill’s role was more transparent; he was by nature confrontational. (Keill was Newton’s ‘bulldog’ in the calculus dispute between Newton and Leibniz.) Both Keill and Arbuthnot were vocal exponents of the High Church at Oxford. Whether their defence of High Anglicanism was a product of sincere religiosity or simply an effort to court university patronage is more debatable.34 Each combined attacks on Wotton and Bentley with criticisms of theories of the earth; along with Gregory, they promoted the usefulness of mathematical learning and the ancient roots of modern astronomy. Interest in ancient geometers and astronomers was not new at Oxford. For previous holders of the Savilian Professorships of Geometry and Astronomy study of the ancients was a serious scholarly enterprise. John Greaves travelled to Constantinople in 1637 to obtain manuscripts of Greek mathematicians; he acquired a copy of Ptolemy’s Almagest. Later in the century, the multi-lingual Edward Bernard (master of Hebrew, Arabic, and Syriac) worked to produce a new edition of all ancient mathematicians, a project sponsored by Dean Fell. The long serving geometry professor John Wallis edited the works of Archimedes and Ptolemy.35 The Savilian statutes instructed professors to teach wideranging courses covering both ancient and modern mathematicians and astronomers.36 Knowledge of the ancients was still viewed as essential for the practicing astronomer. What made the activities of the Gregory group distinctive were the Scottish origins of their classicism. Gregory, Keill, and Arbuthnot were


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among the many Scottish Episcopalians who fled Scotland after the restoration of the Presbyterian Kirk in 1690. Scottish Presbyterians were strong Calvinists hostile to the humanism and classical scholarship of their religious opponents, Episcopalians and Arminians. This is certainly the image painted by Archibald Pitcairne, a colleague and friend of Gregory.37 Scottish Episcopalians sought refuge and patronage among their political allies in England, and Gregory’s circle would benefit from the support of High Churchmen at Christ Church, men who shared their opposition to the post-1688 revolutionary establishment and their love of classical learning.38 Their identity as Scots is crucial for understanding their participation in the larger ancients-moderns quarrel. Gregory, Arbuthnot, and Keill formed a Scottish circle eager for the patronage of their political allies at Oxford. Arbuthnot’s early correspondence reveals close links between the Gregory group and Henry Aldrich. When Gregory died in 1708, Arbuthnot lobbied for the erection of a monument in his honour at Oxford. He instructed Arthur Charlett of University College ‘to talk to his worthy friend the Dean of Christ Church about this matter. . . . We are using our interest for John Keil’.39 The last statement refers to efforts to secure the Savilian Professorship of Astronomy for Keill. A decade earlier, Arbuthnot and his colleagues eagerly awaited the Christ Church response to Bentley and Wotton;40 they illustrated a willingness to criticize individuals censored by the Christ Church wits: critics, fossil collectors, and speculative theorists. Indeed, after John Woodward and William Whiston published their speculations about the earth’s early history, Arbuthnot and Keill responded with lengthy critiques. In their opinion, the schemes of worldmakers were contrary to both the principles of true natural philosophy and of scripture. This was the charge of Arbuthnot’s An Examination of Dr. Woodward’s Account of the Deluge (1697). Woodward’s claim that the earth had dissolved during the flood with fossils later subsiding according to their specific gravities contradicted the laws of nature. The latter were based on observation and experiment. Arbuthnot claimed that theorists of the earth (Woodward, Burnet, and Whiston) were too hasty in their conclusions and ‘apt to put more in the Conclusion than there is in the Premises’.41 Theories were only valid if we ‘build upon true and decisive observations; and survey the works of Nature with the same Geometry, by which the Divine Architect put them together’.42 In this passage, Arbuthnot echoes the views of Newton and his first generation

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of disciples; they eschewed hypotheses without sufficient experimental foundation like the Cartesian ether. Hypothesis or system-building was evidence of vanity. Even worse, Woodward’s explanation of the flood contradicted Moses’ account. Arbuthnot asserted: I wish the compilers of Theories would have more regard to Moses’ Relation, which surpasses all the accounts of Philosophers as much in Wisdom, as it doth in authority. The Doctor is not singular in this, it is but too common a Fault now a days.43

Natural explanations of the creation and the flood contradicted literal descriptions of both events in the bible. William Nicolson wrote to Edward Lhwyd that: our late refiners upon the Creation and the Deluge are unanimously agreed, that the old interpreters of Moses were all blockheads: and which of them will furnish us with a more rational and lasting exposition, time must show. Whether Dr. Burnet’s roasted egg, Dr. Woodward’s hasty pudding, or Mr. Whiston’s snuff of a Comet, will carry the day, I cannot forsee.44

Of the three theorists, only Whiston had close ties to Newton. Both Woodward’s empirical methods—involving fossil collecting and antiquarian studies—and Burnet’s Cartesianism made them ready targets for Arbuthnot. Keill supported Arbuthnot. His An Examination of Dr. Burnet’s Theory of the Earth (1698) and An Examination of the Reflections on the Theory of the Earth (1699) defended the Mosaic account of the early history of the earth as certain and true. All attempts to explain events such as the deluge through secondary causes were faulty. Keill believed that Descartes was behind such schemes. As the one of the first worldmakers and moderns, the Frenchman had ‘encouraged so very much this presumptuous pride in the Philosophers that they think they understand all the works of Nature and are able to give a good account of them’.45 Instead, the deluge was ‘the immediate work of the Divine power, and . . . no secondary causes without the interposition of Omnipotence could have brought such an effect to pass’.46 The speculations of Burnet and others, including Whiston, were contrary to the principles of natural philosophy, those founded ‘upon observations and calculations, both which are undoubtedly the most certain principles that a Philosopher can build upon’.47 Keill questioned whether the physical mechanisms to explain the flood that Burnet and Whiston offered were sufficient;


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although he found both wanting, Whiston, as a fellow exponent for Newton, received less criticism.48 Oxford Newtonians conceptually linked theories of the earth, antiquarian studies, and modern criticism. Indeed, Arbuthnot’s attacks on Woodward also included Scribleran satires on his antiquarianism, including the authenticity of one of Woodward’s most prized possessions, an ancient shield. David Gregory was also a vocal opponent of Woodward’s historical studies. The Oxford antiquarian Thomas Hearne described Woodward’s shield as ‘a great Curiosity; but yet for all that there are not wanting some ill-natur’d men who run it down as a Banter, particularly Dr. Gregory the Scotchman who understands just as much of Antiquity as he does of Greek’.49 John Keill made several snide remarks on modern antiquarians and critics in his Examination of Dr. Burnet’s Theory. Keill ridiculed Wotton’s praise for Descartes in the latter’s Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning. He also criticized Bentley’s Boyle lectures. Keill wished that ‘great Criticks would confine their Labours to their Lexicons, and not venture to guess in those parts of Learning which are capable of demonstration’.50 His attacks on the Burnet and Whiston were much appreciated at Christ Church. Atterbury’s colleague George Smalridge had the following to say about Keill’s first work: Mr. Keil, whom I am well acquainted with, is a plain, rough, honest, thorough Scholar, and his book answers that character. I am not master enough of Mathematics to understand him always; but, where I do, I am convinced he is in the right; and those who are better skilled are satisfied he has demonstratively confuted all the material things in Dr. Burnet’s Theory.51

As a supporter of Newton, Keill was eager to separate the ‘great man’ from the speculations of Burnet, Woodward, and Whiston; when the latter claimed Newton’s tacit support for his New Theory of the Earth, Keill was quick to rebut such an assertion.52 The depreciation of antiquarian scholarship was not universal at Oxford. Indeed, among Oxford’s Tories, Jacobites, and non-jurors there was a keen interest in the study of ancient history and medieval English history through the collection of artifacts, coins, and documents. Rigorous historical scholarship of this nature had a long tradition among clergymen interested in the history of the early Christian Church and patristic texts.53 Most notable in this respect was the Bodleian librarian Thomas Hearne, at the centre of a large circle of antiquarian non-jurors including Henry Dodwell, George Hickes, and Thomas Smith. Although they were Tory

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High Churchmen, these men pursued studies considered barren and trivial by the members of Christ Church. Hearne’s anti-Whig and anti Low Church views were public knowledge; he was deprived of his position at the Bodleian after the Hanoverian Succession.54 Divisions between mathematicians and natural historians made Christ Church a natural abode for Gregory and Keill. This was a period of transition in the English scientific community. At the Royal Society of London, Isaac Newton and his supporters promoted mathematical natural philosophy at the expense of natural history and antiquities; this led to criticism from naturalists such as John Ray, Martin Lister, and John Woodward. Hearne’s frequent correspondent Thomas Smith also expressed dismay about the growing enthusiasm for mathematics at the Royal Society.55 Given the animosity between the two groups it is not surprising that Oxford mathematicians would gravitate toward Christ Church, a college known for its attacks on the activities of collectors and critics, and an institution famous for the cultivation of mathematics along with its teaching within a humanist curriculum. Within this context one can understand Gregory’s, Keill’s, and Arbuthnot’s promotion of mathematical learning in the first decade of the eighteenth century at Oxford. They praised mathematics for its great usefulness in contrast to the studies of fossil collectors and antiquarians who engaged in speculations about the history of the earth. Shortly after Gregory became a member of Christ Church, he proposed a course for the teaching of mathematics at Oxford. This course included the study of Euclid’s Elements, plain geometry, algebra, mechanics, optics, the principles of astronomy, and the theory of the tides. Other possible topics included fortifications, ballistics, projectiles, and pendulums (timekeeping).56 This project was supported by Henry Aldrich. The Dean also patronized Keill after his attacks on Burnet and Whiston; he was instrumental in Keill’s appointment as deputy of Thomas Millington.57 In 1701, Arbuthnot published An Essay on the Usefulness of Mathematical Learning in a Letter from a Gentleman in the City to his Friend in Oxford. (It is tempting to believe that Arburthot’s Oxford friend was either Gregory or Keill.) As with Gregory’s course proposal, this treatise argued for both the great practical uses of mathematics in navigation, fortification, ballistics, chronology, and geography along with the establishment of mathematical lectures to educate seamen, surveyors, engineers, and artisans. Arbuthnot emphasized the usefulness of mathematical learning for the gentleman of public affairs as well as for the seaman and merchant. This


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is not surprising given the important place of mathematics in traditional humanist education. As Mordechai Feingold explains, at Oxford: geometry was often likened to logic for its capacity to train the minds of youth to reason well, while arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and optics were considered not only prerequisites for the study of philosophy but essential for the study of geography and chronology—the ‘two eyes’ of the important humanistic discipline of history; the mathematical sciences were also considered indispensable for the education of a ‘gentleman’ by virtue of their utility in matters of warfare, navigation and the management of estates.58

Defenders of the ancients, both literary wits and mathematicians, applauded knowledge that could be applied for practical use; one need only recall Swift’s praise in Gulliver’s Travels of the useful mathematics of Lilliputian engineers instead of the abstract mathematical astronomy of the Laputians. They learned by practice and imitation instead of abstract theorizing. When Oxford Newtonians emphasized the usefulness of mathematical learning, they attempted to appeal to an audience suspicious of the utility of much contemporary natural philosophic inquiry. The study of mathematics also served a moral purpose; such a study would render the nobility and gentry ‘serious, diligent, curious, taking them off from the more fruitless and airy exercises of the fancy, which they are apt to run into’.59 Mathematics improved the mind by putting it into a habit of clear and demonstrative reasoning; it also produced in us a reverence for God: ‘the Mathematicks are friends to Religion; inasmuch as they charm the passions, restrain the impetuosity of imagination, and purge the Mind from error and prejudice’.60 Mathematics was essential for the natural philosopher. Arbuthnot declared his contempt for ‘those Gentlemen, that pretend to explain how the Earth was framed, and yet can hardly measure an Acre of Ground upon the surface of it’,61 a statement Keill would wholly agree with. Mathematics garnered tangible practical benefits while disproving the theories of heterodox theorists of the earth. The attacks of Oxford Newtonians on Burnet, Woodward, and Whiston, along with their promotion of mathematics at Oxford, illustrate that they actively sided with the Christ Church wits in this quarrel. Wotton recognized this when he identified Keill as one of his principal opponents. In the third edition of his Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning (1705), Wotton added the essay, ‘A Defense of the Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning’. The essay responded to Keill’s criticisms of Bentley and himself in the 1698 Examination. Wotton was somewhat perplexed by Keill’s attacks: ‘since Mr. Keill sets up for

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Skill in those Parts of Learning particularly whose Increases in this Age I chiefly contend for, I thought I might reasonably have look’d for a fairer Quarter; and I could not forbear crying out Et to Brute, when he fell upon me’.62 Here Wotton expressed astonishment that a teacher of mathematics and natural philosophy, whose increases in the last few centuries were beyond dispute, could side with the ancients in the battle. The irony was not so transparent for Christ Church Newtonians. For them the edifice of modern astronomy and natural philosophy stood on ancient foundations.

Standing on the shoulders of giants: Newton and ancient astronomy

Keill’s criticisms of Bentley and Wotton were particularly damaging given the large claims made by the moderns for progress in the sciences. Oxford Newtonians did more than side with the literary wits in the quarrel; they also actively promoted the idea that Newtonian astronomy and natural philosophy had ancient roots in their lectures and publications. By doing so they highlighted the importance of ancient contributions to the present corpus of knowledge, thus making claims for the unquestioned superiority of the moderns in the natural sciences problematic. Newton’s own personal belief that the Copernican system and the principle of attraction were known to ancient Egyptian and Babylonian astronomers is well known, as is his communication of these views to Gregory who likely gave them to Keill. However, Gregory’s and Keill’s espousal of these ideas was only partly due to the influence of Newton; equally, if not more important, was the enthusiasm such notions would have aroused among their colleagues at Christ Church and their need to court patronage. First, I will examine the influence of Newton on Gregory and Keill; then I will show how their writings fit into the ancients-moderns debate. The concept of a prisca philosophia was not unique to Newton. The belief that the sciences had begun in ancient Chaldea and Egypt, were transplanted to Greece and Rome, corrupted in the Middle-Ages, and revived during the Renaissance was a common scholarly trope. Indeed, William Temple’s assertion that ancient philosophers such as Plato, Aristotle, and Epicurus were superior to the moderns was grounded on the belief that a pristine knowledge of nature had existed in the past, antedating even the Greeks;63 similar views were held by the


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Cambridge Platonist Henry More. As we have seen, the belief that the ancients knew much about mathematics and astronomy motivated several Savilian Professors of Astronomy and Geometry to gather and edit ancient mathematical manuscripts. For orthodox Anglicans the prisca philosophia tradition was a doubleedged sword. While it could be used to venerate the authority of the ancients, it could also be utilized to attack the historical legitimacy of the Anglican Church; these criticisms were grounded in a new secular view of history that emerged in the late seventeenth century. Central to historical reappraisals of the past was the belief that pagan societies like ancient Egypt possessed knowledge of true religion. Many promoters of a prisca theologia denied that divine wisdom had been revealed to the Jews and then inherited by religious authorities.64 In the hands of Anglican critics these ideas could be used to attack the authority of clergymen; Anglicanism was viewed as a corruption of a pristine natural religion, much as Aristotelianism was a corruption of true philosophy. Newton held this view of religious history: true religion and philosophy lay with Noah and his sons before it was altered by the rise of polytheism present in the Anglican doctrine of the Trinity. Similar arguments were made by English deists.65 Despite the heterodox uses of ancient thought by deists, the defence of ancient knowledge and wisdom was common at Oxford during the late seventeenth century. The rhetoric of Bacon and Descartes, and their promoters at the Royal Society including Thomas Sprat and Joseph Glanvill, emphasized a radical break with past knowledge and traditions to overthrow Aristotle and begin the sciences anew. By following revolutionary methods new discoveries would be made and knowledge increase.66 The utopian language of the moderns seemed threatening to traditional educational institutions. Swift clearly expressed these fears in The Tale of the Tub, a work that equated modern philosophy with religious enthusiasm; in the minds of many ancients, the depreciation of ancient philosophy was closely tied to attacks on the Anglican establishment. Therefore, the appropriation of ancient wisdom to combat the moderns was an attractive option, even if the same corpus of thought could be used to attack the Anglican Church. The tradition of prisca philosophia could be used to support a wide range of political and religious views.67 While Newton did not publish his work on ancient history (he was always wary of engaging in philosophical and religious quarrels), elements of his thought, especially that dealing with the wisdom of ancient mathematicians and astronomers, were applauded at

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Christ Church. Past authors still had relevance for current debates on astronomy and natural philosophy. Newton’s unpublished manuscripts reveal an interest in proving that the Newtonian cosmos was known in the past. In their famous article over thirty years ago, J.E. McGuire and P.M. Rattansi demonstrated how Newton, in several draft scholia intended for a revised second edition of the Principia, attempted to prove ancient knowledge of the atomic structure of matter, void space, universal gravitation, the inverse square law, and the divine cause of gravity. In particular, Newton used the authority of Democritus, Epicurus, and Lucretius for ancient support of atoms and a vacuum, Pythagoras for past knowledge of the inverse square law, and Thales and the Stoics for evidence of the spiritual or divine source of gravity.68 For Newton, Thales and Pythagoras were of great importance; they had traveled to Egypt and Babylon and had brought back valuable knowledge to Greece. Knowledge of the true astronomy was communicated by the descendants of Noah to ancient Egyptians and Babylonians who had initially practiced it until philosophy and religion had been corrupted by the worship of false idols.69 The study of Greeks who had visited these civilizations was thus of utmost importance. Many of Newton’s ideas on a prisca philosophia were communicated to David Gregory in a meeting between the two men in May 1694 when Newton gave the above draft scholia to him. Gregory’s ‘Annotations Physical Mathematical and Theological from Newton 5,6,7, May 1694’ reveal Gregory’s knowledge of Newton’s historical accounts of ancient knowledge. Gregory noted that Newton ‘will spread himself in exhibiting the agreement of this philosophy with that of the Ancients and principally with that of Thales. The philosophy of Epicurus and Lucretius is true and old, but was wrongly interpreted by the ancients as atheism’.70 A few months later, writing about the changes that Newton proposed to make to a second edition of the Principia, Gregory indicated that: [by] far the greatest changes will be made to Book III. He will make a big change in Hypothesis III page 402. He will show that the most ancient philosophy is in agreement with this hypothesis of his as much because the Egyptians and others taught the Copernican system, as he shows from their religion and hieroglyphics and images of the Gods, as because Plato and others—Plutarch and Galileo refer to it—observed the gravitation of all bodies towards all.71

When Gregory published his Astronomia Physicae et Geometricae Elementa in 1702, his private discussions with Newton were uppermost in his mind.


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In Gregory’s preface to the Astronomia, Newton’s views about ancient wisdom are manifest. Regarding the draft scholia that Newton gave to Gregory, McGuire’s and Rattansi’s assertion that ‘Gregory drew from it extensively for the preface to his Astronomia, some paragraphs being almost identical with the manuscript’ is accurate.72 Gregory stated at the beginning of his preface that in order that ‘none may think the Physics deliver’d in the following Work intirely new and unknown in Astronomy, I shall take the liberty to shew that it was both known and diligently cultivated by the most ancient Philosophers’.73 He further stated that ‘we do still tread in the steps of the Ancients in this Physical Astronomy; inasmuch as they knew that the Celestial Bodies gravitated towards each other, and were retain’d in their Orbits by the force of gravity; and were apprised of the Law of this gravity’.74 In the preface Thales, Pythagoras, Anaximander, and Anaximenes were praised for their belief in a heliocentric universe; the ancient atomists Democritus, Epicurus, and Lucretius claimed to have derived their conception of universal gravity from their belief in an infinite universe; and Pythagoras was said to have had knowledge of the inverse square law of attraction from experiments on the tensions of the strings of musical instruments. References to Thales and Pythagoras were particularly significant; they had traveled to Africa and Asia deriving natural knowledge from eastern sages. From the preface, it is clear that the wisdom of the ancients was an important resource for Gregory to defend Newtonian astronomy. Arbuthnot and Keill also believed the roots of astronomy lay in the distant past. In the Essay on the Usefulness of Mathematical Learning, Arbuthnot declared that certain great ancients had established astronomy. In particular, ‘we cannot but admire its first inventors; as Thales Milesius, who, as Diogenes Laetius and Pliny say, first predicted eclipses; and his scholar Anaximander Milesius’. It is to the Pythagoreans that we owe the true system of the universe ‘though it may be they were assisted by the Egyptians and Chaldeans’.75 Keill’s last major publication, his An Introduction to the True Astronomy (1721) contained a strong case for the importance of African and Asian nations. The preface of this work provided a brief history of astronomy both ancient and modern; it was the ancient Egyptians and Babylonians who transmitted knowledge to the Greeks. Thales and Pythagoras were important Greek philosophers because they had studied in Egypt: so Pythagoras who liv’d in Society with the Egyptian Priests seven years, and was initiated into their Religion, carried home from thence, besides several

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Geometrical Inventions, the true System of the Universe; and was the first that taught in Greece, that the Earth and Planets turn’d round the Sun, which was immovable in the Center.76

However, astronomy gradually declined due to the influence of Aristotle and the schoolmen. Additional evidence of Keill’s interest in a prisca philosophia exists. In the Lucasian papers of the Cambridge University Library is a draft of Keill’s inaugural lecture as Savilian Professor of Astronomy. The majority of the Keill manuscripts in the Lucasian collection are on technical subjects, drafts of his lectures on astronomy and natural philosophy. But his inaugural lecture of early 1713 was of quite a different nature: it attracted the attention of Thomas Hearne. For his diary entry on February 5, 1713, Hearne noted: ‘this Morning at eight a Clock Mr. John Keill read his Inaugural Lecture in Astronomy, he being made Savilian Professor. In it he spoke in ye Praise of Astronomy, and mentioned some of ye chief Discoveries, & also said somewt of the chief Promoters of Astronomy, ancient and modern’.77 In the lecture, Keill examined the ancient origins of philosophy. The manuscript provides fascinating evidence of his belief in a prisca philosophia. Unfortunately it is incomplete and does not include Keill’s comments on modern Newtonian astronomy.78 The beginning section of the lecture illustrates Keill’s belief in a cyclical view of history, a view of time in direct opposition to linear conceptions of history developed by the moderns. In Keill’s opinion, knowledge did not perpetually increase but was subject to fluctuations. Philosophy is ‘not unlike that moon which it contemplates, has to itself its own special periods, and its own phases also, according to which it increases and decreases’. Modern knowledge represented a revival of ancient learning. Philosophy at one time ‘shone with much light; in later centuries maimed and halt and covered in clouds of words it was scarcely visible; in our age again it gleams with a fuller orb than any other time, destined to withdraw itself again from our eyes unless you, academicians, with your outstanding abilities and your diligence come to its aid’.79 Keill’s fears about the future degeneration of knowledge might reflect his concern that Leibniz would become the dominant court philosopher after the death of Queen Anne and the Hanoverian Succession (the crowning of a German, George I, King of Great Britain). This was alarming for several reasons: Leibniz’s philosophy could be used to support materialist or pantheistic conceptions of nature; there were


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fundamental disagreements between Newtonians and Leibniz about the nature of space, time, and God’s relationship to the cosmos; and in the first decade of the eighteenth century a bitter priority dispute developed between the two men over the invention of the calculus.80 Keill was at the forefront of the attacks on the German philosopher in the years before his appointment to the Savilian chair. It is tempting to suggest that Keill’s criticisms of Leibniz were at least partially rooted in the latter’s support of Bentley and Wotton in the ancients-moderns controversy. Indeed, Leibniz corresponded with both moderns and supported Bentley’s claim that the ‘Epistles of Phalaris’ were forgeries.81 Leibniz believed that elements of truth could be found in both ancient and modern philosophy, but when forced to choose he sided with the moderns. The ascendancy of Leibnizian philosophy in England would have represented a reversal of fortune, an abandonment of the pristine ancient knowledge that Newton had re-discovered. In the inaugural lecture, Keill contended that the ancient nations of the Orient (especially Egypt) possessed correct knowledge of the cosmos before the Greeks. If one went back to Moses in ancient Egypt one could find true philosophy. Keill declared that philosophy flourished during the time of Moses among the Egyptians; he even speculated that the ‘ancient and celebrated Hermes of the Egyptians, the inventor of arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and other arts’,82 lived during this period. Indeed, Keill believed in the existence of Hermes Trismegistus, a figure thought to have lived around the time of Moses who possessed true knowledge of religion and the cosmos. It was from the Egyptians like Hermes and other ancient sages that the Greeks gained their knowledge of astronomy and geometry. Keill stated that ‘it was customary for the first Greek philosophers to wander through all the regions of the Orient, to converse with Babylonian astrologers, Persian magi, the priests of Egypt and the Brahmans of India, and to bring back their disciplines’.83 Among the Greeks who visited the Egyptians and transmitted knowledge of the natural world were Plato and Pythagoras. Like Newton, Keill expressed his belief in the Egyptian origins of a prisca philosophia and the importance of Thales, Plato, and Pythagoras in the transmission of Egyptian thought to Greece; it was belief also shared by William Temple. Gregory’s and Keill’s promotion of the ancient roots of astronomy was not solely the product of Newton’s teaching. Their position as leading intellectuals at Christ Church influenced the manner in which they promoted early eighteenth-century astronomy. The composition of

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Gregory’s preface and Keill’s inaugural lecture cannot be divorced from their local contexts. The open warfare between the Christ Church wits and Bentley and Wotton had climaxed in 1698 but was still fresh in the memories of the combatants. Gregory’s preface to his Astronomiae was written shortly after he joined Christ Church, in the midst of his efforts to promote mathematical learning and Keill’s attacks on Burnet and Whiston. Henry Aldrich was a key patron of Gregory and of mathematical learning: in his younger days he had acted as a mathematics tutor for nobleman who entered Christ Church.84 As a Dean, he continued the project of his predecessor John Fell to publish the works of ancient Greek and Roman mathematicians. Gregory was active in the publication of the works of ancient mathematicians at Christ Church, editing a collection of the works of Euclid and undertaking, with Edmund Halley, a joint edition of Apollonius, a project he did not complete due to his death in 1708. Aldrich directly supported these ventures. Hearne noted Gregory’s 1703 edition of Euclid’s Elements was ‘chiefly owing to the Care of the Learned Dr. Hudson, who at ye Request of Dr. Aldridge, Dean of Xst Church, submitted to be a joint Editor of that Book, it being agreed upon at ye Dean’s, That Dr. Gregory should see yt ye mathematical things were Right and Dr. Hudson should take care of the Greek and Latin Text in all other regards’.85 The emphasis on classical learning at Christ Church along with the close connections between Gregory, Aldrich, and other college notables, made it prudent for Gregory to emphasize how natural philosophers still walked in the footsteps of the ancients in the preface to his Astronomiae. The timing of Keill’s inaugural lecture is also significant. The Savilian professorship was a much coveted position and viewed as an important source of political patronage. When Gregory died in 1708, Keill was thought a likely successor. However, party politics played a role in the choice of a new professor. As Swift wrote to Robert Hunter: ‘you know, I believe, that poor Dr. Gregory is dead, and Keil sollicites to be his Successor. But party reaches even to Lines and Circles, and he will hardly carry it being reputed a Tory, wch yet he wholly denies’.86 The strong position of the Whigs in court and at Parliament in 1708 may have led Keill to downplay his Tory High Church connections. During this period there were few valuable university appointments for Oxford Tories. When the Reguis Professorship of Divinity became vacant in 1707, it was John Potter, chaplain to the Archbishop Tension, who was selected and not Christ Church’s candidate George Smalridge.87 Similarly, Gregory’s


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replacement was not Keill but John Caswell whom Hearne described as ‘an Hippish Man and of Low Church as to Principles’.88 After failing in his bid for the Savilian professorship, Keill courted the patronage of Tories and High Churchmen both inside and outside of Oxford. In 1709 Robert Harley appointed Keill treasurer for the refugees from the Palatinate, in which capacity he traveled to New England that year.89 When he returned two years later the Tories were dominant at court and Atterbury had replaced Aldrich as Dean of Christ Church. Keill’s High Church and Christ Church connections made him a likely candidate to replace Caswell. With its large number of votes in university convocation, Christ Church was able to exercise considerable influence in elections to university offices, and with Atterbury playing an important role in the new Tory government Keill’s persistence was rewarded with his appointment to the Savilian chair in 1712. The close relationship between Atterbury and Keill’s selection is suggested by the discovery of Smalridge’s ‘A Speech on the Election of a Prolocutor’ amongst the same papers as Keill’s inaugural lecture, a speech Smalridge gave upon the election of Atterbury as prolocutor or leader of the lower house of Anglican Convocation in 1710.90 It is also possible that the content of Keill’s inaugural lecture was influenced by the trial of William Whiston, Cambridge Lucasian Professor of Mathematics, for his denial of the Trinity before convocation in 1711.91 With his Cambridge counterpart accused of heresy by the Dean of Christ Church, Keill would have been particularly eager to disassociate Newton and mathematical astronomy from the public scandal of some of his followers. It is probable then that Keill’s inaugural lecture was written to suit a Tory High Church audience. The extent to which Christ Church Newtonians talked to their literary colleagues about Newton and Newtonian natural philosophy has been largely unexplored. But it does appear from Atterbury’s letter to Thierot, at the beginning of this essay, that one of the most important leaders of the High Church movement and a Dean of Christ Church was fully aware of Newton’s belief in an ancient wisdom and in the genius of ancient astronomers. I have argued that this was due to the promotion of Newton by Christ Church Newtonians early in the century, by men with similar political and religious allegiances who were active advocates for the ancients in the battle of the books. When Gregory, Keill, and Arbuthnot argued that Newtonian astronomy stood upon an ancient foundation they were not only expressing Newton’s own personal views, they were also catering to a specific audience that welcomed such a message. Along

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with their attacks on world-making and their promotion of mathematical learning, defenders of Newton at Oxford actively sided with the ancients while painting an image of Newton acceptable to Tory High Churchmen.

Newton and Orthodoxy

Atterbury’s portrayal of Newton as a modest and pious individual in his letter to Thierot gained widespread acceptance in the eighteenth century. Although Newton was a secret anti-Trinitarian, direct attacks on him by Anglican clerics in the eighteenth century were rare. Recent scholarship linking Newton’s anti-Trinitarianism to the theological and political controversies of Queen Anne’s reign has failed to explain why Tory High Church opposition to Newton was seldom explicit.92 If the Newtonians were firmly attached to the Whigs, Latitudinarians, and their dissenting allies, one would expect more direct criticism by the Tory literary wits at Christ Church and elsewhere, especially since the rally cry of Atterbury during the reign of Queen Anne was ‘church in danger’. Instead attacks were directed at Newton’s disciples and their harmful influence rather than on the ‘great man’ himself. There were only a handful of Tory High Churchmen who actively sought to challenge Newton’s authority in the early eighteenth century, and these men criticized Newton from very different perspectives reflecting their own personal natural philosophical commitments. Furthermore, these critiques were largely ineffectual in garnering any type of cohesive opposition to Newton during his lifetime.93 This suggests that Newton was largely able to disassociate himself from the public anti-Trinitarianism and world-making speculations of disciples such as Whiston. A pious and modest image of Newton emerged in the eighteenth century acceptable to most orthodox Anglicans. Atterbury’s praise of Newton represents one of several efforts to solidify his posthumous reputation. Shortly after his death, John Conduitt, husband of Newton’s niece Catherine Barton, wrote a short memoir which he sent to Fontenelle. Conduitt had in his possession many of Newton’s unpublished writings on history and divinity, but in his memoir there is little hint of Newton’s Arianism or world-making speculations; Newton is portrayed as a religious man who believed in revealed religion.94 William Stukeley’s 1752 biography, largely based on


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Conduitt’s papers, expressed similar views. Stukeley noted that ‘in the latter end of Sir Isaac’s time, we began to see the deplorable consequence of the neglect of it [religion]. half philosophers, half scholars are too often apt to be tinctur’d with skepticism. but Sr Isaac was an intire Christian, upon fundamental principles’.95 Some Arians had tried to enlist Newton into their party ‘but that with as little justice as the anti Christians. the ch of England intirely claims him as her son, in faith and practice’.96 The impact of Conduitt and Stukeley, however, was limited. Their biographies were not published in the eighteenth century; nor are alternative explanations for the emergence of a pious image of Newton during this period convincing.97 It is exactly this process of disassociating Newton from heterodoxy that can be seen in the writings of Oxford Newtonians along with the Christ Church wits and their literary allies. In the Memoirs of the Extraordinary Life, Works and Discoveries of Martinus Scriblerus, the vain projector Martin pursues impossible projects and has a particularly ridiculous plan; he wants to: Pierce the first crust or Nucleus of this our Earth, quite through to the next concentrical Sphere: The advantage he propos’d from it was to find the Parallax of the Fixt Stars; but chiefly to refute Sir Isaac Newton’s Theory of Gravity.98

Here the unlearned Martin is contrasted with Isaac Newton, a hero of the British nation and author of the new system of the heavens. Arbuthnot wrote the portions of the Memoirs dealing with natural philosophy.99 He was an important link between the worlds of natural philosophy and the literary wits inside and outside of Oxford. It is not surprising that the satires of the Scriblerans were directed more toward projectors, worldmakers, and the courting of Newton’s favour, than toward Isaac Newton himself.100 Side by side with Pope’s criticism that superior ‘beings, when of late they saw A mortal man unfold all Nature’s law, Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, And show’d Newton as we show an ape’, lies his statement to John Conduitt shortly after Newton’s death that a history of Newton ‘would make as Great a Discovery of Virtue and Goodness and Rectitude of Heart, as his Works have done of Penetration and the utmost Stretch of Human knowledge’.101 Current Newtonian scholarship associated with the Newton project at Imperial College London has revealed the heterodox Newton, the anti-Trinitarian heretic with links to other more vocal exponents of Socinian and Arian doctrines. We know surprisingly little, however, about the historical processes by which Newton was supported by those

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most alarmed by the spread of heterodox thought in the eighteenth century. I believe this gap is due to scholarly neglect of individuals opposed to the political, social, and religious developments in England after 1688 in historical accounts of Newtonianism. As a symbol for the new age of Whiggery and religious toleration, historians have been too eager to assume that Tory High Anglicans were opposed to all aspects of early Enlightenment thought, including Newton. Instead this essay has portrayed them as important participants in this intellectual culture. At Christ Church Oxford Newtonians promoted an image of Newton welcome to Tory High Church supporters of the ancients. Newton was not a modern, religious heretic, or speculative world-maker but a modest natural philosopher who respected the ancients; he could be seen as a useful resource to counter the claims of the moderns and to defend traditional institutions. This suggests that the interpretation of Newton’s works was very much influenced by the local setting in which it occurred. Newton had many faces; Atterbury and his colleagues at Christ Church saw the orthodox one. University of Alberta Department of History and Classics Tory Building Edmonton, Ab Canada

REFERENCES 1. The Epistolary Correspondence, Visitation Charges, Speeches and Miscellanies of the Right Reverend Francis Atterbury, ed. John Nichols (5 vols, London, 1799), i. 181. 2. Ibid., i. 181. 3. For Christ Church Newtonians see Anita Guerrini, ‘The Tory Newtonians: Gregory, Pitcairne and their Circle’, Journal of British Studies, 25 (1986), 288–311. 4. Joseph Levine, The Battle of the Books. History and Literature in the Augustan Age (Ithaca, 1991). See also, Joseph Levine, Between the Ancients and Moderns: Baroque Culture in Restoration England (New Haven, 1999). 5. Both Margaret and James Jacob attempted to connect the rise of the new philosophy in Britain to a Whig Low Church ideology that emerged after the civil war, an ideology that supported a new capitalist socioeconomical order. See Margaret C. Jacob, The Newtonians and the English


6.

7. 8.

9.

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Revolution (Ithaca, 1976) and James R. Jacob, Robert Boyle and the English Revolution: a Study in Social and Intellectual Change (New York, 1977). For a summary of their views see James R. Jacob & Margaret C. Jacob, ‘The Anglican Origins of Modern Science: the Metaphysical Foundations of the Whig Constitution’, Isis, 71 (1980), 251–67. For the Tory Newtonians see Anita Guerrini, ‘Tory Newtonians’, 288–311. For the involvement of Newton and his followers in theological controversy see Larry Stewart, ‘Seeing through the Scholium: Religion and the Reading of Newton in the Eighteenth Century’, History of Science, 36 (1996), 123–65. There has been much work done on Scottish Jacobite/ Episcopalian support for Newton: see Anita Guerrini, Obesity and Depression in the Enlightenment: The Life and Times of George Cheyne (Norman, 2000), chaps 2–3; Simon Schaffer, ‘The Glorious Revolution in Britain and the Netherlands’, Notes and Records of the Royal Society of London, 43 (1989), 167–90; and John Friesen, ‘Archibald Pitcairne, David Gregory and the Scottish Origins of English Tory Newtonianism’, History of Science, 41 (2003), 163–91. R.J.J. Martin’s ‘Explaining John Freind’s History of Physick’, Studies in the History and Philosophy of Science, 19 (1988), 399–418 examines High Anglican support for Newton in Oxford. The terms Whig and Tory are difficult to define and have been the subject of much scholarly debate. Generally, Whigs were more sympathetic to contract theories of government and aligned with Low Churchmen or Latitudinarians who supported the Toleration Act granting some religious dissenters the right to freely worship. Tories were more sympathetic to notions of divine right, non-resistance, and passive obedience; they supported High Churchmen. The latter opposed religious toleration, were staunch supporters of Episcopal authority, and defended the independence of the Church from secular control. For party conflict after the Glorious Revolution see Geoffrey Holmes, British Politics in the Age of Anne (London, 1967); H.T. Dickinson, Liberty and Property. Political Ideology in Eighteenth-Century Britain (New York, 1978); and John Kenyon, Revolution Principles: the Politics of Party, 1689–1720 (Cambridge, 1977). For the High Church movement see G.V. Bennett, The Tory Crisis in Church and State: the Career of Francis Atterbury (Oxford, 1975) and Robert Cornwall, Visible and Apostolic. The Constitution of the Church of England in High-Church Anglican and Non-Juror Thought (Newark, 1993). Edward G.W. Bill, Education at Christ Church Oxford, 1660–1800 (Oxford, 1988), 35. For important comments in this respect see G.V. Bennett, ‘Against the Tide: Oxford under William III’, in L.S. Sutherland & L.G. Mitchell (eds), The Eighteenth-Century (History of the University of Oxford, Vol. V, Oxford, 1986), 31–60. Both Christ Church and Trinity College Cambridge were required to select not less than three individuals for Westminster Studentships annually.

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10. 11.

12. 13.

14.

15.

16. 17.

18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 23.

History of Universities Several students who were awarded the studentship at Trinity (the college of Bentley) chose to attend Christ Church instead. See Edward G.W. Bill, Education at Christ Church Oxford, 91–107. In 1695 Charles Boyle edited the Letters of Phalaris. A year later, John Freind edited an edition of Aeschines and Demosthenes. Mordechai Feingold, ‘The Mathematical Sciences and New Philosophies’, in Nicholas Tyacke (ed.), Seventeenth-Century Oxford (History of the University of Oxford, Vol. IV, Oxford, 1997), 359–448, at 370; Edward G.W. Bill, Education at Christ Church Oxford, 37. Edward G.W. Bill, Education at Christ Church Oxford, 268. Mordechai Feingold, ‘Mathematical Sciences’, 373, 382; G.L.E. Turner, ‘The Physical Sciences’, in L.S. Sutherland and L.G. Mitchell (eds), The Eighteenth Century, 659–81, at 675–6. For the teaching of experimental philosophy at the Ashmolean Museum see Robert T. Gunther, ‘The Story of the Old Ashmolean, 1683–1925’, in A.V. Simcock (ed.), Robert T. Gunther and the Old Ashmolean (Oxford, 1985), 1–42, at 9. The connection between Puritanism and experimental science is examined in Charles Webster, The Great Instauration: Science, Medicine, and Reform, 1626–1660 (New York, 1975). For the emerging concept of progress on the sciences see Richard F. Jones, Ancients and Moderns (St Louis, 1936) and Rob Iliffe, ‘The Masculine Birth of Time’, British Journal of the History of Science, 33 (2000), 427–53. Critics of the Royal Society are examined in Michael Hunter, Science and Society in Restoration England (Cambridge, 1981), chap 6. Michael Hunter, Science and Society, chap 7; James R. Jacob and Margaret C. Jacob, ‘Anglican Origins of Modern Science’. North stated in his autobiography that ‘I found such a stir about Des-cartes, some railing at him, and forbidding the reading him as if he had impugned the very gospel, and yet there was a generall inclination, especially of the brisk part of the university, to use him, which made me conclude there was somewhat extraordinary in him’. Roger North, Notes of Me, ed. Peter Millard ( Toronto, 2000), 92. For more on the quarrel in France see Joseph Levine, Battle of the Books, chaps. 1 & 4. Charles Boyle, Dr. Bentley’s dissertations on the epistles of Phalaris and the fables of Aesop examined (London, 1698). Atterbury’s group wrote this work (in Boyle’s name) largely to defend the honour of the young aristocrat Charles Boyle whose edition of Phalaris had been attacked by Bentley. For Glanvill and Sprat see Michael Hunter, Science and Society. (ref 15). Edward G.W. Bill, Education at Christ Church Oxford, 307–8. Margaret Espinasse, ‘The Decline and Fall of Restoration Science’, Past and Present, 14 (1958), 71–89. William King, Dialogues of the Dead relating to the present controversy concerning the Epistles of Phalaris (London, 1699) and ‘The


24.

25.

26. 27. 28. 29.

30.

31.

32.

33.

34.

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Transactioneer’, in The Original Works of William King, ed. John Nichols (3 vols, London, 1776), ii. 14–16. Atterbury suspected that others at Christ Church might be the authors. See Atterbury to Trelawny June 29, 1704, in Epistolary Correspondence iii. 214. For the theories of Burnet, Woodward, and Whiston see Rhoda Rappaport, When Geologists were Historians, 1665–1750 (Ithaca, 1997), chap 5; David Kubrin, Providence and the Mechanical Philosophy: the Creation and Dissolution of the World in Newtonian Thought (Cornell University, PhD thesis, 1968), chaps 4 & 9; Paolo Rossi, The Dark Abyss of Time. The History of the Earth and the History of Nations from Hooke to Vico (Chicago, 1984), chaps 7–10; Don C. Allen, The Legend of Noah (Urbana, 1963), chap 5. For the thought of Woodward and Whiston see Joseph Levine, Dr. Woodward’s Shield. History, Science, and Satire in Augustan England (Berkeley, 1977) and James Force, William Whiston: honest Newtonian (Cambridge, 1985). The Memoirs of the Extraordinary Life, Works, and Discoveries of Martinus Scriblerus, ed. Charles Kerby-Miller (New Haven, 1950), 107. Ibid., see chap 17 for Martinus’ various projects. Joseph Levine, Dr. Woodward’s Shield, chap 1. For the heretical nature of Burnet’s writings see Gerard Reedy, The Bible and Reason: Anglicans and Scripture in late Seventeenth-Century England (Philadelphia, 1985), chap 2. Richard Marsh, The vanity and danger of modern theories. A sermon preach’d at St. Mary’s Church in Cambridge on August 13, 1699 (Cambridge, 1699), 10. Atterbury’s views can be found in a ‘Representation of the State of Religion. Drawn up by a joint Committee of both Houses of Convocation, in March 1710–11’. This essay was written by Atterbury; it was never presented to Queen Anne but was published separately. Epistolary Correspondence, ii. 315–50, at 341. More information on Gregory, Keill, and Arbuthnot’s early activities can be found in Christina Eagles, The Mathematical Work of David Gregory, 1659–1708 (University of Edinburgh, PhD thesis, 1977); Anita Guerrini, Newtonian Matter Theory, Chemistry, and Medicine, 1690–1713 (University of Indiana, PhD thesis, 1983); and David Shuttleton, ‘ ‘‘A Modest Examination’’: John Arbuthnot and the Scottish Newtonians’, British Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies, 18 (1995), 47–62. H.G. Hiscock, Henry Aldrich of Christ Church (Oxford, 1960). For the important role of college heads in university politics see G.V. Bennett, ‘Against the Tide’, 31–60. Gregory, Keill and Arbuthnot were all Scottish Episcopalians. I have argued elsewhere that Scottish Episcopalians were closely aligned with Latitudinarians on certain theological issues but were nevertheless staunch political allies of the High Church due to their fervent anti-Presbyterianism. Indeed,

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35.

36. 37.

38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48.

History of Universities Presbyterians often accused Gregory and his colleague Archibald Pitcairne of deism, a charge High Churchmen often levelled at Latitudinarians. See John Friesen, ‘Archibald Pitcairne, David Gregory and the Scottish Origins of English Tory Newtonianism’, 163–91. Keill himself had a reputation for loose sexual behavior. His marriage to Moll Clements, a young women of low social status, was considered scandalous and was the subject of much gossip. See D.K. Money, The English Horace: Anthony Alsop and the Tradition of British Latin Verse (Oxford, 1998), 290. John Greaves (1602–1652) was made Savilian Professor of Astronomy in 1643. He was replaced by parliamentary visitors in 1648. Edward Bernard (1638–1697) first acted as a deputy to Christopher Wren; then he replaced Wren as Savilian Professor of Astronomy in 1673 and served until 1691 when he resigned his position in favour of the rectory of Brightwell in Berkshire. John Wallis (1616–1703) was appointed Savilian Professor of Geometry in 1649, a position he would hold until his death. See Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, v. 424–6; xxiii. 486–7; lvii. 15–19. Feingold, ‘The Mathematical Sciences’, 359–448, at 379. Pitcairne frequently chided Presbyterians for their poor Latin. Archibald Pitcairne, The Assembly (London, 1722), 84. For the incompatibility of Calvinism with Renaissance and Enlightenment thought, see Hugh TrevorRoper, Religion, the Reformation and Social Change (London, 1967), chap 4 and ‘The Scottish Enlightenment’, Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth-Century, 58 (1967), 1635–58. For kinship and patronage networks at Oxford see Anita Guerrini, ‘Tory Newtonians’, 288–311. Arbuthnot to Charlett, Oct 1708, The Correspondence of Dr. John Arbuthnot, ed. Angus Ross (Munich, 2006), 125. Arbuthnot to Charlett, Jan 25 1698, ibid., 105. John Arbuthnot, An Examination of Dr. Woodward’s Account of the Deluge with a Comparison between Steno’s Philosophy and the Doctor’s in the Case of Marine Bodies Dug out of the Earth (London, 1697), 62. Ibid., 63. Ibid., 29. Quoted in Lester M. Beattie, John Arbuthnot. Mathematician and Satirist (Cambridge Mass, 1935), 206. John Keill, An Examination of Dr. Burnet’s Theory of the Earth Together with Some Remarks on Mr. Whiston’s New Theory of the Earth (Oxford, 1698), 11–12. Ibid., 178–9. Ibid., 21–22. Keill wrote: ‘yet I cannot but acknowledge that Mr. Whiston the Ingenious Author of this new Theory of the Earth has made greater discoveries, and proceeded on more Philosophical Principles than all the Theorists before him have done’. Ibid., 177.


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49. Remarks and Collections of Thomas Hearne, eds Charles E. Doble David E. Rannie, and Herbert E. Salter (11 vols, Oxford, 1885–1921), ii..13. 50. John Keill, Examination (ref 45), 70. 51. Smalridge to Gough, 1698, in Illustrations of the Literary History of the Eighteenth-Century, ed. John Nichols (8 vols, London, 1817–58), iii. 271. 52. Whiston noted that before his publication of the New Theory of the Earth he had drawn up a ‘hasty imperfect draught of my notions, to communicate to some Friends, and especially to Dr. Bentley immediately, and to Mr. Newton afterwards’. William Whiston, A Vindication of the New Theory of the Earth (London, 1698), vi–vii. Keill challenged this claim. John Keill, An Examination of the Reflections on the Theory of the Earth together with a Defense of the Remarks on Mr Whiston’s New Theory (Oxford, 1699), 164. 53. For important comments in this respect see Michael Hunter, Science and Society, chap 6. 54. For antiquarian scholarship at Oxford see Theodor Harmsen, ‘Bodleian Imbroglios, Politics and Personalities, 1701–1716: Thomas Hearne, Arthur Charlett, and John Hudson’, Neophilologus, 82 (1998), 149–68; Theodor Harmsen, ‘High-Principled Antiquarian Publishing: the Correspondence of Thomas Hearne’, Lias, 23 (1996), 69–98; and Theodor Harmsen, ‘Letters of Learning: a Selection from the Correspondence of Thomas Hearne and Thomas Smith’, Lias, 24 (1997), 37–66. 55. For disputes between mathematicians and natural historians in the early eighteenth-century see Mordechai Feingold, ‘Mathematicians and Naturalists: Sir Isaac Newton and the Royal Society’, in Jed Buchwald and I. Bernard Cohen (eds), Isaac Newton’s Natural Philosophy (Cambridge Mass, 2000), 77–102. 56. For a summary of this proposal see Arthur Charlett, Mercurius Oxoniensis or the Oxford Intelligencer for the Year of our Lord 1707 (London, 1707), 26–9. The above course originated in late 1700. Charlett wrote to Samuel Pepys that Dr. Wallis is ‘writing somewhat by way of letter recommending the teaching and study of Mathematicks within the two Universitys . . . in which I hope he will insert this proposal of Dr. Gregory’s, and print it afterwards in the Transactions’, Charlett to Pepys, Oct 15, 1700 in Private Correspondence and Miscellaneous Papers of Samuel Pepys, ed. Joseph R. Tanner (2 vols, London, 1926), ii. 91. 57. David Kubrin, ‘John Keill’, in Charles C. Gillispie (ed.), Dictionary of Scientific Biography (18 vols, New York, 1970–1990), vii. 276. 58. Mordechai Feingold, ‘Mathematical Sciences’, 363. For the significance of practical mathematics in the education of young aristocrats also see Mordechai Feingold, The Mathematician’s Apprenticeship: Science, Universities and Society in England 1560–1640 (Cambridge, 1984), chap 4. 59. John Arbuthnot, An Essay on the Usefulness of Mathematical Learning in a Letter from a Gentleman in the City to his Friend in Oxford (Oxford, 1701), 51.

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60. Ibid., 9. 61. Ibid., 21. 62. William Wotton, Reflections upon Ancient and Modern Learning (London, 1705), 476–7. My italics. 63. Joseph Levine, Battle of the Books, chap 1. 64. For the emergence of a new secular view of history see John Gascoigne, ‘The Wisdom of the Egyptians and the Secularization of History’, in Stephen Gaukroger (ed.), The Uses of Antiquity. The Scientific Revolution and the Classical Tradition (Dordrecht, 1991), 171–212. 65. Frank Manuel is still the best source for studies of Isaac Newton’s religion and studies of history. See Frank Manuel, Isaac Newton Historian (Cambridge, 1963) and The Religion of Isaac Newton (Oxford, 1974). Important information on Newton’s religion can also be found in Richard Westfall, Never at Rest: a Biography of Isaac Newton (Cambridge, 1980). For more recent studies see James Force & Richard Popkin (eds) Newton and Religion. Context, Nature, and Influence (Dordrecht, 1999) and James Force & Sarah Hutton (eds), Newton and Newtonianism: New Studies (Dordrecht, 2004). English deist attacks on the Anglican hierarchy have been recently examined in Justian Champion, The Pillars of Priestcraft Shaken. The Church of England and its Enemies (Cambridge, 1992). 66. Rob Iliffe, ‘Masculine Birth of Time’, 427–53. 67. Joseph Levine has shown how both deists and Anglican Latitudinarians were both attracted to the idea of an ancient wisdom. Joseph Levine, ‘Latitudinarians, Neoplatonists, and the Ancient Wisdom’, in Richard Kroll, Richard Ashcraft, and Perez Zagorin (eds), Philosophy, Science and Religion in England 1640–1700 (Cambridge, 1992), 85–108; Joseph Levine, ‘Deists and Anglicans: The Ancient Wisdom and the Idea of Progress’, in Roger Lund (ed.) The Margins of Orthodoxy: Heterodox Writing and Cultural Response, 1660–1750 (Cambridge, 1995), 219–39. 68. J.E. McGuire and P.M. Rattansi, ‘Newton and the ‘‘Pipes of Pan’’ ’, Notes and Records of the Royal Society of London, 21 (1966), 108–43. 69. These ideas are found in two manuscripts of Newton: ‘The Original of Religions’ and ‘Theologiae Gentiles Origins Philosophicae’. See Robert Markley, ‘Newton, Corruption, and the Tradition of Universal History’ and Kenneth Knoespel, ‘Interpretive Strategies in Newton’s ‘‘Theologiae Gentilis Origins Philosophiae’’ ’ in James Force and Richard Popkin (eds), Newton and Religion. Context, Nature and Influence (Dordrecht, 1999), 121–43 and 179–202. 70. The Correspondence of Isaac Newton, ed. Herbert W. Turnbull (7 vols, Cambridge, 1959–1977), iii. 338. 71. Ibid., 384. 72. J.E. McGuire & P.M. Rattansi, ‘Newton and the ‘‘Pipes of Pan’’ ’, 111. 73. All the quotes from the preface are taken from the English translation. See David Gregory, The Elements of Astronomy (London, 1715), p. iii. 74. Ibid., p. iv.


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75. John Arbuthnot, Essay on the Usefulness of Mathematical Learning, 11–12. 76. John Keill, An Introduction to the True Astronomy: or, Astronomical Lectures Read in the Astronomical School of the University of Oxford (London, 1721), p. ix. This work was originally published in Latin in 1718. 77. Remarks and collections of Thomas Hearne, iv. 69. 78. The Lucasian papers are in two boxes in Cambridge University Library. The papers are divided into numerous folders the contents of which have been indexed. It is folder ten which contains ‘Dr Keill’s speech on being made professor’, Classmark, UA 0.XIV.278.10 (II). 79. Ibid., f.1. I have received help with the Latin translation from Professor J.B. Hall of the classics department, University of Leeds. 80. For Newtonian fears of the materialist uses of Leibniz’s philosophy see Steven Shapin, ‘Of God and Kings: Natural Philosophy and Politics in the Leibniz-Clarke Disputes’, Isis, 72 (1981), 187–215. The priority dispute over the invention of calculus has been thoroughly examined. See A. Rupert Hall, Philosophers at War: the Quarrel between Newton and Leibniz (Cambridge, 1980). 81. Joseph Levine, Battle of the Books, 85–9. 82. ‘Dr Keill’s speech on being made professor’, ff. 1v–2. 83. Ibid., f. 2v. 84. Mordechai Feingold, ‘Mathematical Sciences’, 370–1. 85. Remarks and collections of Thomas Hearne, i. 89. 86. The Correspondence of Jonathan Swift, ed. Harold Williams (5 vols, Oxford, 1963–5), i. 121. 87. William R. Ward, Georgian Oxford. University Politics in the EighteenthCentury (Oxford, 1958), 32–3. 88. Remarks and Collections of Thomas Hearne, i. 303. 89. In the Lucasian papers is a report to the Lord High Treasurer of England detailing the settlement of families from the Palatinate in New York. See UA 0.XIV.278.9 (XIII). 90. UA 0.XIV.278.10 (V). Smalridge’s speech in favor of Atterbury can be found in The Epistolary Correspondence, i, 303–11. 91. William Whiston was deprived of his Cambridge professorship for his Arian views. For the Whiston affair, see G.V. Bennett, White Kennett 1660–1728. Bishop of Peterborough (London, 1957), chapter 3. 92. For recent studies on Newton’s anti-Trinitarianism see James Force & Sarah Hutton, Newton and Newtonianism: New Studies (Dordrecht, 2004). For anti-Trinitarian controversies in Queen Anne’s reign see Larry Stewart, ‘Seeing through the Scholium’, 123–65 and ‘Samuel Clarke, Newtonianism and the Factions of Post-Revolutionary England’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 42 (1981), 53–72. For the differences between Newton’s private heresies and the more public anti-Trinitarianism of his followers see Stephan Snobelen, ‘Caution, Conscience and the Newtonian Reformation: the Public and Private Heresies of Newton, Clarke and Whiston’, Enlightenment and Dissent, 16 (1997), 151–84.

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93. Early eighteenth century Tory anti-Newtonians included Roger North, John Hutchinson and Robert Greene. North was heavily influenced by Descartes, Hutchinson developed his own biblically based natural philosophy, Greene was an opponent of the corpuscular philosophy which he believed Newton supported. See John Friesen, The Reading of Newton in the Early Eighteenth-Century: Tories and Newtonianism, (Leeds, PhD thesis, chaps 4,6,7). 94. For Conduitt’s ‘Memoir’ see A. Rupert Hall, Isaac Newton: EighteenthCentury Perspectives (Oxford, 1999), 26–34. 95. Royal Society MSS. 142, 65r. This manuscript remained unpublished until 1936 when it was published in an abridged form. See Memoirs of Sir Isaac Newton’s Life, ed. A. Hastings White (London, 1936). 96. Ibid., 67r. 97. In a recent article Scott Mandelbrote has provided several explanations for Newton’s orthodox eighteenth century reputation including the influence of Stukeley, Bentley’s Boyle lectures and Clarke’s writings in the ClarkeLeibniz dispute (Bentley and Clarke advanced the notion that the Newtonian cosmos was useful to prove the existence of God and His providence). In my opinion, these explanations are insufficient: Stukeley’s biography remained unpublished, Bentley made few references to Newton in his Boyle lectures and Clarke was hardly the best exponent for orthodox religion in 1715–16, having recently been charged with Arianism by High flyers like Atterbury. See Scott Mandelbrote, ‘Eighteenth-Century Reactions to Newton’s Anti-Trinitarianism’, in James E. Force and Sarah Hutton (eds), Newton and Newtonianism, 93–111, at 103–4. 98. Memoirs of the Extraordinary Life, 168. 99. Ibid., see editor’s preface. 100. See George.S. Rousseau, ‘Wicked Whiston and the Scriblerians: another Ancients-Moderns Controversy’, Studies in Eighteenth-Century Culture, 17 (1987), 17–44. For Swift’s attacks on projectors see Pat Rogers, ‘Gulliver and the Engineers’, Modern Language Review, 70 (1975), 260–70. 101. The Works of Alexander Pope, ed. A. Crozier (Ware, 1995), 200; The Correspondence of Alexander Pope, ed. George Sherburn (5 vols, Oxford, 1956), ii, 459.

The Relationships Between Astronomical Observatories and Universities in nineteenth-century France∗ Jérôme Lamy and Yves Gingras

Celui qui n’est rétribué qu’à raison de son titre de professeur a rempli son devoir par cela seul qu’il a fait sa leçon; celui au contraire, qui ne recevrait de salaire que pour faire progresser ´ la science, serait le débiteur de l’Etat lorsque, dans l’année, il n’aurait pas attaché son nom a` une découverte. François Arago

1. Introduction

This article proposes an analysis of the process of institutionalization of astronomy in relation to the training of astronomers in nineteenth-century France, with an emphasis on the relations between the observatories and the French Faculties of science as teaching structures. Though many studies have looked at the functions of observatories and how they met national needs, few have raised the question of their relations with universities. We will thus analyze the links between university and observatories in the context of the Humboldtian model of the university as an institution closely connecting teaching and research.1 This new form of organization was embodied by the University of Berlin, founded in 1809, as a rupture with earlier conceptions, which associated research with academies only. This institution gave birth to the modern university and progressively became the dominant model adopted and adapted in Europe as well as in North America.2 This close association of research and teaching in the countries which followed the German model also affected their link with astronomical observatories. Despite their emergence in the seventeenth century

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in parallel to that of the academies,3 astronomical observatories were progressively integrated into universities as scientific structures and pedagogical spaces. Thus, in 1854, German astronomer Friedrich Brünnow would be summoned to the United States in order to transpose this model to the University of Michigan.4 The United States thus integrated, as of the mid-nineteenth century, their observatories and university teaching system, just as they would adapt the German model of the university in order to link teaching and research.5 In England, aside from the exceptional case of Greenwich,6 observatories, such as those in Oxford7 or Durham,8 were also inserted into university structures. In Canada, this integration was first developed in Toronto, then in the rest of the country.9 In a context where the university progressively became the heart of the knowledge production system (including astronomy), the French case is particularly interesting, since the linking of universities and astronomical observatories could not be straightforward, given that the faculties remained marginal within the French scientific field, a situation which, to some extent, still prevails.10 This marginal status of faculties is well captured by the following numbers: between 1881 and 1900, only 250 to 300 licences were given each year in the entire country.11 The difficulty in tying university research to teaching was reinforced, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, by the strong affirmation of the professional nature of French astronomy, where positions were defined by the State. Note also that the community of astronomers expanded relatively quickly in the nineteenth century. At the time of the Revolution, only 25 astronomers could be found within all French observatories.12 In 1900, national astronomical establishments were the workplace of 103 astronomers.13 There were, of course, a few chairs of astronomy, rational mechanics, physical astronomy: a total of about ten, at most, throughout the nineteenth century.14 In a broad sense, they contributed to the organization of French astronomy in the nineteenth century. However, they were not concerned with the ‘observational’ astronomy which we study here via the observatories. We propose to analyse the specificity of French astronomy from two perspectives. The first concerns legislative and otherwise official attempts to link the observatories to the faculties of science, as seen through the successive governments programmes. The second concerns the mechanisms for the reproduction of astronomers, given the absence

The Relationships Between Astronomical Observatories

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of university programmes in the field. We will raise the issue of how the observatories organized themselves to train and recruit their personnel. Finally, we will attach great importance, throughout the article, to the usual opposition between Paris and provincial France, which has always shaped the landscape of French scholarship. In order to grasp, within an institutional context, the evolution of the complex and antagonistic relationships between research and teaching in astronomy, our account will follow the major reform projects proposed during the nineteenth century. We begin by examining the work of the revolutionary assemblies, followed by an analysis of the scope of the Napoleonic reforms. We will then look at the plans laid out during the Second Empire to create durable links between the observatories and faculties. Finally, we will study the astronomers’ resistance to the Republican project to unify into a single corps the whole university body. Our objective is not to retrace the evolution of the scientific and pedagogical content of astronomers’ training, put in place to teach them their trade. Rather, we propose an institutional study designed to describe the evolving connections between universities and observatories and to understand the means used to organize the French community of astronomers. We aim to characterize the specificity of the observatories in France by comparing them to the dominant occidental model that grants the university a central role as a place of training and research. This general trend connecting observatories to universities should not be obscured by the existence of a few still independent institutions such as Greenwich or Potsdam, which are more an exception than the rule in the organization of the discipline.

2. The projects of the revolutionary assemblies

The French Revolution completely reshaped the scholarly landscape and simultaneously liberated political forces. Scientific and teaching institutions were profoundly altered by the new regime. The Paris Observatory, in particular, underwent a substantial mutation. After the departure of Cassini IV in 1793, the Comité d’Instruction Publique de la Convention began a series of discussions on the reorganization of astronomy establishments. Abbé Grégoire, in conjunction with Joseph Lakanal, proposed to create a new supervising institution for the Paris Observatory: the

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Bureau des Longitudes, conceived to coordinate astronomical activities in France, and to be a reference point for writing the ephemeris.15 Composed of astronomers, navigators and instrument-makers, the Bureau aimed to compete with the Board of Longitude in England. The law of 7 messidor an III (25 June 1795), which created the Bureau des Longitudes, stipulated that one of its members should ‘deliver an astronomy course each year’.16 In fact, this course was addressed primarily to a wider public17 and not designed to train future astronomers. In this new institutional configuration, the Paris Observatory remained a place devoted to astronomical research, without any link to the structures of university teaching being planned at the time. Jean-Marie Feurtet showed that, from the outset, the Bureau des Longitudes developed ‘academic regulation mechanisms’18 oriented towards a greater autonomy for the Parisian astronomy community. Indeed, the institutional lines of force of the old Académie des sciences progressively regained their strength.19 Nevertheless, the process was not completed before the advent of the Empire. Neither the Paris Observatory, nor the Bureau des Longitudes had had the ability, until then, to manage the reproduction of astronomers: ‘permanent arrangements for patronage have not been established’ for the training of students.20 Throughout the revolutionary period, the Paris Observatory was left out of the wide-reaching teaching projects discussed by the various assemblies. The successive legislative architectures always planned to link university teaching with the observatories. In a report given to the National Assembly on behalf of the Comité d’Instruction Publique, Condorcet proposed to create nine lycées throughout France. He intended to have the astronomy professor ‘head the observatory of the lycée’.21 One must not, however, interpret this proximity between scholarly and pedagogical spaces as a suggestion to link teaching and research. Condorcet was clearly against such an association in his Memoirs on Public Instruction and asserted that ‘the ability to teach is not the same as that which contributes to the progress of science (. . .)’.22 From September 1792 to October 1795, the Convention examined many organizational plans for university teaching. Two major concep´ tions clashed. The wide-reaching Ecoles Centrales aimed to cover all ´ knowledge. The Ecoles Spéciales, on the other hand, acted in response to more specific needs and valued applied knowledge.23 The competition between these two pedagogical models generated a series of undertakings connecting observatories and pedagogical structures.


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Joseph Lakanal proposed, on 26 frimaire an III (16 December 1794), ´ legislation regarding the Ecoles Centrales. New educational institutions, spread across France, were to offer a full curriculum.24 Article 4 of chapter III of this project proposed that the Comité d’Instruction Publique identify those scientific establishments ‘which should be maintained in the new plan of national teaching’.25 The observatories were among the scholarly institutions whose fate was being discussed. To correctly grasp the stakes associated with astronomy-related structures, Joseph Lakanal sought help from Pierre-Simon Laplace, a figure of authority in the discipline. The author of the Exposition du système du monde proposed to ‘affiliate three astronomers, with one student to each, to the national observatory, and to keep the observatory of the ´ Ecole militaire with one astronomer and one student’.26 With respect to the provincial observatories, Laplace maintained that one need only ‘preserve five of them, appropriately selected’.27 The recruitment process of the heads of these five observatories would be delegated to a commission of Parisian astronomers. Laplace’s suggestions thus sketched out a complete plan for the renewal of astronomical science. The reproduction of astronomers and the hierarchy of Parisian and provincial establishments were clearly outlined. Most importantly, he conceived ´ the link between observatories and the Ecoles Centrales both as a means to contribute to the national economy through the advancement of navigation, and as an educational tool to combat the obscurantism of astrology and superstitions.28 Laplace’s plan for observatories was thus firmly rooted in the ideals of universal schooling, as advocated by Lakanal, while at the same time fulfilling the revolutionary desire to disseminate reason. Alongside this integration of observatories as ´ part of Lakanal’s Ecoles Centrales, Abbé Grégoire worked towards the redeployment of astronomy throughout the country. He proposed to create the Bureau des Longitudes and inquired about establishing an observatory in Toulon. Above all, he presented in September 1795 ‘his views on the organization of astronomy schools’.29 The project never proceeded any further and one can only speculate about how it would ´ have been incorporated into the plans for the Ecoles Centrales. The bulk of these reflections demonstrate the political will of the revolutionary assemblies to establish closer relations between institutions of higher learning and observatories. ´ The Ecoles Centrales were quickly criticized and accused of being merely a copy of the collèges from the Ancien Régime.30 The competing ´ model of the Ecoles Spéciales emerged and progressively established

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its dominance during the Convention. By responding to precise needs, these institutions had the advantage of being easier to put in place than a global framework for university teaching.31 Among the many projects circulating within the Comité d’Instruction Publique sur les ´ Ecoles Spéciales, Bouquier’s plan, in March of 1796, dealt with the observatories. His goal was not to incorporate astronomy establishments into institutions of university teaching, but rather to make the observatory a medium for the reproduction of astronomers. Bouquier proposed to keep only the observatories of Paris, Brest and Marseilles. He assigned four astronomers to the Paris Observatory and two to the other two. He specified that ‘the astronomers of the Republic must train students for the purpose of astronomical and meteorological observations, for calculations of the knowledge of time, and for other work aimed at perfecting navigation’.32 Contrary to Laplace’s view, astronomy was not considered to be a science in the service of the dissemination of reason, but rather as composed of practical knowledge, useful for the development of national maritime trade. Even if this endeavor was never discussed by the Comité d’Instruction Publique, it does shed light on a practical conception of the observatory circulating within the revolutionary assemblies, in contrast with the all-encompassing vision ´ of the Ecoles Centrales. The law of 3 brumaire an IV (25 October 1795), ending the period of the Convention, proposed an organization of public education that was ´ to remain based on the Ecoles Centrales, but would give much more ´ importance to the Ecoles Spéciales. Article 1 of title III indicated that the Republic should include one school devoted to the study of astronomy.33 The legislative text did not elaborate any further as to the possible links between this school and an observatory. For astronomy, the reforms of the Consulat accentuated the primacy ´ of the Ecoles Centrales model. Fourcroy, the director general of Public Education, first proposed to spread university teaching across the country. It was therefore planned to have a school of mathematics in Metz and another devoted to astronomy in Aix.34 The law of 11 floréal an X (1 May 1802) eventually retracted this dispersion of the educational forces. Fourcroy indicated that ‘there will be one astronomy professor in each of the active observatories, and navigation will benefit from these schools, most of which will be placed in the large ports.’35 The project of the Director of Public Education, however, did not reduce the observatories to mere ‘applied’ schools for the navy. Astronomical institutions remained the seat of diffusion of rationalist ideals: Fourcroy


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explained that ‘knowledge of the sky and the study of the movement of celestial bodies (. . .) have too much influence on the progress of civilization for the government not to earnestly favour its progress and propagate its lights.’36 The abundance of projects which punctuated the revolutionary period and the Consulat can give the impression of observatories receiving special attention and being integrated or associated with the structures of university teaching. In fact, provincial astronomers continued their ´ solitary work in the observatories,37 with no connection to the Ecoles ´ Centrales or the Ecoles Spéciales. We can identify only one product of the revolutionary models: the observatory in Toulouse. This establishment, the legacy of an eighteenthcentury astronomer, François Garipuy38 , was quickly tied to the vast revolutionary restructuring movement. In 1793, Paganel, the administrator of the Haute-Garonne Département, founded an Institute based on Condorcet’s model.39 This new structure brought together the astronomy course and the management of the observatory in Toulouse, and entrusted them to Jacques Vidal, a former disciple of François Garipuy.40 The Institut Paganel was considered a failure, since ‘the encyclopedic teaching was not as successful as expected’.41 Shortly thereafter, in early ´ 1796, an Ecole Centrale was established in Toulouse, based on the design advocated by Joseph Lakanal.42 The teaching committee, whose mandate was to recruit teachers, appointed Jérôme Hadancourt as astronomy professor43 and observatory director.44 Jérôme Hadancourt was a former student of Antoine Darquier, a renowned eighteenth-century ´ astronomer from Garonne.45 The Ecole Centrale subsequently vanished ´ and was replaced, in 1805, by an Ecole spéciale des sciences et des arts, in which Jacques Vidal taught an astronomy course while occupying the post of observatory director.46 The coming together of research activities and teaching seems therefore to be contained, from the outset, in the project of university teaching in Toulouse. Nevertheless, the administrative framework, which imposed the role of pedagogues on the astronomers, was difficult to reconcile with the aspirations of scholars who, having been trained in the eighteenth century, were not inclined to accept their teaching obligations. In May of 1799, Jérôme Hadancourt refused to inaugurate his course, wishing instead to observe Mercury’s passage before the sun.47 In 1806, Jacques Vidal did not even begin to teach his astronomy lessons. He admitted that ‘an observateur hardly has any time that is not taken up with one of his required observations (. . .)’.48 This astronomer thus underlined the inherent incompatibility

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between his work, subject to the fluctuating celestial phenomena, and the regular schedule of his pedagogical duties. The administrators of the ´ Ecole Spéciale condemned this argument and insisted on the obligation to conduct work both as a leading researcher and as a teacher: ‘the functions of Sir Vidal are not restricted to the astronomical observatories, and (. . .) in his role as professor, he is also obliged to teach this science’.49 Vidal, like Hadancourt, was a product of the Enlightenment. They viewed the practice of astronomy as independent from any teaching constraints. Their conception illustrates the separation between scientific research and teaching that Condorcet had exposed.50 The new scientific organization that emerged in Toulouse during the Revolution attempted to combine the tasks of the observatory with a strong educational dimension and thus to impose new norms which were alien to the astronomers of the previous century. The astronomers of the Enlightenment, who were extremely attached to their observatories, showed strong resistance to any teaching activities. In Toulouse, despite the administrative links between the observatory and the revolutionary schools, no balance could be established between teaching and research. The connections between observatories and institutions of higher learning, as they appeared in the revolutionary endeavours, were determined by the development of astronomy as a discipline at that time. First, the Paris Observatory remained outside any educational structure. Elsewhere in France, the plans of the various assemblies were organized according to two opposing visions. The first, a legacy of Condorcet and an encyclopedic perspective, proposed an association ´ between the observatories and the Ecoles Centrales. Astronomy was considered to be a discipline which facilitated the improvement of navigation techniques, but which also attacked obscurantism by spread´ ing the use of reason. The Ecoles Spéciales project would make observatories the seat of training oriented exclusively towards practical applications. In reality, these two distinct conceptions were only applied in a limited manner throughout the country. Only the observatory in Toulouse was administratively tied to the various revolutionary schools. The existing astronomers, however, having been educated under the Ancien Régime, refused this institutional innovation, which consisted in associating teaching and research on an equal footing. To summarize, with the approach to the Napoleonic era, the majority of observatories maintained a strong autonomy with respect to educational structures.


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3. Napoleonic reforms and their consequences

The primary function of the Napoleonic faculties, created by the decree of 17 May 180851 , was to award degrees, mainly the baccalauréat.52 These new institutions were thus closely tied to the establishment of secondary schools and lycées. The low number of students—and often, of professors as well—explains why faculties and lycées might have appeared indistinguishable.53 Terry Shinn has emphasized this paradoxical aspect of the imperial reforms which, on the one hand, created a powerful link between secondary-level teaching and higher learning while, on the other hand, proposing an institutional framework which could potentially favour the development of both research and higher education.54 Since the decree of 1808 in no way allocated funds for scientific research in the faculties, this particular avenue was not pursued. Thus, the Napoleonic scheme of university teaching did not generally favour stronger ties between faculties and observatories. Until the arrival of the July Monarchy in 1830, these two entities had very little to do with one another either in Paris or elsewhere in France. The Faculté de sciences de la Capitale, established in 1809, offered one astronomy course, taught by Jean-Baptiste Biot, a member of the Académie des Sciences and the Bureau des Longitudes.55 As curious as it may now seem, Biot did not, however, establish any link between his teaching and the Paris Observatory. Similarly, LouisBenjamin Francoeur, a mathematics professor at the Faculté des Sciences and author of Astronomie pratique,56 requested for his students some ‘celestial and terrestrial globes (. . .) in order to facilitate the teaching of astronomy and geodesics’,57 but did not deem it necessary to have the students hone their skills at the Observatory. Astronomy was taught, at the higher levels, as a field of applied mathematics. Astronomers themselves offered only a curriculum for a wider public, unconnected to either the training of observers or the manipulation of the relevant instruments. In 1812, Rossel, president of the Bureau des Longitudes, had indeed proposed ‘to establish a practical course in astronomy at the Imperial Observatory in order to train students who might one day contribute to astronomy by occupying the positions which are to become vacant, either at this observatory or another one’.58 This approach, which aimed to guarantee the reproduction of astronomers, was never implemented, and the Minister of Public Education noted in 1835 that ‘there exists no chair of astronomy at the Bureau des Longitudes’, which ‘might

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be considered a deficiency in an institution as complete as the Bureau des Longitudes’.59 Therefore, under the Empire and the Restoration, the Parisian astronomy establishment in no way contributed to the Faculty of Science. In order to assure the renewal of its personnel, the Observatory created its own mechanism of recruitment and training, as if it were unthinkable to train future astronomers at the university, thus confirming the existing dichotomy between teaching and university on the one hand, and research, academy and observatory on the other. Jean-Marie Feurtet has studied the rigorous selection criteria of PierreSimon Laplace and Jean-Baptiste Delambre in choosing candidates for the Bureau des Longitudes. The astronomers who went to work for the ´ Observatory were primarily selected among the students of the Ecole 60 Polytechnique. This educational institution, founded in 1794, provided training for high-level mathematicians, as well as for managers in the civil service.61 It is thus from a substantial pool of candidates that Pierre-Simon Laplace recruited François Arago, whom he then elected to serve as secretary and librarian of the Observatory in 1805.62 The following year, Claude-Louis Mathieu, a graduate of the Polytechnique, was chosen to join the Parisian Observatory.63 By relying on the new schools put in place by the Revolution, the astronomers of the Paris Observatory created their own system of reproduction, independent from the Faculty of Science. For the provinces, the statute of 28 October 1808, regarding the regime and general policy of the University, explained that the observatories were to be ‘attached to the Faculty of science of their district’.64 However, this clause was never clearly implemented and the presence of an observatory in a given city did not imply its affiliation with a Faculty. In Lyon, François Clerc taught at a lycée and headed a modest observatory.65 The Marseilles astronomical observatory was conducted under the rule of the Bureau des Longitudes and operated in total ignorance of the local structure of university teaching.66 Only the observatories of Montpellier and Toulouse forged a certain bond with their local Faculties of Science. The municipality of Toulouse disposed of the old observatory belonging to the Société des sciences, and handed it over to the Faculty.67 Despite the poor structural state of its ageing building,68 the Faculty at Montpellier—which included a chair of astronomy—attempted, during the decade of 1810, to have the observatory placed under its administrative supervision. In 1811, the Rector of the Académie de Montpellier, a teaching institution, advised the Grand Maˆıtre of the Université Impériale to entrust the


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management of the observatory to Joseph Reboul, the current astronomy professor.69 In combining the two functions, the goal was to assume the responsibility of advancing the science of astronomy, while satisfying the demands of the university.70 The imperial administration admitted that the observatory should be under the authority of the Montpellier Faculty of Science.71 The Parisian astronomers who were consulted on this matter, Jean-Baptiste Delambre, in particular, were more sceptical. The run-down and obsolete observatory would need to be fixed up once again, and it would be necessary to purchase expensive instruments.72 In the end, the negotiations stumbled over the issue of the salary that was to be paid to the director of the observatory in Montpellier.73 In 1816, Joseph Gergonne succeeded Antoine Reboul as the Astronomy Chair of the Faculty of Science. He commissioned the purchase of instruments and allowed the auditors of his course to make use of them.74 It was out of the question, however, to use the observatory itself, the roof of which had by then collapsed. During the 1820s and 1830s, the numerous attempts to render a new building functional all ended in failure.75 Neither political will nor competence in astronomy allowed the observatory in Montpellier to be incorporated into the Faculty of Science. One of the more likely explanations as to why such an amalgamation was impossible lies in the student body, which was neither large nor motivated enough to follow the astronomy curriculum. As early as 1817, Rector Blanquet du Cahyla noted that astronomy at Montpellier ‘would never flourish, because the medical students who form the majority of the auditors are kept busy enough by their studies in medicine, and are unwilling to devote precious time to a science which they view as totally foreign to their future profession’.76 In Toulouse, despite a strong tradition in astronomy, the observatory and the Faculty of Science remained ostensibly distant. Initially, as the ´ older section of the Ecole Spéciale had been converted to a Faculty, the director of the observatory, Pierre d’Aubuisson, taught ‘applied mathematics, which includes studies in astronomy’.77 The issue of remuneration revealed both a certain fragmentation within the administration, and a divide between the functions of the director and those of the teachers. Indeed, the observatory belonged to the city, while the Faculty relied on the University. The two structures were never able to reach an agreement regarding financial compensation for the professor/astronomer.78 Finally, the decree of 17 February 1814 stipulated that it was forbidden for the directors of the Toulouse observatory to become part of the ‘University

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Academy’ or the ‘Faculty of Science’.79 Throughout the Restoration period, astronomers in the Garonne taught at the Collège Royal, but never at the Faculty of Science. For financial reasons, the University divested itself of the observatory in Toulouse, excluding it from the Faculty’s annexes and putting it in the hands of the city. We can thus measure the extent to which the Université Impériale, from the beginning of the Empire to the overthrow of Charles X, became progressively less interested in the provincial observatories. They remained outside the Faculties of Science and research in astronomy was developed outside the university system. As of the 1830s and the accession of Louis-Philippe to power, a few shifts can be observed in the relations between observatories and faculties. In 1837, the Minister of Public Education, Narcisse Achille de Salvandy, commissioned a ‘report on the improvements to be made to teaching in the Faculties of Science’,80 to be headed by LouisJacques Thénard, a well-known chemist. Thénard proposed to increase the number of Faculties of Science throughout France.81 Within this perspective, a chair of astronomy was created at Bordeaux in 1838,82 in addition to that of Lyon, dating from 1833.83 The chemist insisted that each chair was to be entrusted ‘only to an astronomer who is knowledgeable in the use of instruments and in observation, and thus being able to serve science in this direction’.84 Thénard did not merely underline the need to have institutional ties between institutions of astronomy and of university teaching; he also proposed an increase in the number of observatories, based on municipal dynamics. He explained that the presence of astronomers within the faculties ‘would convince the cities to establish observatories or, at the very least, to facilitate their foundation’.85 His plan was equally relevant for the French Capital. It was proposed that ‘a qualified teacher would be placed at the Paris Observatory in order to follow its work’.86 The chemist, likely conscious of the substantial autonomy of the Observatory, also put forward the idea of ‘founding an observatory within the Faculty itself ’.87 Thénard’s project, though still rough and without any details as to how it should be put in place, thus outlined the conditions required for bringing closer together research done in observatories and the teaching of their local Faculty of Science. On many occasions, in 1836 and 1837, the Sorbonne professors wrote to the Minister of Public Education, calling for an institutionalization of scientific research within the faculties.88 Once again, the measures proposed to link the observatories to the Faculties


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of Science went unrealised. In the 1830s and 1840s, French astronomy continued to organize itself outside the structures of university teaching. There were a few local initiatives, but none were integrated into a widereaching policy. Indeed, in 1845, Alexis Perry, a mathematics professor at the Faculty of Science in Dijon, proposed to revive the activities of the local observatory,89 but this proved to be an isolated action that received no support from the central government. During the July Monarchy, it was once again the Bureau des Longitudes which defined the mechanisms of reproduction of astronomers. More precisely, François Arago took advantage of his dominant role within the Bureau in order to define a policy of recruitment of astronomers-in-training. As the historian Fabien Locher noted, Arago recruited, from 1839 to 1853, ‘around ten students, preferably sympathizers of the Republic, chosen from the graduating classes of Polytechnique.’90 The author of Astronomie populaire thus put a system of scientific patronage in place; he hired, for the most part, students who were from the same school as him and had similar political views. This explains how Ernest Laugier, Victor Mauvais, Yvan Villarceau, ´ Hervé Faye and Emile Plantamour joined the Paris Observatory during 91 this period. Arago’s power over the selection of astronomers was not limited to Paris. In 1838, the city of Toulouse contacted him in a search for a new observatory director. Arago proposed to entrust the institution to one of his students, Frédéric Petit. This new astronomer was not a ´ graduate of the Ecole Polytechnique, although he took some ‘external’ courses there. He had obtained his doctorate in science from the Faculty of Science of Paris in 1836, before working at the Paris Observatory under Arago’s strict guidance.92 Petit was a committed Republican who would go on to support his mentor during the Second Republic.93 The episode at Toulouse shows to what extent the recruitment of astronomers during the July Monarchy was linked to Arago as a prominent figure. His influence and hegemony allowed him to manage the reproduction of astronomers in Paris and elsewhere in France. In addition, he was able to benefit from his scientific aura in Toulouse and his political weight in Paris in order to experiment in establishing closer ties between observatories and Faculties of Science. In a dissertation devoted to ‘the purpose of pensions given to scholars’, François Arago justified the need to associate scientific work with education in that, ‘he who is compensated only for his work as a professor has fulfilled his role simply by having taught his courses; he, on the other hand, who receives his

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salary for his work in the advancement of science, would be in debt to the State when, during a given year, his name had not been attached to a discovery.’94 In 1848, the arrival of the new republican government, which included Arago, allowed the first official institutional connection of an observatory and a chair for the teaching of astronomy. The director of the Toulouse observatory, Frédéric Petit, was officially named as professor of astronomy in the Faculty of Science on 13 June 1850.95 One must nevertheless not over-interpret this new association between the research and teaching. In fact, Petit would never go on to recruit any astronomers-in-training among his students, nor to invite them to hone their skills in his observatory. The spheres of research and teaching, while connected in an administrative sense (mostly through the work of a single person), remained in practice as two separate and distinct spaces. The political context of the period extending from the accession of Napoleon I to power to the fall of the Second Republic, was not favourable to the development of research within the faculties. Committed to their role of awarding diplomas and Baccalauréats, they had no real relationship with research. The very limited initiative which took place in Toulouse cannot hide the fact that no global policy aiming at bringing together observatories and university teaching was put in place, despite a few timid attempts under the July Monarchy. At the same time, the mode of reproduction of astronomers was built around the Bureau des Longitudes and was based on a scientific patronage that was mainly exploited by François Arago. This hegemony of the Bureau des Longitudes reinforced the autonomy of the astronomers’ community within the field of French science.

4. The Second Empire: the first sign of a mutation?

The early years of the Second Empire were marked by an increased surveillance of the university community.96 Napoleon III kept the faculties under close scrutiny, as he suspected them of being the nesting grounds of political liberalism. This prompted the Minister of Public Education, Hippolyte Fortoul, to carry out a careful reform of university teaching. The reform was primarily aimed at increasing the number of faculties, which would allow ‘a better coverage, throughout France, of exam centres’97 for the Baccalauréat. In 1855, Fortoul insisted that the role


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of faculties was to prepare ‘young people for academic degrees’.98 The ministre de l’Instruction Publique planned to have astronomy professors in Toulouse and Montpellier who could develop and teach courses on the subject, but he never invoked the possibility of linking them to the observatories of these cities.99 Terry Shinn noted that, in such circumstances, scientific research can only be conducted on an individual basis and according to the individual will.100 After the death of Frédéric Petit in 1864, Pierre-Alphonse Daguin became the director of the observatory in Toulouse. This physics professor was not an astronomer; he altered the research tradition of its institution by making it a centre for the collection of meteorological data.101 In the meantime, material problems impeded the revival of the observatory in Montpellier.102 In addition, a major shift had come about in the vocation of those who were awarded the highest university degree: as of the 1850s, the doctorate came to be seen as a research diploma, geared towards exploiting new fields of study and producing new scientific discoveries.103 Subsequently, astronomers in the second half of the nineteenth century would become certified by such a diploma. To recapitulate, the beginning of the Second Empire was marked by a withdrawal of the few initiatives that aimed at linking observatories and faculties of science at the end of the July Monarchy. In Paris, the change was especially clear-cut: after Arago’s death in 1853, Urbain Le Verrier became the new high priest of French astronomy. Being closely tied to the imperial powers, he held, as of 1846, both the chair of astronomy at the Faculty of Science and the directorship at the Paris Observatory. Nonetheless, these two functions never intersected with one another. Le Verrier thus recruited substitutes for teaching his course among the normaliens or polytechniciens who had never worked at an observatory.104 At around the same time, in the 1860s, Le Verrier chose eight normaliens to occupy the newly-created positions of assistant astronomer (astronomes-adjoints).105 As Laetitia Maison has noted, many former students of la rue d’Ulm (the well-known ´ address of the Ecole Normale) joined the Paris Observatory, while not a single polytechnicien had been selected. She suggests that Le Verrier ´ had been disappointed with the results of his own reform of the Ecole Polytechnique, which had become too much oriented towards applied ´ science, and that he therefore had a preference for the Ecole Normale Supérieure, where education remained more theoretical in nature and thus better suited, he thought, to scientific careers.106 The mechanism

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for the reproduction of astronomers put in place by Urbain Le Verrier hardly differed—except, perhaps, in its form—from that used by Arago. Although he himself was both a teacher and a researcher, Le Verrier maintained the complete separation between the two spheres of activity, a sign that Humboldt’s notion of linking the two functions within a single institution was not a foregone conclusion. A new reflection on the relationships between the pedagogical practices of higher education and scientific research began to take shape at the end of the Second Empire, under the influence of the Minister of Public Education, Victor Duruy. Aware that France had lost ground in the international scientific competition,107 he incited Napoleon III to create, as of 1868, a new structure dedicated entirely to research.108 Its explicit objective was to ‘form scholars and not professors’,109 by allowing students to be in contact with ‘practices specific to each type of research (. . .).’110 The new institution broke with the dogma of the lecture-dominated courses and proposed a method of teaching based on the use and manipulation of instruments. In this perspective, Duruy ´ ´ planned for the future Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (EPHE), which was to have teaching and research laboratories at its disposal. The former would serve as the nurseries to which one could turn to train research teams to work in the latter.111 Among the many laboratories devoted to the reproduction of scholars,112 the Paris Observatory was given particular attention. The first four sections of the EPHE were centred on mathematics. Students in this field could be admitted to the Observatory to follow ‘a course of studies which would successively lead them through the theoretical knowledge required by mathematical astronomy and through the use of instruments employed by observational astronomy’.113 In his project, Duruy underlined the fact that he wished to create ‘a true school of astronomy, something which is still lacking’.114 The decree that instituted the EPHE drafted a detailed description of the future astronomers’ curriculum. They were to be recruited following a year of specialized mathematics at the lycée and would have to commit to a three year stay at the Observatory. Their studies were to include work experience at the bureau des calculs, followed by training in the methods of meridional observation and, finally, in the manipulation of smaller instruments like theodolites. At the same time, they would be initiated to the principles of celestial mechanics and geodesics. This ambitious and comprehensive curriculum was meant to bring together the theoretical and practical training necessary to produce astronomers.115 Once again, however, the legislative text was never put into practice. In the years that


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followed its creation, the mathematics section of the EPHE was the only one which did not admit a single student.116 Aside from the creation of the EPHE, Victory Duruy set up a commission designed to examine the financial state of the Paris Observatory. Vice-admiral Fourichon presided over the commission, which included, among others, astronomers Charles Delaunay and Urbain Le Verrier. In its first report to the ministre de l’Instruction Publique, Fourichon stated that ‘observational astronomy is declining in France because not enough astronomers are being trained’.117 He suggested that each Faculty of Science should have one observatory at its disposal in order to develop the teaching of astronomy: ‘all these new observatories (. . .) should be independent from one another, and the scholars should be able to work there without any outside constraints on their personal aspirations’.118 The ministerial commission also hoped that the Paris Observatory would be established as a place of learning for future astronomers. The group reminded the minister that one of the objectives of scientific establishments is ‘the training of scholars’.119 The students would be chosen among the best graduates of the centres of university teaching. They would be ‘the assistants of astronomers, who would thus become their natural mentors’.120 Their daily astronomy activities would allow them to acquire ‘the practical knowledge that only experience can provide’.121 In fact, this proposition was simply the institutional form of the scientific patronage system put in place earlier by François Arago. The plan of the Fourichon Commission was thus similar to Duruy’s project regarding the role of the Paris Observatory in the EPHE. Nevertheless, neither of the two was ever introduced using concrete measures. In 1869, Urbain Le Verrier reiterated a request for the creation of new astronomical establishments near the Faculties in Bordeaux and Lyon,122 but no response was given. The limited budgets available to the Second Empire, as well as the beginning of the war with Prussia, explain in part the lack of political power to renew French astronomy. In addition, one must add that there was a serious crisis underway at the Paris Observatory. Many astronomers were opposed to its director, Urbain Le Verrier, who was seen as tyrannical and arrogant. Le Verrier was ousted in January 1870, following the collective resignation of fourteen astronomers. This struggle disturbed the operations at the Observatory and prevented its transformation into a centre for the training of future astronomers. In terms of astronomy, there are therefore two sides to the period of the Second Empire. On the one hand, the reforms proposed after 1868

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were extensive: they planned to bring together the observatories and faculties of the provinces, as well as to make the Paris Observatory a central location for recruiting astronomers. On the other hand, budgetary restrictions and the impasse which plagued the Observatory prevented any implementation of these projects.

5. The new organization of the Third Republic

The Republican regime that came to power after the defeat at Sedan undertook a vast reorganization of research and university teaching. The crushing military defeat brought about a widespread period of national introspection.123 Christophe Charle has shown to what extent the idea that a lack of means attributed to research activities, which triggered ‘a deficiency in method and scientific disposition in the treatment of problems’,124 seemed prevalent among the academic elite. The new political order seemed intent on rendering scientific research more dynamic and on catering to the needs of the University. French astronomy took advantage of this reform movement. The institutions in Bordeaux, Besançon and Lyon were brought closer together in the 1870s, and those which already existed—in Marseilles and Toulouse—were given a fresh start. All were organized based on a hierarchical and consistent plan set up in each institution. It should be pointed out, however, that such a plan had already been outlined under the Second Empire and The Republican regime merely expanded on it. Most importantly, the regime freed the necessary capital, so that the proposals could, for once, be applied in a concrete manner. In order to grasp the consequences of this mutation at work under the Third Republic, we will first examine the links that were established between Faculties of Science and Observatories. Subsequently, we will focus our attention on the modes of reproduction of the corps of astronomers. A series of decrees, promulgated in the 1870s, outlined precisely the operations of provincial observatories. The need to associate astronomy establishments with the structures of university teaching was explicit. In 1872, the Republican government selected Urbain Le Verrier to preside over a commission composed of astronomers, with a mandate to study the organization of the observatories. It delivered a report to the ministre de l’Instruction Publique, which stressed that the astronomy institutions


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should be opened first in those places ‘which possess a Faculty of Science, where a theoretical curriculum will be complemented by the presence of an observatory.’125 The members of the commission further stipulated that, if the astronomy establishments ‘are not an integral part of the Faculties’, then it would be, at the very least, preferable to ‘have a cordial agreement that governs the relations between the two independent institutions.’126 The astronomers in charge of preparing the reorganization of their discipline chose to preserve its autonomy, by encouraging only informal relationships with university teaching. They described the ideal associations between observatories and faculties as being akin to an ‘intimate union’ between their directors.127 The Commission’s report thus underlines that the relations would be harmonious ‘if the director of the Observatory is also an Astronomy Professor at the Faculty’.128 This dual appointment was primarily put in place for economic reasons; someone already receiving a salary as an astronomer would only receive an honorarium for his teaching activities.129 Towards the end of the nineteenth century, the majority of the directors of provincial observatories simultaneously held the chair of astronomy at the Faculty of Science. This was the case of Charles André in Lyon, Félix Tisserand—followed by Benjamin Baillaud—in Toulouse, Georges Rayet in Bordeaux and Jules ´ Gruey in Besançon. In Marseilles, Edouard Stephan, who was appointed by Le Verrier under the Second Empire, unsuccessfully requested to become part of the Faculty of Science.130 In Algiers, university teaching was set up within a scientific preparatory school that included a chair of astronomy. In 1878, this institution became associated with the Algiers Observatory.131 Montpellier was not among the cities selected to include an observatory. It nevertheless included a chair of astronomy, which had been in place since the Empire. The legacy of Jean-Nicolas Legrand, a former professor at the Faculty of Science, made it possible to erect a modest cupola at the heart of the city’s botanical garden.132 Until the beginning of the twentieth century, astronomy professors would make use of the site, taking their students there to have them practice using the various instruments.133 The new organization of French observatories thus depended on their proximity to the Faculties of Science.134 In 1877, this connection between the two institutions was further reinforced by the advent of the new type of teacher: the maˆıtres de conférences.135 The directors of the observatories were now able to recruit assistant astronomers who, like the directors themselves, could teach courses at the faculty in addition to performing their research activities.136 We can thus observe a true

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coupling of the teaching faculty and the research personnel, but the situation is less straightforward when it comes to the students. The commission headed by Le Verrier in 1872 was adamant that the students of the Faculties of Science should be able to live ‘the life of an astronomer’ and have ‘a few good and specialized instruments’ at their disposal during their studies.137 This recommendation, however, never made its way into the decree of February 1873 that determined the organization of the observatories. In Toulouse, observatory director and Astronomy Professor Benjamin Baillaud developed a programme at the licence level which consisted in reviewing ‘general theories of celestial mechanics’ and the ‘theory of instruments’.138 In situ teaching at the observatory became an integral part of learning the fundamentals of astronomy. Students were thus admitted, on a regular basis, into the confines of this scientific institution to ‘make them familiar with the use of instruments, a few of which could be entirely placed at their disposal’.139 Both astronomers and technicians participated in the students’ training by showing them the numerous facets of the discipline. The Toulouse Observatory saw itself as a pedagogical space, complementary to a more didactical and classical type of work found in the Faculté. In Bordeaux, students did not circulate between the observatory and the Faculty of Science. Initially, the former institution, erected in the 1870s, was supposed to become the ‘necessary complement to the university teaching system’.140 In 1875, Hervé Faye, the inspector-general of Public Education, hoped to have both buildings placed close together, in order for the students to come into contact with ‘practical’ astronomy. Yet the observatory’s new director, Georges Rayet, fought to make his institution one which would be devoted entirely to scientific research. Faye insisted that the observatory should be placed on the river’s left bank, near the site of the Faculty of Science,141 while Rayet stressed the fact that the right bank was better suited to observations. He added that the observatory ‘should be, above all, a place of observation, for the benefit of the masters and not the students; those writing exams do not need, for the purpose of their general and unspecialized curriculum, to have performed lengthy and difficult observations; this is not their role’.142 The ministre d’Instruction Publique finally resolved the dispute in Rayet’s favor, confirming the site on the right bank of the Garonne.143 Rayet would go on to teach a course at the Faculty of Science, but it was more descriptive than practical in nature.144


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As the examples of Toulouse and Bordeaux show, the situation greatly varies as to the training conditions of astronomy students in the Faculties of Science. Their acceptance in the observatories is not governed by law; rather, it is dependent on the local pedagogical policies of the directors. As had been the case earlier, there were, until the end of the 1890s, no formal links between provincial observatories and Faculties of Science. The only relationships which existed between the two structures was based on the dual appointment of professor/astronomer that characterized some of the observatory personnel. This hint of a new type of career did not imply a systematic integration of the observatories into a system of pedagogical practices in the Faculties of science. As a whole, the astronomy institutions maintained their autonomy with respect to the Faculties of Science. This gap in the structure of higher learning contrasted with the unitary vision of teaching endorsed by the Republican administration.145 Louis Liard, the powerful Director of Higher Education from 1884 to 1907, was steadfast in trying to integrate the observatories into the university system, despite strong resistance to his views. In 1889, during the annual meeting of the Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, he suggested considering the astronomy institutions ‘as laboratories of the chairholders, to be contained entirely within the faculties.’146 In particular, Liard insisted on the financial advantages this union could have for the astronomers themselves. This drew a mitigated reaction on the part of the observatory directors. Charles André, director of the institution in Lyon, acknowledged the sound basis of the ministerial ´ proposal. In Marseilles, on the other hand, Edouard Stephan had several objections to the project; among others, he stressed the fact that a close association with the Faculty of Science would mean the end of the municipal support that had greatly helped the observatory. The Director of Higher Education promised to renew the discussions once the astronomers ‘were able to form an opinion’.147 The issue of the relations between observatories and faculties was once again raised in 1892. Louis Liard questioned the Comité consultatif regarding the ‘advantages and disadvantages of autonomy or ´ of incorporation into the faculties’.148 Edouard Stephan and Georges Rayet demanded that observatories ‘conserve their present independence, declaring that there is no advantage in being linked with the faculties’.149 The total autonomy commanded by the Paris Observatory became the quintessential example invoked by the directors of the provincial observatories. Facing strong resistance, Louis Liard reminded

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the committee of the objectives contained in the reforms undertaken by the Republican administration: ‘it is important that all the establishments of higher learning become united’.150 The new political regime aimed to put an end to the fragmentation and the multiplication of faculties. The idea was to improve the effectiveness of the university system by creating complete and efficient units in the larger provincial cities.151 Astronomers remained immune to this argument and the physicist Eleuthère Mascart concluded ‘that there was no urgency in resolving this question’. He believed ‘that things could remain in their current state and that the establishment of universities would naturally serve as an occasion to resolve the remaining undecided questions and to implement the necessary reforms in a consistent manner’.152 Some enthusiasm on the part of the astronomers incited Louis Liard to extend his proposal to include the Faculty Deans and the Academy Rectors. In a memorandum dated 6 February 1897, he invoked the possible integration of the observatories’ budgets into the general accounting of the faculties of science. Both the Deans and Rectors were favorable to this suggestion, while the observatory directors once again remained cautious. In Toulouse, Benjamin Baillaud maintained that transferring the budgets to the faculties would be detrimental to research. In particular, he worried about the interference of the Conseils de facultés in the daily operations of the observatories.153 Charles André, the director of the Lyon Observatory, firmly asserted that ‘the observatory must preserve its autonomy, an essential condition to ensure that the observatory’s work proceed properly and, accordingly, its director must continue to allocate its funds without any interference from the ´ Faculty’.154 Edouard Stephan, of the Marseilles Observatory, provided much more wide-reaching criticism and did not limit his reservations to financial issues. First, he reiterated the fact that ‘most of the previous astronomers had supported strict autonomy, which they had seen as a necessary condition to ensure that their practical work could be carried out’.155 Stephan then argued that an observatory could not recruit new members among students at the Faculties of Science and that they must, above all, seek young astronomers ‘among those whose rare taste for observation eclipses all other interests’.156 Finally, the astronomer insisted on the need to ‘maintain a demarcation between institutions which are of a didactic nature and those which are not meant to be so’.157 Astronomers’ fear of having their institutions absorbed by the university system is also manifest in their correspondence.158 They continued


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to be staunch defenders of their autonomy and independence with respect to the university teaching system. In April of 1898, during a meeting of the Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, Louis Liard reminded the directors that their observatories, whose financial state had been strained as of late, had no choice but to be incorporated ‘into the Faculties of Science or Universities’.159 The assembly did not agree to the first option, but the possibility of establishing official links with universities was received more warmly. Liard assured the astronomers that, should this proposal be adopted, ‘the observatories would form distinct entities, with budgets that would not have to be discussed by the Deans, and credits that would be allocated by the Rectors’.160 Liard thus achieved his objective of unifying university teaching, since the observatories would ‘henceforth be part of the universities’.161 At the same time, the independence of the astronomy institutions was guaranteed. Liard’s plan was examined at length, and finally approved, by the observatory directors.162 The decree of 28 June 1899 officially connected the astronomers of Besançon, Bordeaux, Lyon, Marseilles, Toulouse and Clermont to their respective faculties.163 At the same time, the observatory directors became members of the Conseils d’Université.164 Louis Liard managed to incorporate the provincial observatories into the university system and to set up an ‘administrative continuum’ between the two structures. Despite this reorganization, the independence of astronomers proved resilient. In the draft of a legislative text regarding the reorganization of observatories, submitted to the Minister in 1906, Benjamin Baillaud proposed that these institutions should ‘have the same privileges as the faculties’.165 Once again, it was a question of preserving the freedom of observatories by granting them special prerogatives. Pressure to maintain the astronomers’ autonomy culminated at the Paris Observatory, which had never been part of any endeavor to connect it with the Faculty of Science. The latter had to forge its own networks with the astronomy community. In 1899, it acquired the observatory in Nice through a donation from Raphaël Bisschoffsheim, a patron of the sciences.166 This observatory was entirely dedicated to research and had no links with the pedagogical activities of the Faculty of Science in Paris.167 As of the late nineteenth century, the Sorbonne was equipped with a revolving roof and an equatorial telescope, in order to introduce the students to practical astronomy.168 This initiative illustrates the independence of the Paris Observatory vis-à-vis the university teaching

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system. This autonomy allowed the observatory to partially define its own reproduction system outside the university system. Following the defeat at Sedan and Le Verrier’s fall into disgrace, many Parisian astronomers discussed their ideas regarding the training of astronomers with the political authorities. In March of 1871, Charles Wolf wrote a lengthy note on ‘the principles which should regulate the governance of an observatory’.169 He began by admitting that the faculties ‘can train geometricians who can take care of celestial mechanics: Le Verrier, Delaunay, Serret, Puiseux are among those who have been leaders in mathematical astronomy, without having been educated in an observatory’.170 Wolf contended, however, that the telescope essentially defined astronomy and that ‘only at the observatory can one learn how to handle the telescope’.171 The Parisian astronomer concluded that, outside an observatory, ‘it is impossible to train observateurs, and it is only to this type of scholar that [. . .] under unanimous agreement, the title of astronomer is reserved’.172 The discipline of astronomy was comprised of two complementary, yet distinct, traditions. The first was primarily associated with mathematics, tools used in the solution of celestial mechanics problems, while the second was based on observations and measurements. As a place of learning, the observatory’s objective was to serve this latter conception of astronomy. Wolf defended the idea that an ‘observatory must be a school of astronomy’.173 He invoked the necessity for the students to become very familiar with each instrument; they could benefit from the guidance of the masters, who themselves would have been trained at the observatory. In essence, the institution had an almost monastic aura; it ‘could receive candidates and train both the novices and the initiated’.174 The Paris Observatory was thus presented as a link in the learning process, but Wolf did not, however, wish to turn it into a space for popular education: it should not ‘open its doors to the public so that they can follow courses’ as the work of the astronomer must be done in seclusion as a form of meditation.175 The proposals articulated by Charles Wolf were explicitly inspired by the pedagogical experiment introduced by Friedrich Brünnow.176 In the mid-nineteenth century, Henry Tappan called on this German astronomer to direct and organize the observatory at the University of Michigan. Drawing on the model of the German university, which unified teaching and research, Brünnow attempted to propose a programme which would develop both the theoretical and practical elements of astronomy. Above all, Brünnow designed a curriculum that could train


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future astronomers.177 Wolf ’s proposals had a limited impact in the short term, but they nevertheless exemplify astronomers’ concerns with their own reproduction as a specialized corps. Charles Delaunay, who was chosen to replace Urbain Le Verrier as head of the Paris Observatory in 1870, repeatedly called for ‘the training of the astronomy personnel’.178 He took the initiative of recruiting students who ‘have been progressively initiated to the work of astronomical observations’.179 This system of training, inherited from the one originally set up by François Arago fifty years earlier, was not based on any legislative framework. Delaunay admitted that these young astronomers did not occupy any well-defined position within the structure of the Paris Observatory; he therefore requested subsidies from the ministre de l’Instruction Publique in order to help rectify ‘the precarious position in which they have found themselves since they joined the observatory’.180 Since the plan to train students at the observatory—within the framework of the EPHE—never materialized, Parisian astronomers tried to organize their own reproduction system. Ernest Mouchez, who directed the observatory from 1878 to 1892, noticed in the early stages of his mandate that ‘what France lacks is an e´ cole des hautes e´ tudes for astronomers’.181 He lamented that the personnel of the observatories were recruited ‘in the most irregular and arbitrary manner’.182 Mouchez therefore proposed to first ‘organize an astronomy course, to be given at the Paris Observatory, on the handling of instruments and the analysis of observations’.183 The director further described this teaching ‘as having nothing in common with the astronomy courses taught at the Sorbonne or at the Collège de France. It would have as its sole objective the training of astronomers for practical work at observatories’.184 The decree of 31 October 1879 thus set up a curriculum for astronomy students at ´ the Paris Observatory. Chosen among students at the Ecole Normale ´ Supérieure and the Ecole Polytechnique, as well as among mathematical science graduates, they were to be trained for two years in the various departments of the Observatory.185 The project stipulated that the students would spend ‘one year in the service des calculs and the service méridien, followed by another year in the service des e´ quatoriaux and the service d’astronomie physique’.186 This survey of the practices of astronomy was, according to Mouchez, designed to form ‘skilled and eager astronomers’.187 Their integration into the observatories as assistant-astronomers would revitalize the already-expanding field of French astronomy.188 The astronomy school at the Paris Observatory

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would end up training only a handful of students, before ceasing to exist in 1887, the year in which the comptroller noted that the model created by Mouchez did not fulfill the requirements of the observatories.189 Indeed, the directors of the provincial observatories, who, as of 1873, had the power to hire their own employees,190 chose to use other means for the recruitment of astronomers. In the absence of a university-based curriculum, two approaches were used for recruiting French astronomers at the end of the nineteenth century. Those who held important and dominant positions in the ´ hierarchy of astronomers were generally graduates of the Ecole Normale Supérieure, with diplomas in mathematics or physics. Craig Zwerling has ´ shown how the administrators of Ecole—from Baron Thénard in 1846 to Louis Pasteur in 1867—recruited students by offering them attractive careers in Paris or, at the very least, the possibility to pursue scholarly work when they could not evade teaching in the province.191 The students of this prestigious institution thus constituted a pool of scientists who were ready to occupy various functions at the nascent observatories. This explains how Félix Tisserand—followed by Benjamin Baillaud—in Toulouse, Georges Rayet in Bordeaux, Jules Gruey in Besançon and Charles André in Lyon all became observatory directors as former normaliens.192 ´ The pervasiveness of graduates from the Ecole Normale Supérieure in the discipline of astronomy is related, as we have seen, to the recruitment policy set up by Le Verrier at the Paris Observatory towards the end of the Second Empire.193 The directors subsequently brought in more normaliens to assist the ones already in place by making use of the personal and professional networks that they had previously established194 . From 1878 to 1907, Benjamin Baillaud offered various positions in Toulouse to several normaliens: Henry Andoyer, Eugène Cosserat and Alphone Blondel.195 Similarly, until 1906, Georges Rayet welcomed Luc Picart, Adriend Feraud, Ernest Esclangon and Tousset ´ to the observatory in Bordeaux.196 All were graduates of the Ecole Normale Supérieure and the majority had no real experience in applied astronomy. Once hired, the director needed to initiate them, on the spot, to the use of instruments and to the subtleties of celestial observations. Within the observatories, graduates of ENS thus reached the higherranking positions—such as assistant astronomer or even director—with relative ease. The second means of recruiting concerned the subordinate positions—assistant or junior astronomers—in the observatory hierarchy.


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The strategy was here to give preference to students from the faculties of science or the local e´ coles normales d’instituteurs. The need to find personnel who could quickly form a team of astronomers forced the directors to draw from a second network, which was less rigorous in terms of the candidates’ training, and also geographically more limited. This enrolment of local students was not based on specific criteria and did not constitute a standardized system of recruitment.197 For the positions requiring fewer qualifications, the process was, in a sense, a remnant of that put in place by François Arago in the 1830s. The beginning of the Third Republic thus set itself apart by introducing a new way of organizing French astronomy. The connections between provincial observatories and faculties of science became official without posing a threat to the autonomy of astronomers. For the high-ranking ´ posts, the system of reproduction was organized around the Ecole Normale Supérieure, which constituted the reservoir of the elites of French astronomy while the subordinate positions were given to local students, as chosen by the directors. These mechanisms of reproduction remained essentially outside the university system and perpetuated the tradition of practical, in situ training for would-be astronomers. At the end of the nineteenth century, and despite many attempts to integrate observatories within the university system, French astronomers thus managed to maintain their independence within the field of French scientific institutions.

6. Conclusion

A striking characteristic of the many discussions on the relationships between astronomical observatories and Faculties of science in France from the Revolution to the end of the nineteenth century, is the strong and continuous resistance of astronomers to all the attempts to incorporate their observatories into the French educational system. Following the Revolution, the Bureau des Longitudes ensured that the astronomy community remain a closed system by simply updating the academic positions of the Ancien Régime. Parisian astronomers—namely Arago and Le Verrier—subsequently developed their own methods of recruitment, based on personal selection and patronage processes. Using as a justification the specificity of their work (which could only be learned

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through the use of instruments at the observatory), astronomers managed to retain their independence vis-à-vis the French University until the fall of the Second Empire. Under the Third Republic, their determination to maintain autonomy was in opposition with Liard’s strong wish to put together a coherent and uniform university system. The concessions implied by their annexation (in an administrative sense) did not however concern the methods of recruiting astronomers, which revolved ´ more around the Ecole Normale Supérieure than around the faculties of science. Acquired under the Ancien Régime, astronomers’ autonomy within the French scientific system persisted throughout the nineteenth century. Faced with various attempts to bring them closer to the University, they proved defiant. Determined not to concede any of their traditional independence, and to maintain their means of reproducing their corps, astronomers’ resistance prevented the efforts of the successive political regimes from bearing fruit. Our study has also brought to light the dual nature of astronomers’ organization as a profession and a discipline. The fact that the State created a corps of astronomers constituting a profession with a controlled and limited access did not fail to affect the form of the organizations and activities usually associated with a discipline, such as associations with their congresses, prizes, and journals controlled by the members of the discipline. Created in 1887 by Camille Flammarion, the French Astronomical Society was essentially composed of amateur astronomers. By contrast, the State-appointed astronomers met exclusively within the framework of official committees, unlike their colleagues abroad who, from the nineteenth century at the latest, had their own societies: the Royal Astronomical Society was founded in 1820, the American Astronomical Association in 1899 and the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada in 1903. Instead of having a specific means of celebration—as was the case in most other disciplines—French astronomers delegated the management of their symbolic recognition to the Académie des sciences, which handed out an annual astronomy prize (known as the prix Lalande beginning in 1802 and the prix Damoiseau as of 1872).198 The same can be said for the journals: as of 1884, astronomers read and produced the Bulletin Astronomique, a journal centred exclusively on their discipline. Its founder, Paris Observatory director Ernest Mouchez, hoped it would be ‘as useful and interesting as possible for astronomers and men of science who are interested in astronomy’.199 Nevertheless, there were far fewer astronomy articles sent to the Bulletin Astronomique than to the


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Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Sciences (CRAS). In Toulouse, for instance, director Benjamin Baillaud submitted four texts to Mouchez’s new publication, while publishing 38 notices in the CRAS.200 Between 1881 and 1901, astronomers in Bordeaux, for their part, wrote 19 articles in the Bulletin Astronomique compared with 128 in the CRAS.201 The supremacy of the latter publication was thus never threatened, since its readership was not limited to the field of astronomy; it gave its authors the opportunity to be read and recognized by the entire scholarly community. The congresses that materialized in the nineteenth century as a means of structuring scientific communities202 were by no means a pivotal element of the activities of French State astronomers. Naturally, astronomy was represented in the congresses of the Association Française pour l’Avancement des Sciences, which met regularly since 1872.203 However, as Danielle Fauque has observed, the theme of astronomy was not of any special importance during the gatherings.204 The only congresses which exclusively brought together astronomers were those of the Carte du ciel, held in Paris in 1887, 1889 and 1891. Despite being international events, they had in mind a very specific objective—to make an inventory of celestial photographs—and certainly did not aim to organize or structure the members of the discipline. Their goal was simply to develop and coordinate a large-scale scientific project.205 The autonomy of the French astronomy community with respect to the world of higher education has survived to the present day. The observatories in Bordeaux, Toulouse, Marseilles, Besançon, Lyon and Grenoble are integrated into the university system, but remain distinct from the faculties and the Unités de Formation et de Recherche (UFR). In contrast, the Paris Observatory continued to operate almost autonomously, since it currently has the status of a ‘university’, allowing it to grant diplomas and to answer directly to the Ministry of Research. Astronomers’ independence extends to the hiring process: just as access to university teaching positions is controlled by the Commission nationale des universités (CNU), access to astronomy posts within observatories is determined by an analogous institution, the Conseil national des astronomes et physiciens (CNAP). ´ The existence of the Grandes Ecoles, the Muséum d’Histoire Natu206 relle, the Conseil national de recherche scientifique (CNRS), and the observatories make the French university system unique. Our analysis of the evolving connections between the observatories and the University once again demonstrates the specificity of the French system of scientific

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institutions. Its structure is markedly different from other countries in that the Humboldtian university, which combines teaching and research in all disciplines, does not form the main basis for the reproduction of disciplines. While in most countries, astronomy (and astrophysics) has been progressively integrated into the structures of higher education, facilitating the training of future scientists, this discipline has remained on the margins of the French universities. The most significant effect of this national trajectory has been the creation of specific recruitment systems and the formation of organizational structures which separate more clearly than elsewhere the different roles and activities usually gathered under the umbrella of a discipline. In that sense, French astronomy has incorporated specific traits of a profession as well as of a discipline, making its national form different from that observed in many other countries.207 Centre interuniversitaire de recherche sur la science et la technologie (CIRST ) Université du Québec a` Montéral C.P. 8888 succ. Centre-Ville Montréal, Québec H3C 3P8 Canada

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37. Letter from Jean-Baptiste Delambre to the Comte de Montalivet, Minister of the Interior, n.d. [1809], F17 3760, Archives Nationales (AN). 38. J. Lamy, Archéologie d’un espace savant. L’observatoire de Toulouse aux 18e et 19e siècles: lieux, acteurs, pratiques, réseaux (Doctoral Thesis in ´ ´ the History of Science, Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales Paris, 2004), 39–48. 39. O. Deveaux, La Pique et la Plume. L’enseignement a` Toulouse pendant la Révolution ( Toulouse, 1988), 52. 40. Extract of the registres de l’administration centrale du département de la Haute-Garonne, 17 pluviôse an III (5 February 1794), 1L 1021–4, Archives Départementales de la Haute-Garonne (ADHG). 41. Devaux, La Pique et la Plume, 60. 42. Ibid., 91. 43. Bordereaux des sommes a` payer pour le traitement du trimestre aux ´ professeurs et employés de l’Ecole Centrale, germinale an IV, 5S 74, Archives Municipales de Toulouse (AMT ). 44. Registre des procès-verbaux des séances, séance du 29 prarial an V, Archives du Bureau des Longitudes (ABDL). 45. Lamy, Archéologie d’un espace savant, 39–48. 46. O. Devaux, L’enseignement a` Toulouse dans le Consulat et l’Empire ( Toulouse, 1990), 191, 195. 47. Letter from Jérôme Hadancourt to the administration of the Département de la Haute-Garonne, 27 April 1799, 1L 1021–36, ADHG. 48. ‘qu’un observateur n’a presque point d’instant qui ne soit pris par quelqu’une des observatoires dont il est chargé (. . .)’, Copy of a letter from Jacques Vidal to M. Descoulombre, vice-president of the conseil des ´ Ecoles de Toulouse, nivôse an IV (December 1804—January 1805), 2O Toulouse 110, ADHG. 49. ‘les fonctions du Sieur Vidal ne se bornent pas aux seules observatoires astronomiques, et (. . .) en sa qualité de professeur, il est e´ galement tenu d’enseigner cette science’, Registre des délibérations du Bureau ´ d’administration de l’Ecole Spéciale Communale des Sciences et Arts de Toulouse, an XII–1808, vol. I, séance du 17 mai 1806, f 0 58, Bx 35, AMT. 50. Condorcet, Cinq mémoires sur l’instruction publique, 167–8. 51. Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 171. 52. M. Crosland, ‘The Development of a Professional Career in Science in France’, Minerva, 13 (1975), 46. 53. V. Karady, ‘De Napoléon a` Duruy: les origines et la naissance de l’université contemporaine’, in Jacques Verger (ed.), Histoire des Universités en France ( Toulouse, 1986), 272. 54. T. Shinn, ‘The French Science Faculty System, 1808–1914: Institutional Change and Research Potential in Mathematics and the Physical Sciences’, Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences, 19 (1970), 278. 55. Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 216.

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56. L.-B. Francoeur, Astronomie pratique (Paris, 1840). 57. ‘globes céleste et terrestre (. . .) pour faciliter l’enseignement de l’astronomie et de la géodésie’, Registre des procès-verbaux des actes et des délibérations de la Faculté des sciences de l’Académie de Paris (1821–1841), Séance du 29 décembre 1823, f ◦ 7, AJ16 5120, AN. 58. ‘d’établir a` l’Observatoire Impérial, un cours d’astronomie pratique pour former les e´ lèves qui puissent un jour remplir d’une manière avantageuse a` l’astronomie, les places qui viendraient a` vaquer, soit dans son sein, soit dans les autres observatories’, Letter from Rossel to the Minister of the Interior, the Comte de Montalivet, 16 November 1812, F17 13569, AN. 59. ‘qu’il n’existe point de chaire d’astronomie au Bureau des Longitudes (. . .), [ce qui] peut eˆ tre considéré comme une lacune dans un e´ tablissement aussi complet que l’est le Bureau des Longitudes’, Letter from the ministre de l’Instruction Publique to the President of the Bureau des Longitudes, August 1835, F17 13569, AN. 60. Feurtet, Bureau des Longitudes, 197–8. ´ 61. Bruno Belhoste, ‘Un modèle a` l’épreuve. L’Ecole Polytechnique de 1794 au Second Empire’, in La formation polytechnicienne 1794–1994, ed. Bruno Belhoste, Amy Dahan-Almedico and Antoine Picon (Paris, 1994), 9–30. 62. Feurtet, Bureau des Longitudes, 200. 63. Ibid., Bureau des Longitudes, 203. 64. ‘attachés a` la Faculté des sciences de leur arrondissement’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 204. 65. Feurtet, Bureau des Longitudes, 202. 66. Ibid., 271–97. 67. L. Dulieu, La Faculté des Sciences de Montpellier de ses origines a` nos jours (Avignon, 1981), 36. 68. J.-M. Faidit, Le pavillon d’astronomie du Jardin des Plantes de Montpellier (Montpellier, 2001), 7. 69. Letter from the Rector of the Académie de Montpellier to the Principal of the Université Impériale, 28 February 1811, F17 1931, AN. 70. Report of the Rector of the Académie de Montpellier, 28 February 1811, F17 1931, AN. 71. ‘former une dépendance de la Faculté des sciences de Montpellier’, Report of the Chef de la Première division de l’Université Impériale to the Principal of the University, 19 June 1811, F17 1931, AN. 72. Report of Jean-Baptiste Delambre, n.d. (1811), F17 1931, AN. 73. Registre des délibérations du Conseil de l’Université Impériale, procèsverbal de la séance du 27 septembre 1811, F17 1931, AN. 74. E. Roche, Notice sur l’Observatoire de l’ancienne société des sciences de Montpellier (Montpellier, 1881), 24. 75. Faidit, Pavillon d’astronomie, 8–9. 76. ‘ne sera jamais bien florissante, parce que les e´ tudiants en médecine qui forment la plus grande partie [des] auditeurs sont assez occupés par les


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e´ tudes médicales, pour ne pas consacrer de moments précieux a` une science qu’ils jugent absolument e´ trangère a` la profession qu’ils ont en vue’, Letter from the Rector of the Académie de Montpellier to Cuvier, Member of the Commission d’Instruction Publique, 14 May 1817, F17 1931, AN. ‘les mathématiques appliquées dont l’étude de l’astronomie fait partie’, Letter from the rector of the Académie de Toulouse to the Mayor of Toulouse, 4 November 1813, 5T 9, ADHG. Lamy, Archéologie d’un espace savant, 194. Décret ministériel, 17 février 1814, 5T 10, ADHG. ‘rapport sur les améliorations a` introduire dans l’enseignement des Facultés des sciences’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 782–90. H. W. Paul, From Knowledge to power. The rise of the science empire in France 1860–1939 (Cambridge, 1985), 19. Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 799. Ibid., i. 690. ‘qu’à un astronome connaissant la pratique des instruments, sachant observer, et pouvant servir la science dans cette direction’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 783. ‘déciderait les villes a` fonder des observatoires ou du moins a` en faciliter l’établissement’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 783. ‘un agrégé serait placé a` l’Observatoire de Paris pour en suivre les travaux’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 788. ‘fonder un observatoire a` la Faculté elle-même’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 788. Shinn, ‘The French Science Faculty System’, 284. Letter from Alexis Perry to the ministre de l’Instruction Publique, 17 February 1845, F17 13588, AN. F. Locher, ‘Les sources de l’histoire des facultés des sciences : le cas de l’astronomie a` la faculté des sciences de Paris (1808–1880)’, Séminaire d’histoire de l’éducation de l’INRP, 6 June 2006. We thank Fabien Locher for having sent us the written version of his presentation. Only one candidate was not chosen by Arago during this period: Eugène Jubé. It was Poisson, also a member of the Bureau des Longitudes and councillor of the Université Impériale, who chose this student from the Faculty of Science. He seemed to want to diversify the recruitment at the Observatory (Feurtet, Le Bureau des Longitudes, 307). Lamy, Archéologie d’un espace savant, 188. Ibid., 301. ‘celui qui n’est rétribué qu’à raison de son titre de professeur a rempli son devoir par cela seul qu’il a fait sa leçon; celui au contraire, qui ne recevrait ´ de salaire que pour faire progresser la science, serait le débiteur de l’Etat lorsque, dans l’année, il n’aurait pas attaché son nom a` une découverte’, F. Arago, ‘De l’utilité des pensions accordées aux savants, aux littérateurs, aux artistes’, in Arago, Œuvres complètes, ed. J.-A. Barral (17 vols, Paris, 1854–1862) iii. 624.

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95. Arrêté du ministre de l’Instruction Publique, 13 June 1850, F17 21476, AN. 96. G. Weisz, ‘Le corps professoral de l’enseignement supérieur et l’idéologie de la réforme universitaire en France, 1860–1885’, Revue française de sociologie, 28 (1977), 202–3. 97. ‘de mieux quadriller le territoire de centres d’examen’, V. Karady, ‘De Napoléon a` Duruy’, 288. 98. ‘les jeunes gens aux grades académiques’, H. Fortoul, Instruction sur la répartition de l’enseignement dans les facultés des sciences (Paris, 1855), 18. 99. Fortoul, Instruction sur la répartition, 9. 100. Shinn, ‘The French Science Faculty System’, 298–9. 101. Lamy, Archéologie d’un espace savant, 189. 102. Gervais, Rapport sur les travaux de la Faculté des sciences de Montpellier pendant l’année scolaire 1855–1856 (Montpellier, 1856), 11; P. Gervais, Rapport sur les travaux de la Faculté des sciences de Montpellier pendant l’année scolaire 1856–1857 (Montpellier, 1857), 8; P. Gervais, Rapport sur les travaux de la Faculté des sciences de Montpellier pendant l’année scolaire 1857–1858 (Montpellier,1858), 5. 103. N. Hulin, ‘Les doctorats dans les disciplines scientifiques au XIXe siècle: organisation, rôle et e´ volution’, in Histoire du doctorat, (Paris, 1997), 15–23. 104. Locher, ‘Les sources de l’histoire des facultés des sciences’. 105. Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, i. 310. Seven of the normaliens would go on to pursue a scientific career at an observatory. They all completed doctoral theses. 106. L. Maison, La fondation et les premiers travaux de l’observatoire astronomique de Bordeaux (1871–1906) : histoire d’une réorientation scientifique (Doctoral Thesis in the epistemology and history of science, Université Bordeaux 1, Bordeaux, 2004), 33. 107. Paul, From Knowledge to power, 44. 108. V. Duruy, Notes et Souvenirs (1811–1894), (2 vols, Paris, 1901), i. 303–5. 109. ‘des savants et non pas des professeurs’, Duruy, Notes et Souvenirs, i. 306. 110. ‘pratiques particulières a` chaque genre de recherche (. . .)’, Duruy, Rapport a` l’appui de deux projets de décrets relatifs aux laboratoires ´ d’enseignement et de recherche et a` la création d’une Ecole Pratique ´ des Hautes Etudes, 1868, 4, F17 13614, AN. 111. Duruy, Notes et Souvenirs, i. 6. 112. H. W. Paul, ‘L’idée de recherche dans les Facultés des sciences au XIXe siècle’, in Le personnel de l’enseignement supérieur en France au XIX e et XX e siècles. Actes du Colloque organisé par l’Institut d’Histoire Moderne ´ ´ et Contemporaine et l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales les 25 et 26 juin 1984, ed. Christophe Charle and Régine Ferré (Paris, 1985), 221. 113. ‘un ordre d’études qui les conduira successivement a` toutes les connaissances théoriques qu’exige l’astronomie mathématique et l’usage de tous


114. 115. 116.

117.

118.

119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125.

126.

127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133.

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les instruments qu’emploie l’astronomie d’observation’, Duruy, Notes et Souvenirs, i. 8. ‘une véritable e´ cole d’astronomie qui nous manque encore’, Duruy, Notes et Souvenirs, i. 8. Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, ii., 755–6. AN F17 , 17614, Note sur les candidats proposés au titulariat de l’EPHE, 1872. Similarly, in a report on the EPHE from 1889 to 1892, there is no ´ mention of any student in the mathematics section: Rapport sur l’Ecole ´ Pratique des Hautes Etudes 1889–1892 (Paris, 1892). ‘l’astronomie d’observation baisse en France parce qu’on n’y forme point assez d’astronomes’, Martin Fourichon, Rapport adressé a` l’Empereur, s. d. (1868), F17 3719, AN. ‘Tous ces observatoires nouveaux, (. . .) devraient eˆ tre indépendants les uns des autres, et les savants y fonctionneraient livrés sans aucune entrave extérieure a` leurs aspirations personnelles’, M. Fourichon, Rapport adressé son Excellence le ministre de l’Instruction Publique, par M. Le vice-amiral Fourichon au nom de la commission instituée en exécution du décret du 30 janvier 1854, pour rendre compte de la situation scientifique et des besoins de l’Observatoire Impérial de Paris, Paris, 4 janvier 1868, 13, F17 3719, AN. ‘la formation de savants’, M. Fournichon (note 119), 7. ‘les assistants des astronomes, qui deviennent ainsi leurs maˆıtres naturels’, M. Fournichon, Rapport adressé son Excellence, 6. ‘les connaissances pratiques que l’expérience seule peut donner’, M. Fournichon Rapport adressé son Excellence, 6. Letter from Urbain Le Verrier to the Minister of Public Education, 29 October 1869, F17 13588, AN. J. Grondeux, La France entre en République (1870–1893), (Paris, 2000), 17. C. Charle, La République des Universitaires 1870–1940, (Paris, 1994), 137. ‘les chefs-lieux d’Académie qui possèdent des Facultés des sciences dont l’enseignement théorique trouvera [au sein d’] un Observatoire un complément utile’, Recueil des Lois, ed. Beauchamp, ii. 840. ‘ne font pas partie intégrante des Facultés. (. . .) une entente cordiale règle les relations des deux institutions indépendantes’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, ii. 845–6. ‘union intime’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, ii. 846. ‘si le directeur de l’Observatoire est en même temps professeur d’astronomie de la Faculté’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, ii. 846. Baillaud, ‘Henri Andoyer’, Journal des observateurs, 12/11 (1929), 193. AN, F17 3760, Letter from Edouard Stéphan to the ministre de l’Instruction Publique, 26 June 1874. Recueil des Lois, ed. Beauchamp, iii. 300. Faidit, Le pavillon d’astronomie, 19. Ibid., 30–31.

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134. We should note that this new reorganization of astronomy brought about many requests to have new observatories created. In July of 1886, the Conseil général des Facultés de Caen thus expressed their wish to be given a ‘chair in applied mechanics, astronomy and meteorology’, in addition to ‘the creation of an astronomical and meteorological observatory’. This request was declined by the Minister of Public Education, stating that the observatories of Toulouse, Bordeaux, Lyon, Besançon, Marseilles and Algiers were ‘sufficient for the needs of science’. (AN, F17 13588, Extract of the registre des délibérations du Conseil général des Facultés de Caen, session of 2 July 1886). 135. A. Prost, Histoire de l’enseignement en France, 1800–1967 (Paris, 1968), 230. 136. M.-J. Nye, ‘The Scientific Periphery in France : The Faculty of Sciences at Toulouse (1880–1930)’, Minerva, 13 (1975), 381. 137. ‘la vie des astronomes (. . .) quelques bons instruments spéciaux’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, iii. 300. 138. ‘théories générales de la mécanique céleste (. . .) théorie des instruments’, Ministère de l’Instruction Publique, Renseignements, 1898–1899, F17 23735, AN. 139. ‘ils y sont familiarisés avec l’emploi des instruments, dont quelques uns peuvent eˆ tre mis entièrement a` leur disposition’, Université de Toulouse, Annuaire pour l’année 1902–1903 ( Toulouse, 1902), 134. 140. ‘complément nécessaire [au] système d’enseignement universitaire’, G. Rayet, ‘Notice historique sur la fondation de l’Observatoire de Bordeaux’, Annales de l’Observatoire de Bordeaux, 1 (1885), 12. 141. Maison, La fondation et les premiers travaux, 106. 142. ‘doit eˆ tre avant tout un lieu d’observation et d’études pour des maˆıtres et non pour des e´ lèves, et les candidats aux examens n’ont pas besoin, pour l’instruction générale et non spéciale qu’on leur demande, d’avoir longuement et péniblement observé; ce n’est pas leur rôle’, Rayet, ‘Notice historique’, 15. 143. Maison, La fondation et les premiers travaux, 106. 144. Ibid., 327. 145. Weisz, ‘Le corps professoral de l’enseignement supérieur’, 228. 146. ‘comme des laboratoires des chaires dont les directeurs sont titulaires et de les reverser entièrement dans les facultés’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 12 June 1889, F17 3752, AN. 147. ‘auront pu se former une opinion’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 12 June 1889, F17 3752, AN. 148. ‘avantages et les inconvénients de l’autonomie ou du rattachement aux facultés’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 10 June 1892, F17 3752, AN. 149. ‘à conserver leur indépendance actuelle et déclarent qu’il n’y a aucun avantage a` rattacher les observatoires aux facultés’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 10 June 1892, F17 3752, AN.


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150. ‘il importe que tous les e´ tablissements d’enseignement supérieur fassent corps’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 10 June 1892, F17 3752, AN. 151. Prost, Histoire de l’enseignement en France, 235–6. 152. ‘qu’il n’y a pas urgence a` résoudre la question(. . .), que les choses peuvent rester en l’état et que la constitution des universités sera une occasion naturelle de résoudre les questions pendantes et de faire les réformes nécessaires et d’une manière uniforme’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 10 June 1892, F17 3752, AN. 153. Letter from Benjamin Baillaud to the Rector of the Académie de Toulouse, 26 February 1897, F17 3752, AN. 154. ‘l’observatoire doit conserver son autonomie qui est une condition indispensable du bon ordre des travaux [et], par suite, son directeur doit continuer a` avoir seul, sans l’intervention du doyen de la faculté, l’ordonnancement de toutes les pièces comptables’, Letter from Charles André to the Rector of the Académie de Lyon, 18 March 1897, F17 3752, AN. 155. ‘la plupart des anciens astronomes ont e´ té partisans d’une stricte autonomie, qu’ils considéraient comme nécessaire pour assurer l’accomplissement du ´ travail pratique (. . .)’, Letter from Edouard Stephan to the Rector of the Académie d’Aix, 2 March 1897, F17 3752, AN. 156. ‘chez qui le goût si rare de l’observation prime toutes les autres tend´ ances’, Letter from Edouard Stephan to the Rector of the Académie d’Aix, 17 2 March 1897, F 3752, AN. 157. ‘maintenir une démarcation entre les institutions didactiques et celles qui ´ ne doivent pas l’être’, Letter from Edouard Stephan to the Rector of the Académie d’Aix, 2 March 1897, F17 3752, AN. 158. Only one observatory director supported the incorporation of his budget into the Faculty accounts: Hurion, director of the meteorological observatory at Puy-de-Dôme. The limited financial resources at his disposal, as well as the small scale of his installations, made the prospect of larger subsidies which could accompany an amalgamation with the Faculty at Clermont-Ferrand seem very desirable (Letter from Hurion to the Rector of the Académie de Clermont-Ferrand, 11 February 1897, F17 3752, AN.). 159. ‘aux facultés des sciences ou aux Universités’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 19 April 1898, F17 3752, AN. 160. ‘les observatoires formeraient un corps distinct dont le budget n’aurait plus a` eˆ tre discuté par un doyen de faculté et dont les crédits seraient ordonnancés par des Recteurs’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 19 April 1898, F17 3752, AN. 161. ‘désormais corps avec les universités’, Comité consultatif des observatoires de province, session of 19 April 1898, F17 3752, AN. ´ 162. Letter from Jules Gruey, Charles André, Benjamin Baillaud and Edouard Stephan to Louis Liard, 26 April 1898, F17 , 3752, AN. 163. Recueil des Lois, ed. Beauchamp, v. 68. 164. Ibid, 73–4.

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165. B. Baillaud, Projet d’organisation des observatoires astronomiques, June 1906, 25, 7Z 2, AMT. 166. Annales de l’Observatoire de Nice 8 (1904), pp. v–xii. 167. Paul Appell, ‘La Faculté des sciences de l’Université de Paris (1895–1910)’, Revue de Paris, 6 (1910), 98–120, 108. 168. Jean Texereau, ‘La nouvelle lunette de 215 mm de l’observatoire de la Société’, Bulletin de la Société Astronomique de France, (1952), 413–22; F. Locher, ‘Les sources de l’histoire des facultés des sciences’. 169. ‘les principes qui doivent régler le mode de gouvernement d’un observatoire’, C. Wolf, Notes sur les principes qui doivent régler le mode de gouvernement d’un observatoire, 3 mars 1871, F17 , 3720, AN. 170. ‘peuvent former des géomètres s’occupant de mécanique céleste : les Le Verrier, les Delaunay, les Serret, les Puiseux, sont devenus les lumières de l’astronomie mathématique, sans avoir, ou avant d’avoir passé par l’observatoire’, C. Wolf, Notes sur les principes. 171. ‘c’est a` l’observatoire seulement que s’apprend le maniement de la lunette’, C. Wolf, Notes sur les principes. 172. ‘il est impossible de former des observateurs, et c’est a` cet ordre de savants que, (. . .) d’un consentement unanime est réservé le titre d’astronome’, Wolf, Notes sur les principes. 173. ‘observatoire doit eˆ tre une e´ cole d’astronomie’, Wolf, Notes sur les principes. 174. ‘recevant des postulants, formant des novices et des profès’, Wolf, Notes sur les principes. 175. ‘ouvrir ses portes au public et l’admettre a` suivre des cours; le travail astronomique doit se faire dans le recueillement’, Charles Wolf, ‘Préface’, in Friedrich Brünnow, Astronomie sphérique (Traité d’astronomie sphérique et d’astronomie pratique, Vol. I, Paris, 1869), p. xix. 176. Wolf wrote the preface to the French translation of Brünnow’s Traité d’astronomie sphérique et d’astronomie pratique. 177. H. Plotkin, ‘Henry Tappan, Franz Brünnow, and the Founding of the Ann School of Astronomers’, 287–302. 178. ‘la formation d’un personnel d’astronomes’, Letter from Charles Delaunay to the ministre de l’Instruction Publique, 13 January 1872, F17 3720, AN. 179. ‘ont e´ té initiés peu a` peu aux travaux de l’astronomie d’observation’, Letter from Charles Delaunay to the ministre de l’Instruction Publique, 13 January 1872, F17 3720, AN. 180. ‘la position précaire où ils se trouvent depuis leur entrée a` l’observatoire’, Letter from Charles Delaunay to the ministre de l’Instruction Publique, 13 January 1872, F17 3720, AN. 181. ‘qu’il manque a` la France une e´ cole des hautes e´ tudes pour les astronomes’, Letter from Ernest Mouchez to the Président de l’Académie des Sciences, 10 May 1878, Ms 1050(2), Archives de l’Observatoire de Paris. 182. ‘de la manière la plus irrégulière et la plus arbitraire’, E. Mouchez, Rapport annuel sur l’état de l’Observatoire pendant l’année 1878 (Paris, 1878), 18.


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183. ‘d’organiser a` l’Observatoire de Paris un cours d’Astronomie pratique sur le maniement des divers instruments et les réductions des observations’, Mouchez, Rapport annuel, 18. 184. ‘n’aurait rien de commun avec les cours d’Astronomie de la Sorbonne ou du Collège de France. Il n’aurait d’autre but que de former des astronomes praticiens pour les observatoires (. . .)’, Mouchez, Rapport annuel, 18–9. 185. Recueil des Lois, ed. Beauchamp, iii. 286–7. 186. ‘un an au service des calculs et au service méridien, un an au service des e´ quatoriaux et au service d’astronomie physique’, Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, iii. 286. ´ eves-astron187. ‘d’habiles astronomes, pleins d’ardeur’, Ernest Mouchez, El` omes. Organisation des e´ tudes (Paris 1880), 3. 188. Recueil des lois, ed. Beauchamp, iii. 593. 189. Ibid. iv. 364. 190. Ibid. iii. 846. 191. C. Zwerling, ‘The emergence of the Ecole Normale Supérieure as a centre of scientific education in the nineteenth century’, in R. Fox and G. Weisz (eds), The organization of science and technology in France, 1808–1914, (Cambridge and Paris, 1980), 42. 192. One should add one name to the list: Edouard Stephan in Marseilles who, under the Second Empire, was appointed thanks to Urbain Le Verrier. 193. Maison, La fondation et les premiers travaux, 33. 194. Lamy, Archéologie d’un espace savant, 341–2. 195. Ibid., 344. 196. Maison, La fondation et les premiers travaux, 348. 197. Lamy, Archéologie d’un espace savant, 346–52 and Maison, La fondation et les premiers travaux, 156–60. 198. It is worthwhile to point out the presence, during the nineteenth century, of a few amateurs in the Académie des sciences, belonging to a category of scholars that Allan Chapman calls ‘Grand Amateurs’; see A. Chapman, The Victorian amateur astronomer: independent astronomical research in Britain: 1820–1920, ( Toronto, 1998). Their financial resources and institutional independence allowed them to undertake large-scale research projects. Antoine Abbadie exemplifies this situation in astronomy; he built his observatory in Hendaye during the second half of the nineteenth century and was a member of both the Bureau des Longitudes and the Académie des sciences. See A. Turner, ‘Antoine d’Abbadie et son observatoire décimal a` Hendaye’, Mémoire de la Science, 2 (2002), 7–87. If this openness to the ‘Grand amateurs’ was still possible in the nineteenth century, it remained rare and was contingent on exceptionally high scientific productivity. 199. ‘aussi utile et intéressante que possible pour les astronomes et les hommes de science qui s’intéressent a` l’astronomie’, Letter from Ernest Mouchez to Benjamin Baillaud, 5 January 1884, 2R 107, AMT. 200. Lamy, Archéologie d’un espace savant, 455. 201. Maison, La fondation et les premiers travaux, 227.

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202. A. Rasmussen, ‘Jalons pour une histoire des congrès internationaux au XIXe siècle: Régulation scientifique et propagande intellectuelle’, Relations internationales, 62 (1990), 115–33. 203. H. Gispert (ed.), ‘Par la science, pour la patrie’. L’Association française pour l’avancement des Sciences (1872–1914), un projet politique pour une société savante, (Rennes, 2002). 204. D. Fauque, ‘Observatoires astronomiques français et diffusion de l’astronomie a` l’Association française pour l’avancement des sciences (1872–1974)’, in G. Boistel (ed.), Observatoires et patrimoine astronomique français [Cahiers d’histoire et de philosophie des sciences, n◦ 54 (2005)], 184. 205. J. Lamy, ‘La Carte du ciel et l’ajustement des pratiques (fin 19e début 20e s.)’, in ibid. (ed.), La Carte du ciel. Histoire et actualité d’un projet scientifique international (Les Ullis, 2007). 206. The Muséum d’Histoire Naturelle began as a teaching and research institution in the early nineteenth century. As Camille Limoges has remarked, under the Third Republic, the Muséum even became a rival of the Faculty of Science in Paris; Camille Limoges, ‘The development of the Muséum d’Histoire Naturelle of Paris, c. 1800–1914’, in Fox and Weisz (eds), The organization of science and technology in France 1808–1914, 211–240, 233. This represents an important difference between the Muséum and the observatory, the latter having never been in competition with other scholarly institutions. 207. On the potential conflicts between professions and disciplines, see: Y. Gingras, Physics and the Rise of Scientific Research in Canada (Montréal, 1991), 127–37.

A Magnificent Fungus on the Political Tree: The Growth of University Representation in the United Kingdom, 1832–1950 Joseph S. Meisel1

1. Introduction Following the unceremonious defeat of Gladstone’s 1893 Home Rule Bill in the House of Lords, a Liberal government proposed replacing the Conservative-dominated hereditary chamber with a new ‘Upper House’ composed of one representative from each county of the United Kingdom and one from each university. While the equal representation of territory in a bicameral legislature’s upper chamber was an established model, combining this with representation of universities was novel. Universities had returned members to the House of Commons since 1603, but the new scheme would have extended universities’ parliamentary strength in several respects. Assuming no change in the Commons, university members would sit in both houses of Parliament, and whereas only some universities were represented in the Commons in 1894, all would be given seats in the new Upper House. University MPs were returned to the Commons in a variety of configurations (three two-member constituencies, one with a single MP, and two joint constituencies with shared MPs), but all universities would receive equal representation in the reformed second chamber. Moreover, compared to the nine university MPs then part of the 658-seat Commons, the twelve Upper House university representatives would have had greater relative weight in a chamber otherwise composed of representatives from each of the 118 counties of England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. This measure was not, however, introduced at Westminster, but in the model parliament of the Political Society at Newnham College, Cambridge—one of the new colleges for women established at England’s ‘ancient’ universities in the later nineteenth century.2 There is no record

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of the debate, but the idea that reforming the House of Lords should incorporate the further representation of universities might be ascribed to the enthusiasm and idealism of an intellectual elite that (as women) had only recently gained conditional access to the most prestigious universities and were still barred from sitting in either house of Parliament. More broadly, however, it is indicative of how the political imagination of the times responded to the possibilities of university representation as it grew along—and, indeed, integrally—with a broadening system of higher education and advances toward a more democratic electorate. It is in this capacity, as a point of intersection between political and educational developments in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, that university representation holds greatest significance and merits deeper historical investigation. Established in both England and Ireland at the beginning of the seventeenth century and terminated with the general election of 1950, the parliamentary representation of universities has sometimes attracted the passing curiosity but rarely the sustained attention of historians of British politics.3 If it gets mentioned at all, university representation is generally treated as a surviving peculiarity of British constitutional development and therefore peripheral to the tenacious political narrative of gradual democratization by stages. Lives of notable figures who held university seats—including Newton, the Younger Pitt, Lord Palmerston, Peel, and Gladstone—may discuss the special characteristics (and challenges) of these constituencies in relation to their subjects, but a systematic consideration of university representation falls outside the biographer’s brief, even when the authors are deeply versed in the mechanics of British politics.4 Perhaps most surprising is that the significance for universities of having direct representation in the national legislature is so little remarked upon by historians of British higher education, or in histories of the educational institutions that were granted this privilege.5 W. R. Ward’s studies of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Oxford are notable exceptions by virtue of their extensive treatment of the local and national politics surrounding the election of the University’s burgesses. But his thesis, that the importance of these burgesses at Westminster waned over the course of the nineteenth century as Oxford’s purview with respect to Church and state diminished, is inadequate for understanding the broader significance for Britain’s political and educational history of university representation’s growth and diversification, or the arguments and justifications that were marshalled in connection with these developments.6

A Magnificent Fungus on the Political Tree

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A small number of works have taken up the history of university representation in its own right. The most substantial of these, by Millicent Barton Rex, details the origins and first eighty-six years of the institution at Oxford and Cambridge.7 The parallel case of the University of Dublin, not to mention subsequent university enfranchisements in England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, are beyond the scope of Rex’s analysis (she did not complete a projected follow-up volume covering the years after 1690). Another, much briefer, account by Thomas Lloyd Humberstone (a prominent member of the University of London’s Convocation) covers the whole history but is not really a work of historical scholarship.8 In general, the extant literature on university representation does little to situate the growth of this special franchise within the larger history of political reform and modernization. Indeed, the strengthening of university representation was both relative, as other franchises were modified or eliminated, and absolute, as summarized in Table 1, with the number of university seats expanding from five representing three universities in 1801 (0.8 per cent of seats in the Commons) to the peak of fifteen representing twenty-one institutions after 1918 (2.1 per cent of seats): Table 1: Growth of University Seats in the House of Commons, 1801–1950 Constituency

Oxford Cambridge Dublin ( Trinity College) London Combined Edinburgh & St Andrews Glasgow & Aberdeen Scottish Us Combined English Us U of Wales Queen’s U, Belfast National U of Ireland Total Total Commons Seats % University Seats (a)

1801– 1832– 1868– 1918– 1922– 1831 1867 1917 1921 1950 2 2 1

5 658 0.8

2 2 2

6 658 0.9

Representation transferred to Irish Free State.

2 2 2 1 1 1

9 658 1.4

2 2 2 1

2 2 — (a) 1

3

3

2 1 1 1

2 1 1 — (a)

15 707 2.1

12 615 2.0

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Following Irish independence in 1922, three seats were lost when responsibility for Trinity College Dublin and the National University of Ireland passed to the Irish Free State. The decline in the number of institutions represented was partially offset in 1928 by the addition of the University of Reading to the Combined English Universities constituency. This growth resulted neither from a broad political consensus that university representation was highly desirable, nor from resigned acquiescence to its enlargement. In fact, university representation was criticized and challenged throughout this period, even as its enlargement was effected. At best noting how university seats became included in successive Reform bills until they were all eliminated by the Attlee government, accounts of university representation pay scant attention to the significance attached to it in the debates surrounding virtually every proposed measure of constitutional or electoral reform. Historians’ elisions of university representation as an ‘outlier’ belie the fact that it was precisely the increasingly anomalous character of university representation in a reforming electoral system that required politicians to grapple with it in ever more serious ways. The history of university representation’s expansion challenges accounts of British democratization that emphasize linear progress while adding a highly revealing but overlooked dimension to scholarship arguing that the extension of political rights was a far more contested, contingent, and at times contradictory process. In a recent study of public political meetings between the world wars, Jon Lawrence writes of the ‘fundamental paradox of politics in modern Britain’, in which the creation of a more formally democratic polity was accompanied by developments that made politics effectively less democratic.9 Similarly, the history of university representation in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries demonstrates the strong connection and even mutual dependence between the development of new systems of political participation and the persistence of older forms. At another level, the history of university representation offers an important, if neglected, connection between high politics and the evolving character and structure of higher education in this period—developments in which, of course, the state was directly involved. There has been virtually no effort to understand from the universities’ perspective what motivated both ‘ancient’ and new institutions to seek grants of parliamentary representation. Nor have historians investigated the range


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of arguments and activities they mobilized to that end. The universities’ defence of their representative privileges against proposals to alter or abolish them has also been largely overlooked. Exploring the presence of universities within the structures of national politics adds a new dimension to the history of universities, which tends to neglect direct connections with political history in favor of institutional and intellectual matters.10 The interaction between the developing structures of national politics and higher education in this period was manifested in the shifting, if overlapping, ideological bases for continuing university representation and arguing for its expansion. It was first defended as a corporate vested interest, especially but not exclusively by the universities that had received the initial grants of representation. Then it became tied up with mid-Victorian debates about intellect and the nation. Later in the nineteenth century, a more pragmatic and partisan view took hold. Finally, and especially following the First World War, university representation was seen as a means of counterbalancing an electorate dominated by working men. These themes are developed in the following sections. After a chronological summary of university representation’s origins and its extension in the modern period, this article examines in detail several critical and interconnected problematics of this history: the motivations and efforts of other universities to become parliamentary constituencies like Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin;11 the ways in which, in the context of major changes in the structure of higher education, these activities responded to and interacted with the politics of successive proposals for constitutional and electoral reform; the arguments marshalled by the universities to defend their status as constituencies against those seeking to abolish or radically curtail university representation; and the characteristics and characterizations of university MPs. The conclusion assesses the significance of university representation’s modern history within the broader framework of political and educational developments, and in the context of certain recurrent dynamics of British constitutional modernization.12 This is a study in which what has typically been viewed as an anomalous phenomenon becomes the focus both for recovering a significant aspect of the complex relationship between the state and higher education in Britain, and for gaining a new perspective on the pathways of British political change.

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History of Universities 2. Extension of the University Franchis

It has been said that ‘the spirit of English constitutional development is tender to anomalies’.13 Even so, university representation occupies a special place in the complex history of British voting rights. The ‘reformed’ system after 1832 continued to include a diverse array of voter qualifications, and the university vote was one of two franchises under which electoral participation was not linked in some way to owning or occupying property.14 Uniquely among the various plural voting qualifications that persisted, the university franchise was embodied by its own members in the House of Commons. This had some logic—being a graduate of Oxford University was not equivalent to, say, owning a business in Oxford town—but the university seats were indeed exceptional among the vastly greater number of borough and county constituencies. Figure 1 provides a graphical summary of the growth of university constituencies over time and the institutions they represented. Although there had been medieval precedents for summoning members of Oxford and Cambridge Universities to the English Parliament, university representation was formally established in 1603. In the first year of his reign as King of England, James I granted letters patent to Oxford and Cambridge under which the chancellor, masters, and scholars of each university were empowered to elect two burgesses on a regular basis. As Rex established, ‘the real patron and founder of university representation’ was the future Lord Chief Justice, Sir Edward Coke.15 In 1613, the Provost of Trinity College Dublin, successfully lobbied the King for representation in the Irish Parliament, which was granted on terms nearly the same as those for Oxford and Cambridge.16 The stated reasons for granting parliamentary representation to Oxford and Cambridge were that, ‘like other places, cities, boroughs, or vills of our Realm of England’, they were subject to ‘many local Statutes, constitutions, ordinances laws and institutes’ and ‘many Statutes and acts of Parliament’.17 In addition to recognizing that the university ‘is and for a long time has been a body politic and corporate’, the letters patent for Oxford (which are more elaborate than those for Cambridge) cite two other significant justifications for granting parliamentary representation to the University (and later, by extension, to other institutions). First, it was noted that the University of Oxford was ‘endowed with famous and ample rents, revenues, possessions, privileges, and other things to the honor of God’. Second, Oxford was said to abound ‘in a multitude of

Figure 1 Representation of Universitites in the English, Irish, and United Kingdom Parliaments (by Decade), 1603–1950

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men endowed with wisdom doctrine and integrity, for the common good of both the whole commonwealth and of the university’.18 Thus, the grant of representation to secure the universities’ corporate interests could be seen as recognizing that the universities, if not necessarily their members, possessed property, and that by virtue of their degrees the members had a stake in their university’s fortunes. At the same time, it also recognized that members of the university were holders of intellectual property who, through their burgesses, could make learned contributions to discussion of the nation’s affairs. The burgesses did not, however, need to be dons themselves (and, as discussed below, most were not) for such contributions to be made.19 These issues of institutional merit, the quality of electors and representatives, and the general benefit to the nation—recognized in the very first enfranchisements—would continue to play prominent parts in subsequent debates over the extension, and ultimately the abolition, of university representation. The 1800 Act of Union with Ireland transferred the Dublin University constituency to Westminster but reduced its representation from two members to one. Dublin regained its second seat under the 1832 Reform Act, and its electoral constituency was enlarged beyond its original narrow limits of provost, fellows, and junior scholars in statu pupillari to include all holders of MA and higher degrees. Various proposals for expanding the Dublin electorate had been advanced and dropped. The formula (from a private member’s motion) hastily incorporated into the bill proved controversial because, while Trinity College was specifically a Protestant foundation and Catholics were not permitted to be fellows or scholars, Catholics could take MA degrees and would therefore be included within the broadened franchise. Recognizing the problem too late, the Whig government determined the bill was too far along to reallocate the seat to another constituency.20 The fact that an Irish university had direct representation in Parliament while the four Scottish universities did not may stand as one of the few instances in which Ireland was better advantaged than Scotland within the union (but mainly because Dublin was an Anglican establishment).21 The claims of the Scottish universities to representation did have a few proponents during the deliberations over the Reform Bill, but ultimately they failed to persuade. From their eighteenth-century prominence at the centre of the Scottish enlightenment, the Scottish universities had declined, leading in 1826 to the creation of a Royal Commission on the Universities and Colleges of Scotland. The report, issued in 1831, set important administrative, financial, and academic reforms in train at


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the universities, but not in time to win additional sympathy for granting them representation.22 The early nineteenth century saw a number of significant developments for the future of higher education in Britain. These are well known, and require only brief mention here. Both Oxford and Cambridge had begun to strengthen their curricular and examination regimes beginning in the late eighteenth century and this continued into the early decades of the nineteenth. From the outside, royal commissions in the 1850s mandated reforms of the universities’ administrative, bursary, examination, and curricular structures, while also opening degrees to nonconformists. Meanwhile, new institutions were being founded in the provinces, though initially with minimal impact. The Dean and Chapter of Durham Cathedral established a university in 1832 primarily to educate aspiring clergymen from the north on the Oxford model at far less cost. Manchester’s Owens College, established in 1851, also sought to emulate the curriculum of the ancient English universities. In both cases, the new institutions failed to connect their academic missions with the needs and interests of businesses in the region—although they would subsequently move in that direction.23 The most significant innovation at this time was the creation of the University of London. University College London (as it became known) was founded in 1826 as an explicitly secular and professional alternative to Oxbridge. It, and its Anglican rival, King’s College (founded 1829) were brought together in 1836 under the umbrella of the University of London, an examining and degree-granting authority for its constituent colleges. Around this time, too, a number of medical schools were founded in the provinces to prepare students for the examinations of the Society of Apothecaries and the Royal College of Surgeons. Many of the medical schools, as well as a variety of other regional colleges, spent their apprenticeship affiliated with London. In this way, London itself provided an important mechanism by which higher education in Britain (and also in the Empire) could grow in an accredited manner. Further, legislation in 1858 led to the creation of the ‘external student’ by opening London examinations to anyone wishing to take them, even if they had not attended the institutions previously recognized.24 Provincial medical schools and colleges became key components of the new proto-university institutions that began to take shape in England after 1870 in response to the growth of new urban industrial centres (with the concomitant shifts in population away from the south) and sharpening international economic competition.25 Provincial centres of higher

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education also took shape around the university extension programs created by Oxford and Cambridge as they sought to assume a new kind of national role. While most of these institutions’ early years were precarious, the perceived need for civic cultural enhancement and the requirements of growing local industries placed increased emphasis on the development of higher education in the great manufacturing towns, nurtured by local philanthropy and state support. The chartering of the Victoria University in 1884 created a new degree-granting entity on the London model, comprising Owens College, the University College at Liverpool, and the Yorkshire College of Science at Leeds. When Mason College in Birmingham (propelled by the town’s former Radical mayor turned leading Unionist politician, Joseph Chamberlain) obtained its own university charter in 1900, it set off similar efforts among the other candidate institutions and their supporters at Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Liverpool, and Bristol. By this time, a federal University of Wales had already been created in 1893, consisting of the university colleges at Aberystwyth, Bangor, and Cardiff. With the exception of Reading (described below), other proto-university institutions in England such as the colleges at Nottingham, Newcastle, and Southampton would attain university status only after the Second World War. The growth of university representation in the modern period occurred for the most part in two major bursts, 1867–68 and 1918, and linked broad structural transformations in the educational and political spheres. The needs of an urbanizing, industrializing society spurred the creation of new institutions that might eventually aspire to the franchise while, consistent with the new values and national purposes that were increasingly attached to universities, the older institutions of Scotland reformed their institutional structures and practises in ways that might enable them to be deemed worthy of the privilege denied in 1832. Meanwhile, the expansion of university representation also depended on the public desire for, and political will to enact, successive measures of constitutional reform and electoral redistribution, which provided unrepresented universities and their friends in Parliament with opportunities to press their case for enfranchisement (described in detail in Section 3). The Reform Acts of 1867 (for England and Wales) and 1868 (for Scotland) increased the number of university seats to include one member for London and one member each for two sets of conjoined Scottish university constituencies: Edinburgh and St. Andrews, and Glasgow and Aberdeen. During the preceding decade-and-a-half in which numerous reform proposals had been advanced, these universities had been very


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much alert to the opportunity for acquiring seats in Parliament. By 1860, for example, the former MP James Heywood wrote that ‘the public interest felt in a Reform Bill affords a fair opportunity of reconsidering the various restrictions which limit the elective franchise in the Universities of Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin, and of improving the system of English University representation’.26 Most of the abortive Reform bills of the 1850s and 60s—regardless of which party brought them in—included provisions to enfranchise London and the Scottish universities. This was a period of considerable discussion about the role of intellectuals in national life and debates over the merits of broadening the parliamentary representation of learning and science more generally. ‘Fancy franchises’—in Disraeli’s words, ‘without embarrassment of political connexion, and without inconveniences of party passions’—were proposed for members of learned societies, especially the Royal Society, and for distinguished professional corporations like the Royal College of Physicians, the Royal College of Surgeons, and the Royal Academy of Arts. Ultimately, this approach was deemed impractical because, as Disraeli said in 1852, it would be too hard to draw the line between societies that merited representation and those that did not. Further, he thought that looking ‘for the elements of a representation among self-elected corporations’ was neither constitutional nor judicious. The Inns of Court were another category of learned institution that some argued should be represented in Parliament, though Disraeli cited among other factors the view that there were already too many lawyers in the House.27 In his failed 1854 Reform Bill, Lord John Russell also proposed granting two MPs to the Inns of Court.28 In a more general way, debates over Gladstone’s proposed householder franchise in 1866 turned on the extent to which intellect, in the form of bachelor scientists, academics, and professionals living in lodgings, needed to be taken into account.29 Although objections to the principle of university representation had been raised in the past by a few notable figures like John Bright, a broader hostility toward it began to emerge in the later nineteenth century (described at greater length in Section 5). This hostility came primarily from the Liberal side. In an era of emerging mass democracy, many Liberals viewed special franchises as inconsistent with the trajectory of constitutional development. ‘Orthodox Liberalism is severe,’ wrote one commentator in 1883, ‘even procrustean, in the simplicity of its theory of representation. An extended franchise, equal constituencies, and freely chosen candidates are all its requirements.’30 While a notable

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Radical like John Stuart Mill, anticipating concerns that would become more acute after 1918, supported plural votes for university graduates and other representatives of the educated classes ‘as a counterpoise to the numerical weight of the least educated class’,31 preservation of the university franchise became largely a Conservative cause, not least because university constituencies tended to return Conservative MPs (see Section 6). Lord Salisbury, Oxford’s Chancellor as well as Conservative leader, was a particularly ‘rigid’ supporter.32 Accordingly, the bipartisan compromise that underlay the extension of the franchise in 1884 and the redistribution of seats in 1885 left university representation untouched.33 In 1918, an even greater expansion of university representation took place, ironically but not coincidentally at the moment when Britain achieved full manhood suffrage and gave the vote to women aged 30 and above. The prime minister, David Lloyd George, when firebrand Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1911, had described the university franchise as ‘the greatest farce in the Constitution of Great Britain’.34 Yet, during the debates leading up to the Representation of the People Act, there was no division on whether the institution of university representation was justifiable. The preservation and extension of the university franchise had been recommended by the Speaker’s Conference that met in late 1916 and early 1917 to work out the principles for a new measure of Reform.35 Although no minutes were kept of the Conference’s deliberations, one of the thirty-two participants was Sir Joseph Larmor, Lucasian Professor and Conservative MP for Cambridge (1911–22). More significantly, as one contemporary observer wrote, the university franchise, like the business premises vote (which was also preserved) was one of the safeguards against the transition to (nearly) full democracy: ‘The Conservative elements insisted upon these arrangements as a means of preventing the submerging of the more wealthy and more educated part of the electorate.’36 In its final form, the Representation of the People Act created singlemember constituencies for Queen’s University Belfast and the federal University of Wales; gave two members to the ‘Combined English Universities’ consisting of all the ‘modern’ universities not already enfranchised (Durham, Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, Leeds, Sheffield, and Bristol); and amalgamated the two Scottish university seats into one constituency represented by three MPs. The act also extended university representation on an individual as well as institutional basis: the new constituencies conferred the franchise on all persons of age who had obtained a degree of any kind, not just the MA previously


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required for the Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin vote.37 In line with the general franchise, the university vote was also extended to qualified women over 30. At the same time, however, the elimination of other kinds of franchises under the act, and the provision that no elector could have more than two votes, reduced the overall number of plural voters, which before 1918 had amounted to more than half a million. After passage of the Act, plural voting remained the privilege of approximately 159,000 people holding the business franchise plus a university electorate of around 68,000.38 In addition to these changes, the 1918 act sought to democratize university representation ‘to accord with modern ideas’39 by introducing, for university constituencies represented by more than one member (Oxford, Cambridge, Dublin, Combined Scottish, and Combined English), proportional representation by single transferable vote. Nineteenth-century proponents of proportional representation had identified the special category of university seats as ‘a most tempting subject for such an experiment’.40 Advocates of PR were encouraged by the results. For the Scottish Universities, the Liberal minority gained a seat, which had proved impossible under the old system, and while the Combined English Universities’ two seats limited the ability of the minority to gain a representative, supporters of PR thought minority now at least had a ‘fighting chance’.41 At Oxford, the University’s MPs from 1832 to 1918 had been returned unopposed in twenty-four out of thirty elections and by-elections. Beginning with 1918, every election but one (1931) was contested.42 With hindsight, however, the experiment produced limited results. In the thirty-two contests in which PR might have operated during the eight general elections from 1918 to 1945, six candidates were returned unopposed and a further seven obtained a sufficient number of first-preference votes to render any consideration of second preferences unnecessary. In thirteen other contests, the successful candidate would clearly have won in a first-past-the-post election.43 The fate of Irish university seats was inevitably bound up with the territorial and constitutional debates surrounding Home Rule. The 1912 Home Rule Bill—delayed by the Lords but passed in 1914, then never put into effect on account of the war and subsequent events—would have transferred Dublin’s two seats to the Irish parliament without granting any additional seats to either Queen’s University Belfast or the National University of Ireland (established in 1908 with the former Queen’s colleges at Cork and Galway and the Jesuit University College,

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Dublin). The question of university seats for both Dublin and for the newer institutions was raised again in 1917 when, during the debates over the Representation of the People Bill, it was agreed that a special conference would be established to consider the redistribution of seats in Ireland on the basis of population.44 In partitioning the island, the 1920 Government of Ireland Act continued the representation of both Dublin (two members) and the National University of Ireland (one member since 1918) at Westminster, while also approving four members for each institution among the 128 members of the Southern parliament. With the treaty of 1922, representation of the Southern universities passed ´ entirely to the Dáil Eireann of the Irish Free State, in which Dublin and the National University were each given three seats. Following the great expansion and extension of university representation in 1918, the interwar years saw hostility toward the institution increase still further. Yet efforts to abolish or weaken university seats failed for a variety of reasons (see Section 5). In early 1944, when another all-party conference chaired by the Speaker of the House of Commons was convened to develop plans for revising the structures of electoral politics for the new postwar era, the extensive recommendations (for redistribution of seats, reform of the Parliamentary and local franchise, and the costs and methods of elections) explicitly left university representation untouched.45 Conservatives had a decisive majority in the Conference, which was constituted in rough proportion to the parliamentary membership elected in 1935. Here was another compromise that prolonged the life of university representation: leaving the university and business franchise largely unaltered was a political price Labour paid in exchange for assimilating the parliamentary and local government franchises.46 When it came to be debated in the Commons, the clause for retaining the institution was accepted by 152 votes to 16.47 The compromise was abrogated after Labour returned to power in 1945. With the party in a commanding majority for the first time, the government went against the terms agreed to by the Speaker’s Conference and instead made good on the previous decade’s effort at abolishing university representation. The 1948 Representation of the People Act included the elimination at the next general election of the university vote and the twelve university seats. The Conservatives charged that this was a violation not only of the Speaker’s Conference agreement, but also, by altering the structure of the Commons without the consent of all parties, a breach of constitutional custom. In response, they pledged to restore the university seats once they returned to power—a position that was


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embodied in the party’s 1950 and 1951 election manifestoes. Indeed, the primarily Conservative or Independent university seats could possibly have altered the results of these two close elections. Nevertheless, Conservative support for university representation was not unanimous and some within the party questioned the necessity and wisdom of restoration.48 When the Conservatives returned to office in 1951 the expectation that university representation would be restored led some potential candidates to start positioning themselves to campaign for the seats.49 But the government’s majority was narrow (321 Conservative MPs, against Labour’s 295, the Liberals’ 6, and 3 for other parties), and Churchill announced that the party would not attempt to restore university representation during the life of the new Parliament. In his speech on the Address, he stated that, although on a strict interpretation of the Conservatives’ mandate his government should be permitted to restore university seats immediately, it would create a ‘questionable precedent’ for a government to add to their majority already elected to Parliament. Instead, he said, any alteration to the franchise should follow the normal course of such measures, with restoration operative only at the dissolution.50 Such ardour as the restoration of university representation may have inspired faded quickly. By 1954, it could be said that ‘university representation is now regarded as an interesting phenomenon belonging already to the past’,51 and the 1955 Conservatives manifesto dropped the pledge to restore university constituencies. Thus, despite the stated commitment of his party, Churchill’s return to power marked the true end of university representation in Britain, three and a half centuries after it was established. The matter was briefly revived in Britain in 1982 when Lord Cranborne mounted a quixotic and stillborn effort to restore university representation. Having won a place in the ballot for private members’ bills, Cranborne (perhaps animated by Cecil family piety) announced his intention to fulfil Churchill’s 1950 promise to restore university seats. His bill’s first reading took place on 2 February 1983, and the second reading was scheduled for February 4. On that day, however, the bill was not high on the list of those under consideration and it was never discussed. At the end of the sitting, when the time came for the second reading, members objected on the ground that no discussion had taken place. No further date was named and therefore the bill was effectively dropped.52 Meanwhile, university representation enjoyed continued, if not untroubled, life in the Irish Free State, and then the Republic of Ireland.

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Without entering into the complex political details, it may simply be noted here that under the Republic’s 1937 constitution, the representation of Trinity College and the National University was transferred from the Dáil ´ to the vocationally oriented Seanad Eireann, in which each institution continues to hold three seats. Whether special representation for university graduates is an elitist privilege that should be abolished, or whether voting rights should be extended equally to graduates from all tertiary institutions in the Republic (as provided for in a 1979 constitutional amendment but never implemented), remains a subject of debate.53

3. University Efforts to Obtain Representation

The expansion of university representation was not simply the result of developments at the level of party leadership and parliamentary politics. As franchise reform and redistribution of seats became an accepted if sporadic mechanism of constitutional adaptation, and as the system of higher education grew, universities and their friends mobilized to press their case when opportunities to gain representation seemed to present themselves.54 They pursued this objective through a variety of means that included petitioning Parliament, sending delegations to leading ministers or governmental committees, and working to drum up additional support from regional MPs. The Scottish universities’ long quest to be represented in Parliament like Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin involved several attempts before the object was achieved. During the debates leading up to the 1832 Reform Act, they submitted petitions to the House of Commons on at least two occasions.55 In the House of Lords, the Earl of Haddington, a Tory peer, proposed in March 1831 to add members for the Scottish universities and was seconded by the Whig Earl of Rosebery (father of the later prime minister). Haddington quickly withdrew his motion in the face of questions about the nature and quality of the graduates compared to those of the three represented universities.56 In the House of Commons, Sir George Murray, MP for Perthshire, advanced the claims of the Scottish universities generally and introduced a petition from Edinburgh. Several other MPs voiced support, including the former Lord Advocate, Sir William Rae, who also presented a similar petition from St. Andrews.57


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In July 1832, Haddington returned to the matter during the Committee stage of the Reform Bill, citing the inequity of giving Dublin a second member while providing none for the Scottish universities. The Lord Chancellor, ‘not one of those who were violently enamoured of the University Representation of England and Ireland’, declared himself unwilling to let the proposed amendment go forward until the ‘interior Constitution for the Universities of Scotland could be considered’.58 Haddington declined to press further. In fact, as Norman Gash has written, ‘most Scottish reformers regarded the scheme with dislike’ and the idea was rejected by the Bill’s authors.59 Efforts to obtain representation for the Scottish universities continued during the long build-up to the Second Reform Act. In 1861, for example, during debates over a bill to disenfranchise two small English constituencies and reapportion their seats, William Stirling, Conservative MP for Perthshire and deeply involved in higher education issues, proposed transferring the additional member intended for South Lancashire to the Scottish universities. The general case he put forward for the ‘great unrepresented body connected with the Universities of Scotland’ was not far from the one Haddington had advanced thirty years earlier: Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin had a total of six seats, while the Scottish universities had none, even though they too were venerable and important institutions in their country. He further argued that, while the interests of Oxford and Cambridge were well known in Parliament because so many MPs had been educated there, only a small number of the members for Scotland had been educated at the Scottish universities.60 In one respect, however, things had advanced from Haddington’s day. As Stirling pointed out, the Universities (Scotland) Act of 1858 had reconstructed the constitutions of those institutions and opened their General Councils—the members of which stood to acquire the vote—to non-graduates who could demonstrate that they had studied for four years. This made the Councils larger bodies like Oxford’s Convocation and Cambridge’s Senate, which consisted of all holders of MAs and higher degrees. Since the Scottish universities’ old constitutions had limited the role of graduates in their corporate affairs, the practise of taking degrees had waned, except in medicine where degrees were needed for professional reasons. But the reforms had encouraged the already rising trend of degree-taking, so the non-graduate element of the Councils would decrease over time. Stirling claimed that these new arrangements answered the earlier objection that the university franchise in Scotland would only go to a very small number of people. In response,

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however, the Home Secretary, Sir George Cornewall Lewis, called for Stirling’s motion to be rejected on the grounds that the changes brought in by the 1858 act were too recent, and that it would be inappropriate in any case for an English seat to be transferred across the border.61 Things went rather more smoothly in 1868. As the Edinburgh University Senate proclaimed after London had been granted a seat the previous year (see below), the ‘principle of University representation is therefore fully admitted’.62 Disraeli cited the new constitutions of 1858 as having removed the major barrier to establishing them as constituencies.63 Although the bill originally proposed two members for the Scottish universities, an amendment was moved to allocate them only one seat. In response, the Scottish universities argued that they deserved more. Edinburgh’s Senate produced a statement that the Scottish universities ‘might justly claim four members instead of two’ and certainly more than one on the basis of numbers. The potential combined electorate for Edinburgh and St. Andrews was already greater than either Oxford or Cambridge, and Glasgow and Aberdeen boasted more electors than Dublin. Further, it was argued that representation would lead to a great increase in the number of qualified voters. That London, ‘which may be said to possess no property at all’ was guaranteed a member, caused the Scottish universities to claim appropriate representation based on educational effectiveness and ‘influence on the community at large’, rather than corporate wealth.64 Ultimately, the amendment was rejected, and the bill went forward with two MPs.65 In each constituency, a larger and more robust university was joined to a smaller one. This arrangement was informed, in the words of the Lord Advocate, Edward Strathearn Gordon (subsequently elected MP for Glasgow and Aberdeen in 1869), by the belief ‘that some jealousy might probably exist between Edinburgh and Glasgow; and it was therefore much better that the interest of each of these Universities should be attended to by a separate Member’.66 In the case of London, Disraeli is said to have quipped that he enfranchised the university so that Robert Lowe, a Liberal who had opposed his own party’s Reform bill in 1866, could have a safe seat.67 But London had pushed its case with great consistency and determination during the long series of abortive Reform proposals in the 1850s and 60s. Indeed, the arguments for London’s representation—and later, as described below, those of the ‘civic’ universities—could be seen as a specific instances of more general attempts to advance the cause of political modernization in which the university stood in for new trends


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that were challenging the status quo. London based its claim on an 1835 letter to the Privy Council from then Chancellor of the Exchequer, Thomas Spring Rice, writing on behalf of the government to obtain a Royal Charter for the University: ‘It should always be kept in mind that what is sought on the present occasion is an equality in all respects with the ancient Universities, freed from those exclusions and religious distinctions which abridge the usefulness of Oxford and Cambridge.’68 In May 1852, the Prime Minister, Lord Derby, assured a deputation of graduates that no other claim for a grant of university representation could come into competition with that of the University of London.69 In the Commons shortly thereafter, Disraeli opined that, although London was not yet at a stage of development to warrant representation, the principles on which the claim had been urged should be respected.70 London’s efforts continued the following year when a ‘numerous and influential deputation’—including members of the University’s Senate, heads of colleges, principals of endowed and private schools influenced by London’s curriculum, representatives of the medical profession, and sixteen MPs—waited on Derby’s successor, Lord Aberdeen, who gave similar assurances.71 In 1858, the University’s Convocation established a high-level committee to promote the University’s interests with respect to obtaining representation and to work closely with ‘influential friends of the University’ in its approaches to the government.72 In March 1859, the University’s Senate sent a memorial to Derby (briefly back in power) ‘urging upon her Majesty’s government the claim of the University of London to be represented in Parliament’.73 The memorial was followed by petitions to each house of Parliament, presented by Sir James Graham in the Commons and Earl Granville (London’s Chancellor) in the Lords.74 Again in 1866, in anticipation of the government’s Reform bill, an extraordinary general meeting of London’s Convocation resolved ‘That a petition be presented to both Houses of parliament praying that two members may be given to the University of London’.75 Other recently established universities also organized and lobbied for the franchise and their own MP. The Durham University Society, an association of graduates dedicated to promoting the University’s interests and image, was founded in 1866 while debates over Reform continued. As described in more detail below (Section 4), Durham had failed to obtain representation in conjunction with London, but the Society continued to press its case. It sent deputations to Westminster in 1878, and another one waited on Disraeli the following year. When the question of reform and redistribution was reopened in 1884, the Society

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set up a special sub-committee to work for obtaining an MP for the University.76 Similarly, the Convocation of the Queen’s University of Ireland (created in 1850 from the colleges established five years earlier at Belfast, Cork, and Galway) had also sought to secure representation for the University during the deliberations over the 1868 Irish Reform Bill, but to no avail.77 When they received their charters at the beginning of the twentieth century, the new ‘civic’ universities which, along with Durham, eventually formed the Combined English Universities constituency, were strongly identified with their regions through governance, funding, student composition, and academic specialization. Even before the First World War, however, many of them were becoming markedly less provincial. Interest in extending representation to the new universities appears to have emerged first among the established constituencies in response to legislative efforts to abolish or curtail the university franchise (see Section 5). In late 1912 and early 1913, with a bill to eliminate plural voting before Parliament, London’s MP, Philip Magnus, sought out the views of graduates of several universities, including unrepresented ones, in order to bolster his proposed amendment to preserve university representation.78 In response, the Convocations at Manchester and Liverpool passed resolutions advocating the extension of representation to all universities, while Birmingham’s Guild of Graduates took a postal poll of members who were British subjects and resident in the United Kingdom.79 Of the 223 replies received, 127 men and 56 women definitely approved the motion ‘That in any new Redistribution or Electoral Franchise Bill, the University of Birmingham be represented in the House of Commons by one member’.80 Around this time, Oxford’s Hebdomadal Council developed a scheme for broadening the university franchise to include all university graduates, giving representation to all English and Welsh universities, and increasing the number of university MPs. Remarkably, it also proposed to merge its representation with that of Cambridge in a single threemember constituency. The vice-chancellors of Oxford, Cambridge, and London then convened a conference of university MPs, vice-chancellors, and other notables to discuss these proposals, which in the event were generally agreed to.81 Durham, meanwhile, wrote to the new universities of its willingness to cooperate in any endeavor to secure parliamentary representation.82 The Convocations and graduates’ guilds of the civic universities also communicated with one another about the idea of obtaining parliamentary representation.83


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While these activities generated excitement in some unenfranchised universities, especially among the organizations representing graduates (who would stand to gain the vote), governing bodies—consumed with establishing the new universities on a firmer footing despite limited resources—evidently did not count the university franchise among their top priorities and resolved to let the matter drop.84 The Great War changed the situation in two ways. First, as Leeds’s vice-chancellor, Michael Sadler, wrote in 1917: ‘The War has been a crucial test of the power of modern Universities to render aid to the State . . . . [The] constitution of modern universities was so well designed, their activities have become so various, their association with national life so close, that, when the unexpected test came, every side of the new University life responded to it with vigorous and useful service.’85 These universities’ considerable contributions to the war effort accelerated their emergence as truly national institutions and, as with workers and women, advanced the case for their enfranchisement. Second, when the 1916–17 Speaker’s Conference recommended an extension of university representation, the officers and governing bodies of new universities became quite active in advancing the cause, and then working out the practical details. Liverpool’s vice-chancellor, Alfred Dale, had been skeptical of the 1913 Oxford-Cambridge-London proposals, as he wrote to his Manchester counterpart, Alfred Hopkinson: ‘unlike you I am against any special representation for universities’.86 By 1917, however, either his outlook had changed or he at least sought to make the best out of the inevitable, as demonstrated by his active correspondence with fellow vice-chancellors, MPs, and the Board of Education on proposals and draft legislation for the new constituency.87 The other vice-chancellors also consulted with their peers and joined with representatives of the graduates in approaching sympathetic MPs. Courts, Councils, Senates, and Convocations approved numerous resolutions describing the desired institutional composition of the constituency, and debated how to draw up registers of voters and organize the elections.88 Before the war, the modern universities had taken joint action to obtain a modicum of government support; wartime experience only increased inter-institutional cooperation, resulting in the establishment of common standards for research degrees (previously only obtainable on the Continent and latterly in America) and substantially increased state funding (leading to the creation of the University Grants Committee in 1919).89 It took some effort to work out the details of how this widely dispersed constituency would organize the nomination and voting processes. There

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was general agreement among convocations and vice-chancellors that representatives should be chosen, not on the usual party lines but rather on the basis of educational preeminence, and the activities of political associations like the new ‘Combined University Conservative and Unionist Association’ to nominate candidates were deprecated.90 At the suggestion of Leeds’s acting vice-chancellor, Charles Melville Gillespie, the convocations organized a Joint Standing Committee to identify desirable candidates who could then be approached with the promise of substantial support.91 The universities agreed to conduct the election entirely by posted voting papers, with each vice-chancellor to act as returning officer for his university and the centrally-located vice-chancellor of Birmingham to serve as the central returning officer for the whole constituency.92 For candidates, even in an age of railways and motorcars, a constituency consisting of seven (later eight) geographically distributed universities posed a serious challenge (the distance between Bristol and Durham is more than 230 miles). Here, however, the traditions of university constituencies helped. In the first Combined English Universities election, H. A. L. Fisher and Martin Conway, the two candidates selected by the Joint Standing Committee, did not canvas for support or hold public meetings at the universities. Instead, following the custom established at Oxford and Cambridge, they campaigned by written addresses to the electors.93 As the biographer of John Buchan, who sat for the similarly dispersed Combined Scottish Universities constituency from 1927 to 1935, wrote, ‘Here was the ideal parliamentary constituency: no expenses, no preliminary campaigning, only an election address; no polling-day frenzy, for the voting was by post; voters so scattered that there could be no week-end meetings, no socials; no sales-of-work’.94 The redoubtable Eleanor Rathbone, however, broke with tradition in 1929 and made appearances at each of the Combined English institutions.95 At the end of the First World War, with a new franchise and redistribution bill in the works, there was strong sentiment in Wales that the University of Wales should have its own MP.96 Earlier, at a meeting of the University’s Court of Governors in 1912, Sir Isambard Owen (Bristol’s vice-chancellor and earlier a major force behind the effort to unite Wales’s major colleges) had moved that steps be taken to secure representation in Parliament. In response to objections that university representation was undemocratic and would likely soon be done away with, Owen said ‘his point was that if parliament did decide to allow university representation to continue the Welsh University should see


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that it had a share in any plunder—legitimate plunder, of course—that might be attached’, and his motion was carried by 17 votes to 12.97 From another direction, the Royal Commission (1916–18) established to examine university education in Wales heard from a delegation of the University’s students in 1917 arguing for parliamentary representation, but the Commission’s report did not take up the question.98 In framing the Representation of the People Act of 1918, those looking out for Welsh interests worked to get an additional seat for the Principality, and giving that seat to the University was viewed as the least objectionable option. In November 1917, David Davies, MP for Montgomeryshire and active supporter of Welsh higher education, brought in a motion to give the University independent representation, but the Home Secretary Sir George Cave was unwilling to complicate the passage of the bill any further by acceding to demands for additional representation. Davies’s motion was supported by 12 votes. Advocates for giving Wales an extra seat through the University then lobbied for a favorable revision to the bill in the House of Lords.99 In January 1918, the Liberal peer Lord St. Davids introduced a motion to grant the University a separate member, which was accepted by the government.100 The following month, the Liberal MP for Anglesey, Ellis Jones Ellis-Griffith, moved an amendment in the Commons to the same effect, and was supported by London’s Philip Magnus. Cave then stated that he was in sympathy with the demand made on behalf of the University, while for the opposition Liberals, Herbert Samuel reiterated his party’s customary objection to university representation (noting, with irony, how much it was now to be enlarged), but said he did not want to see Wales placed at a disadvantage to the rest of the kingdom.101 In his history of the University, Gwynn Williams writes that it was ‘ironical that a university which took pride in its democratic origins and constitution should at the election of 1918 have a constituency of only 1,066 and that in 1922 the member returned received less than 500 votes’.102 At the time, A. F. Pollard, the historian and unsuccessful candidate for the London seat, observed that ‘It needed a peculiar Welsh wizardry to give a seat to a Welsh University with barely a thousand voters, and leave London, which had more than nine times the number of electors, with the same amount of representation. Nor was it much fairer to give the Combined [English] Universities, with less than a quarter of London’s electorate, double its representation.’103 As Pollard’s comparisons indicate, the enfranchisement of universities

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was driven by political imperatives that were not only outside the mainstream democratic logic of representation that emerged in 1918, but also advanced without any scheme for how universities should be represented in relation to each other. Like the University of Wales, Queen’s University Belfast also actively sought parliamentary representation, although the political stakes were much higher. At the end of the First World War, with the establishment of separate Home Rule parliaments for both the North and the South in prospect, the University’s leadership was ‘unwilling to trust the integrity of any Irish parliament, even a northern one’.104 Supporters of Queen’s Belfast saw representation at Westminster as a key safeguard for the institution’s future. In November 1917, the University’s Senate convened a special meeting on the subject and appointed a committee to advance the University’s claims and resist any suggestion that the Irish universities be grouped into a single constituency like their Scottish and modern English counterparts. The committee dispatched a deputation to Westminster to make the University’s views known and to secure the support of MPs from the Ulster province. Ultimately, the 1918 Redistribution of Seats (Ireland) Act created separate single-member constituencies for both Queen’s Belfast and the National University of Ireland. In this way, the politics of university representation both reflected and helped to reify the emerging de facto partition of Ireland. The last university to be enfranchised was Reading, which received its royal charter in 1926 (the only university to be chartered between the wars). In April 1928, A. A. Somerville, Conservative MP for nearby Windsor, introduced a bill to entitle Reading graduates to vote for the Combined English University seats. Because it had been chartered after the 1918 franchise bill, he claimed that its standing among the ‘young’ universities was anomalous with respect to representation. The bill was supported by the two members for the Combined English Universities and the member for Wales, as well as a Labour MP, Morgan Jones, who had been educated at Reading. Consistent with their principled opposition to university representation and plural voting generally, most Labour MPs objected to enfranchising Reading. Nevertheless, the bill was passed (in a not very full House) by 90 votes in favor to 45 against.105 As the account of William MacBride Childs, Reading’s first vice-chancellor, makes clear, obtaining the franchise was seen as the culmination and ultimate recognition of university status: ‘The effective start of the University is to be dated October, 1926; but it was not until 1928 that an act of Parliament was passed securing for


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graduates of the University of Reading the privileges in respect of the parliamentary franchise enjoyed by graduates of the Combined English Universities.’106 In the absence of any serious debate over whether it was fundamentally appropriate or desirable for universities to be directly represented in Parliament, there were few real barriers against institutions’ efforts to gain the franchise. Following the seventeenth-century precedents, obtaining seats in Parliament came to be seen by universities—old and new—as a legitimate and desirable institutional objective. But universities’ considerations went beyond mere questions of status. Representation—both as a general practise, and in the case of specific universities—was justified by its advocates on a number of grounds that reached far beyond parochial institutional concerns.

4. Arguments for Representation

A Times leader of 1865 described university representation as ‘not a branch of the political tree, but a magnificent fungus, more defensible on its own merits than as part of the whole system’.107 Yet it is precisely the function of university representation within the whole system that made it both significant, and increasingly contentious. Advocates for universities seeking obtain representation advanced a wide range of arguments. On the surface, some of these could be seen as reflecting only narrow institutional concerns. Certainly, as already indicated, the parliamentary franchise and election of members were viewed as important features of universities’ corporate life, without which they would be somehow incompletely realized. Thus, institutions made claims for equity: if some universities were enfranchised, all should be; and to lack representation placed universities at a disadvantage relative to those that already had MPs. The more established Scottish universities could make the further claim that they, too, were old foundations and should therefore be entitled to the same privileges as Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin. For the newer institutions, the demand for parliamentary representation was an assertion of their strength and national relevance. As London’s Chancellor, Earl Granville, said to a University assembly at Burlington House on 11 May 1859: ‘The University of London was

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endowed with the power to confer degrees, and it was established with the distinct promise that it should be placed in all respects upon the same footing as the sister universities.’108 The widespread support for enfranchising the University of London opened the door to the claims of all other universities established in the nineteenth century and after to be treated equitably. In 1867, when representation for London seemed to be assured under the Reform bill, Durham’s friends in Parliament sought ways of avoiding ‘the stigma and odium of being the only unrepresented University’.109 The following year, during debates over the Irish Reform bill, Chichester Fortescue, Liberal MP for Louth, argued for enfranchising the graduates of the Queen’s University of Ireland because, with London and the Scottish universities now to be represented, it was at an even greater disadvantage relative to Dublin.110 This kind of argument persisted right through to the enfranchisement of Reading. As A. A. Somerville stated: ‘There may be some objection to University representation as a principle, but as long as University representation exists, it seems unfair to deny to the graduates of Reading University the privilege which is at present enjoyed by other Universities.’111 Narrow institutional self-interest notwithstanding, arguments for the continuation and extension of university representation were also deeply enmeshed with many of the larger constitutional issues that were raised (and not necessarily resolved) between the Great Reform Act of 1832 and the 1948 Representation of the People Act, including: theories of representation; the nature and structure of constituencies; the nature of political modernization; the role of nation and religion within the politics of the United Kingdom; women’s suffrage; and even, to some extent, Britain’s overseas and imperial engagements. Indeed, arguments about university representation demonstrate the degree to which all these issues were bound up with one another. Many proponents emphasized the special contribution that universities made to the nation, and the benefit to the whole nation of their representation in Parliament. For example, speaking to his Edinburgh and St Andrews constituents in 1884, Lyon Playfair said that the anomaly of giving graduates ‘a second vote for a University could only be justified on the ground that it was necessary to promote those higher interests of learning upon which the culture and even the material interests of a nation so much depended’.112 In an interesting variation of this justification, the historian W. E. H. Lecky, on being nominated as a Unionist candidate for Dublin in 1895, went so far as to argue that university


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constituencies were in themselves somehow representative of the country (in this case, Ireland): Few things seem to me more irrational than to maintain that a constituency like the present, consisting of 4,000 highly-educated men, scattered over the whole surface of the country, belonging to many different professions, and coming in touch with quite an unusual number of the forms of Irish life, is not to be looked upon as representing the nation as truly as the voters in some decaying country town or some half-populated county district, where more than one in every five voters, according to a Parliamentary return of 1892, are unable to read the name on the ballot-paper.113

Here was another way of seeing the university constituency as a special case. The idea of virtual representation most famously articulated by another Irish MP, Edmund Burke, was that members represented the interests of the whole nation rather than those of the particular locality for which they were returned.114 In Lecky’s view, universities also provided a kind of virtual representation, but based on the fact that their electorates were both broadly knowledgeable widely distributed. Wider debates about the place of nations within the United Kingdom may be read into the history of university representation. Some advocates saw representation for the Scottish universities as a matter of national equity, demanding that Scotland be made equal to England and Ireland in this respect.115 Further, argued Walter Buchanan, Liberal MP for the burgh of Glasgow, the franchise was important for building Scotland’s universities as national (i.e., Scottish) institutions. Writing in 1857, he compared the long-term attachment of Oxford and Cambridge graduates to their colleges with how even the most distinguished Scottish university students tended to terminate all connection on leaving. He saw the privilege of the franchise as an important factor in sustaining graduates’ connection to their universities: ‘I cannot but regard this as most valuable both to the University and its members. It presents an esprit de corps of the best kind.’ Buchanan thought that giving the franchise to the Scottish universities would help promote such sentiments and thereby strengthen those institutions. The parliamentary franchise would constitute a kind of ‘life membership’ in the university and the AM degree would become a badge of social distinction. All this, Buchanan contended, would encourage more Scottish gentlemen with ambitions to send their sons to Scottish universities rather than to Oxford and Cambridge.116 Issues of institutional and regional equity could also figure in arguments for representation based on the size of the potential electorate.

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University constituencies would never be as numerous as those of the boroughs and counties, but the case for size played out in several ways. For example, the proposal to grant Dublin a second seat in 1832 as part of an overall electoral plan for Ireland had to be tied to broadening the University’s extremely narrow franchise. Lord Haddington, refuting the claim made in 1832 that there was no real constituency for the Scottish universities, noted that the number of degrees taken at those institutions from 1800 to 1830 amounted to 6,879, including 2,728 MAs, of which some 1,500 were resident in Scotland.117 In 1868, as already described, the Scottish universities fought back against an amendment to limit their representation to one seat by arguing, in part, that together their constituency would exceed that of Oxford or Cambridge plus Dublin. Proponents of London’s enfranchisement in 1866 could point to the growing body of graduates as part of their claim, noting that the number of eligible electors stood at 1,729 and would rise to 2,000 by the time a Reform bill was passed.118 Over time, the growing rolls of living graduates, the expanding access to higher education, the widening of university franchises, and the enfranchising of more universities gradually moved university constituencies somewhat closer to the average representation of other constituencies. In 1918, an ordinary member represented six times more electors than a university member (32,822 to 4,928); in 1945, only three times as many (52,511 to 18,114).119 A different species of argument that some universities were in a position to advance was that, through their institution, particular branches of professional expertise would be better represented in Parliament. As already discussed (Section 2), the extension of university representation in the 1860s was part of a broader discussion about the place of education in relation to the franchise in which the idea of votes for the learned professions had been another element. Russell’s proposals for university and professional franchises were not simply intended as counterweights to including segments of the working classes in the electorate. Rather, according to one historian of the Second Reform Act, he sought to include the Whig ideal of the independent voter ‘who would exercise his vote rationally and free of unworthy influence to further his own interests and so ultimately the interests of the state’.120 John Stuart Mill had also suggested giving an extra vote to all members of the liberal professions, among others demonstrably endowed with a superior education.121 But not all commentators thought that extending the franchise to graduates with professional degrees was a good idea. When arguing in favor of representation for the Scottish Universities, for example, Walter


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Buchanan was explicit that the franchise should be only for holders of AM degrees, not MDs or LLDs.122 James Lorimer argued that the claim of the learned class to political representation was incontrovertible, but cautioned that it ‘must be more than a professional class, carrying on a certain portion of the business of the community, and remunerated by the community to the full extent of its services in money’.123 The professions (medicine, law, army, church), he asserted, were already as well represented in Parliament as any other portion of the community and there was no need to confer suffrage upon them as professions. But, he thought the same could not be said for the ‘learned class’. Because lawyers were already an established presence in Parliament, much of this discussion focused on medicine. The potential for the university franchise to provide greater representation for medical men was most pertinent in the cases of London and the Scottish universities, at which medical education bulked large. In 1854, when introducing London’s deputation to Lord Aberdeen, James Heywood, MP for North Lancashire and a proponent of university reform, made the point that the University ‘included among its members the major portion of the medical profession in London, and it should be remembered that at present the medical profession could not be said to be represented in the House of Commons’.124 Twelve years later, George Jessel QC (future Master of the Rolls and London’s vice-chancellor from 1881 until his death in 1883) stated that, if London were to receive the franchise, ‘every class of learned men would be represented, more especially the class of medical men, of whose accomplishments the University of London might justly be proud’.125 Those opposed to including professional graduates in the franchise pointed to the nature and limitations of their degree qualifications. Of the medical graduates from London and the Scottish universities, Lorimer wrote: ‘general studies which terminate at sixteen, and subsequent duties which confine their attention to the structure and changes of the human body, little qualify them for the senate’.126 In order to be eligible for the franchise on the same footing as MAs, he thought, those taking medical degrees should at least have a qualification in literature like Cambridge’s Previous Examination, which was required of students before they could become a bachelor of physic. The requirements for medical degrees at Oxford and Dublin, which mandated prior study of arts, were far more satisfactory in his view. As it turned out, however, university seats became the major vehicle for the representation, such as it was, of medical practitioners and their parliamentary allies.127

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Universities’ admission of women to degrees—first at London (1878), then at the Scottish universities (1892), Wales (1893), and then by the civic universities as they acquired charters beginning in 1900—meant that the extension of university representation also intersected with the question of women’s suffrage. (Women were fully admitted to degrees at Oxford in 1920, and at Cambridge in 1948.)128 By 1910–11, there were no fewer than 4,600 women students in British universities, and the proportion attending classes with the intention of taking degrees had increased markedly.129 The possibility of obtaining the university vote, and thereby plural voting, constitutes an additional, though littlenoted aspect of the broader gender dynamics of franchise reform. The first electoral registers compiled under the 1918 Representation of the People Act included nearly 8.5 million women, of whom 7,910 were also entitled to vote for universities (compared to 60,181 male university electors).130 The provisions of the act even explicitly allowed women to enter the electoral rolls of universities that still would not grant them degrees. From the late nineteenth century women had been permitted to sit most undergraduate degree examinations at Oxford and Cambridge and, along with keeping the required terms of residence, a passing mark now qualified them for the university vote. University representation and women’s suffrage had already been linked in the late 1890s and early 1900s by Charles Dilke’s repeated proposals to abolish the former and grant the latter. Later, the 1912–13 Franchise and Registration Bill proposed to eliminate university constituencies but ultimately had to be withdrawn on technical grounds because of proposed amendments to give women the vote (see Section 5). With the suffrage issue so prominent by the beginning of the twentieth century, it made sense that universities would reflect on the position of their women graduates. In 1913, when resolving on the desirability of extending the right of parliamentary representation to then unrepresented universities, Manchester’s Convocation also affirmed ‘its desire that the University principle of equal privilege for all its graduates should be maintained by the inclusion of women in the exercise of this proposed privilege’.131 Although the record gives no indication, perhaps the vexed question of giving women the vote contributed to the decisions by Manchester’s Council and Court that it was not desirable to take any action on Convocation’s resolution.132 London and the Scottish universities had been enfranchised before they admitted women to degrees, and during a period in which staged


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movement toward manhood suffrage tended to eclipse women’s aspirations for the vote. The civic universities, on the other hand, had women graduates before they were enfranchised and were granted their charters around the time that the suffrage movement was intensifying. Thus, the position of women graduates had to be considered alongside extending the franchise to new institutions. As Humberstone wrote in 1913, the test for the suffrage in university constituencies ‘is purely intellectual, and it is difficult to see on what grounds or reason of expediency a sex disqualification should be introduced’. Women who had undertaken advanced training that gave them special knowledge on social and political issues, he thought, should not be denied ‘the modest influence on the destinies of their country which a University vote would confer’.133 Miss I. Thompson, Warden of University Hall for Women at Leeds, went further, noting that the university franchise would have a special value to women beyond that to be gained from extension of the general franchise because many women in ‘residential posts’ (presumably professional women graduates on the full-time staffs of educational, medical, charitable, and other kinds of live-in institutions) would have no other voter qualification. Cambridge’s vice-chancellor, S. A. Donaldson, for his part, did not see the desirability of giving women graduates the vote, but observed that his University, with no women graduates, would be unaffected. Stronger, albeit dogmatic, objections were stated by the historian Walter W. Seton, Secretary of University College London, who was ‘on principle opposed to granting of the franchise to women under any terms or conditions whatsoever, whether they are graduates or householders or possess any other so-called qualification’.134 Wartime experience muted such opposition to votes for women, and the principle was conceded in the 1916–17 Speaker’s Conference.135 For universities, the prospect of including women graduates in the electorate was advantageous. The newer universities would enlarge the bases of their still comparatively small constituencies. London’s vice-chancellor, Sir Alfred Pearce Gould, went further. Bolstering his view that his University should be entitled to a second MP based on the number of graduates, he observed that the balance would be even more in London’s favor if women graduates were enfranchised.136 A neglected dimension of the 1918 Representation of the People Act, therefore, is that in addition to giving women aged 30 and above the vote, it also gave women graduates (with the same age qualification) the second, university vote that had been preserved by the Speaker’s Conference and extended through the creation of new university constituencies. Similarly, when

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women gained the vote on the same terms as men a decade later, the number of women holding plural votes also increased. British subjects residing abroad constituted another group that had been virtually unable to vote before 1918. In this connection, the case for university representation was enlarged to international and imperial vistas. Postal voting had been introduced for university constituencies in 1864 (in the short term strengthening the influence of the country clergy in Oxford and Cambridge elections). The practise was extended in subsequent university enfranchisements, but postal voting by people outside the United Kingdom was practically impossible because statutes required the signature of a Justice of the Peace on voting papers. In 1918, consistent with temporary provisions introduced for absent voters in the services, witnessing requirements for voting papers were broadly extended.137 Thereafter, university electors abroad could vote (so long as their papers arrived before the close of the poll), and the university franchise was the only one for which British subjects resident abroad were eligible. (Absentee ballots for expatriates and those traveling at the time of an election were only introduced in 1985.) By 1930, an estimated eight per cent of university electors lived outside the United Kingdom.138 As stated in a 1931 petition to preserve the university franchise, signed by a long and eminent list of supporters: ‘Can it be desirable to cut off from all share in home politics the oversea members of a nation as far-wandering as ours?’139 The confluence of universities’ institutional concerns, national and religious questions, and parliamentary reform is also clearly evident in several cases in which universities argued against amalgamation in joint constituencies. During the Committee stage of the 1867 Reform Bill, for example, the long-promised creation of a seat for London was briefly thrown into confusion when John Robert Mowbray, MP for the city of Durham, moved an amendment to add the University of Durham to the new constituency. The proposed amendment was supported other MPs from Northern constituencies, and shepherded by Disraeli in his capacity as Conservative leader in the House. As Bernal Osborne, Radical MP for Nottingham, said toward the end of the debate, ‘he could hardly have imagined that the question of Universities would have produced so much consternation among hon. Gentlemen’.140 Mowbray’s amendment met with vigorous objections from Robert Lowe, John Bright, Osborne, Edward Cardwell, and Gladstone. Some of them focused on London’s just claims. As Bright (who reiterated that he was no supporter of university constituencies) observed, and Gladstone


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later underscored, the principle of enfranchising London had already and repeatedly been proposed and accepted in successive Reform bills since 1854. He saw in the sudden proposal to add Durham—an Anglican establishment—as a purely partisan move by the government attempting to dilute London’s Liberal tendencies. Other objections emphasized the incompatibility of the two institutions. As Lowe put it: ‘Durham is local and provincial; London is metropolitan and cosmopolitan, extending its influence more and more every day all over the world . . . . The one University is ecclesiastical, the other pre-eminently and entirely secular.’141 At that time, Durham’s Convocation included only those MA holders who were members of the Church of England (although the University had recently removed religious tests for matriculation and non-theological degrees). Mowbray claimed that Durham was moving in a liberalizing direction and would soon drop this restriction. (Disraeli wryly observed that, since students at the Catholic seminary Ushaw College in Durham city took London degrees, they would become electors if the bill were passed whereas, if the amendment was defeated, Durham’s Anglicans would be excluded.) Another set of objections centred on questions of institutional fitness for the franchise. Lowe asserted that Durham was really more a college than a university because it relied on its own teachers to examine the students. Gladstone agreed that Durham had not achieved an appropriate level of institutional development to warrant representation. For its part, London took swift action to counter the threat. It immediately summoned a special meeting of Convocation to deal with the proposed joining of Durham to the constituency. This produced a resolution asserting that merger with any other university would be ‘entirely derogatory’ to the University’s position and the pledges given at its foundation that is should enjoy a status equal to that of Oxford and Cambridge. Moreover, the resolution concluded, ‘a combination with Durham would be utterly heterogeneous’. MPs who were graduates of the University were mobilized to oppose the amendment, and a petition against the proposed merger signed by London’s vice-chancellor and the chairman of Convocation was presented to the Commons by Lowe on June 18.142 In the end, the proposed amendment to add the words ‘and Durham’ to the clause enfranchising London was narrowly defeated with 234 votes against to 226 in favor. Half a century later, London was again under threat of being merged into the proposed new three-member constituency representing, in addition, Durham, Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Sheffield, Birmingham,

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Bristol, and Wales.143 The idea of such a merger was roundly rejected by the University’s Convocation. After considering the report of the Speaker’s Conference, Vice-Chancellor Gould circulated a report to members of the government, members of the conference, and all MPs who were graduates of the University. The report rehearsed the history of London’s struggle to be enfranchised, the original intention that London should hold status equal to that of Oxford and Cambridge, and the University’s contributions to higher learning within Britain and around the world. The Speaker’s Conference proposal to merge London with the other English universities was, the report stated, ‘inconsistent with the position which successive governments have repeatedly acknowledged to be due to the University of London’. Gould further asserted that, based on the size of London’s electorate (6,072 to Oxford’s 6,895 and Cambridge’s 7,145), the University should really be given a second MP. Philip Magnus called a meeting of all MPs who were graduates of the University and it was agreed to send the report to all who sat in both houses of Parliament.144 For their part, the civic universities strongly objected to the idea of sharing a constituency with London, which had more graduates than the others combined and was viewed as a fundamentally different kind of institution on account of its external degrees. They, too, undertook efforts to get the support of local MPs and produce statements of protest.145 As Liverpool’s vice-chancellor, Alfred Dale, sardonically summed up the situation, ‘to set up a system of University representation which all the universities concerned will dislike will be a master-stroke’.146 On November 8, 1917, Magnus introduced a motion in the Commons, which was approved, to keep London out of the new English Universities constituency and for the University to retain its single seat.147 Another disputed proposal for joining universities in a single constituency occurred in 1868, during consideration of the Representation of the People (Ireland) bill, when Chichester Fortescue, put forward the case for giving representation to the graduates of the federated Queen’s University of Ireland. As Under-Secretary of State for the Colonies in the previous government, Fortescue had proposed adding a member for Queen’s in connection with the plan then under discussion to make it an Irish cognate to London.148 Fortescue did not renew the proposal in 1868 because there was no redistribution scheme for Ireland. But he did propose that the 700 to 800 graduates of the Queen’s University be included ‘within the very ample representation of the University of Dublin’, since Dublin had


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a much smaller number of electors (1,870) than either Oxford (4,190) or Cambridge (5,440) while returning the same number of MPs.149 He argued that uniting the representation of the two universities would be less like the case of London and Durham and more like that of the Scottish universities, and he thought his scheme to join the two Irish universities into one constituency a better and less ‘violent’ plan than another proposal to re-assign one of Dublin’s members to the Queen’s University. The Earl of Mayo, stated his hope that the Queen’s University would be granted representation under any future redistribution scheme, but objected to Fortescue’s motion on the grounds that both institutions found such a scheme objectionable. He read from a letter sent to him by a member of the Queen’s University Convocation stating that the idea of uniting the constituencies was discussed and unanimously condemned: ‘We should nominally have two representatives who would virtually represent another institution.’150 John Thomas Ball, Attorney General for Ireland and an MP for Dublin, also raised objections on behalf of his constituency. Fortescue’s motion received vigorous support from William Gregory, Liberal-Conservative MP for County Galway, who saw the addition of Queen’s electors as the first step toward breaking up the exclusively Anglican character of Dublin’s representation. Shortly after the clause went down to defeat, the Liberal MP Henry Fawcett picked up this fallen standard and proposed to disenfranchise the smallest Irish borough (Portlington, which had only 106 electors) and transfer the representation to the Queen’s University, but this too was defeated.151 The University of Wales also successfully resisted amalgamation into a joint constituency and obtained its own MP. In many respects, arguments to give Wales separate representation echo those advanced on behalf of the Scottish universities sixty years earlier. In both cases, proponents cited the distinctive ‘national’ role played by those institutions, reflecting more general views of the two regions’ relationship to the United Kingdom. In 1912, Isambard Owen had rejected the notion that Wales might share a representative with the younger English universities. ‘It was necessary’, he said, ‘that the Welsh University should not be pooled with, say, Birmingham or Bristol, because the Welsh University was national and possessed distinct interests.’152 In 1917, Sir Herbert Roberts, Liberal MP for West Denbigh, in effect repeated Owen’s argument by observing that the University of Wales differed from all other universities because it represented the whole Principality.153 John Herbert Lewis, Liberal MP for Flintshire, a leading advocate for granting the University of Wales a separate parliamentary seat (of which he was subsequently the first

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holder), argued that, if linked with seven other English universities, the University of Wales would never have a representative who could speak with authority on conditions affecting the separate Welsh education system generally. Because the main point was to find a way to give the Principality an extra MP, Lewis also did not hesitate to play upon wartime emotions by pointing out to his compatriot Lloyd George that Wales had contributed a larger share of its population to the armed forces than other parts of the United Kingdom and therefore should not be ‘meanly treated’.154 Like the various arguments in favor of university representation generally, these efforts to resist amalgamation further underscore the fact that the interest in university representation went far beyond mere institutional distinction and the advantages afforded by giving graduates a plural vote. In a period of constitutional development, universities’ arguments and parliamentary considerations were also bound up with deeper national and religious issues. Increasingly, however, universities had to contend with threats to the very existence of what had become the quasi-invented tradition of their representation.

5. Universities’ Efforts to Preserve Representation

The issue of university representation became more contentious with each new proposal for constitutional or electoral reform. Critics raised two main categories of objection. The first line of argument rejected university representation on principle, although the principles changed over time. Initially, opponents focused on limiting clerical influence in Parliament. Later, principled objections emphasized the undemocratic nature of fancy franchises and plural voting. This shift from religious to political criteria in critiques of university representation echoed the more general decoupling of religion from both the state and education over the course of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The second category of objection—consistent with the emergence of the modern party system—stressed the political affiliation of members and the use of university seats for strictly party purposes. In the face of these mounting criticisms, those who favoured university representation were increasingly hard-pressed to justify and defend the institution against those who sought to restrict or abolish it altogether.


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Resistance to the extension of university representation was certainly evident from the beginnings of constitutional modernization, as already seen in the antipathy of reformers in 1831 and 1832 toward extending representation to the Scottish universities. By the time of the Second Reform Act, opposition to university representation had grown, demonstrated by the vigorous objections to enfranchising Durham. For opponents, a major objection in the nineteenth century was the claim that university seats were de facto a form of clerical representation. At Oxford and Cambridge, the majority of MAs entitled to vote were Anglican clergymen. Nonconformists were not permitted to take degrees until the 1850s, or to become fellows until the 1870s. Dublin, despite the broadening of its franchise in 1832 to include Catholic holders of higher degrees, remained staunchly Anglican in character. Durham, an outgrowth of the cathedral, was created to train clergymen. As noted earlier, the narrow religious basis of Durham’s Convocation was a major obstacle to its proposed enfranchisement in 1867. The association of university representation with the clerical interest was still employed as a rallying cry in the 1880s, though (like the universities themselves) not always quite understood by popular audiences. At the National Liberal Federation conference held at Leeds in October 1883, for example, John Morley’s rhetorical question, ‘Were the clergy to retain the four seats for the two Universities of Oxford and Cambridge?’ met with a mixed or confused response (reported in The Times as ‘ ‘‘No,’’ ‘‘Yes.’’ ’).155 In 1885, after noting that the abolition of religious tests was gradually making the Oxford and Cambridge constituencies less of the clerical strongholds they had been, Albert Grey (later the fourth Earl Grey) advocated hastening the process by admitting all graduates to the franchise, even to the inclusion of extension students.156 It is an interesting sidelight that Wesleyans regarded the changes to the franchise and electoral procedures in 1918 as beneficial to the steadily increasing number of university-educated ministers whose mandatory itinerancy had previously prevented them from meeting electoral residency requirements.157 As religious issues became less acute generally toward the end of the century (outside of Ireland, at least), the focus of objections to university representation shifted to more strictly political concerns. In the 1880s, the agreement struck between Gladstone’s government and the Conservative leadership under Lord Salisbury over a new measure of Reform spared plural voting and university representation. This was one of several ways in which Salisbury used the 1885 redistribution

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bill to temper the 1884 extension of the franchise and strengthen the Conservatives’ electoral advantages. As the independent Conservative MP for Cambridge, Alexander James Beresford Hope (Salisbury’s uncle by marriage), asserted in 1885 using the language of the high culture movement, the maintenance and extension of university representation would be the intellectual counterweight to the ‘Philistine’ thrust of the reform measures. Non-resident graduates—lawyers, doctors, and other professionals—were, he claimed, the mind of the country, and even if ‘among the non-residents might be found country squires, whose degree was a poll or a pass one, and whose talk was of bullocks and such things, was it not something to be able to talk of bullocks with that reasonable education which any degree indicated?’158 Gladstone’s decision to let the university seats remain has been seen as an especially important part of the compromise reached by the party leaders.159 But if the compromise limited the field of action in the Commons, prominent Liberal ministers evidently did not feel constrained from expressing their belief that university representation should be done away with. Attorney General Sir Henry James stated that he could not defend university representation any more than he could defend plural voting. The Radical Sir Charles Dilke, president of the Local Government Board, also aired his personal view that university representation ought to be abolished, but as a member of the government who had played a central role in negotiations with the Conservatives, he was obliged to support the bill in its current form.160 From the Liberal backbenches, however, James Bryce, MP for Tower Hamlets, mounted the first major assault on university representation as an institution during the Committee stage of the 1885 redistribution bill. A noted historian, fellow of Oriel College, and Regius Professor of Civil Law at Oxford, Bryce was precisely the kind of member for whom some argued university representation needed to exist.161 Bryce, however, had proved himself capable of standing and being returned for a regular constituency. From his perch of high academic qualification, he moved an amendment to eliminate university constituencies on the ground that the introduction of party politics into institutions of learning and their governing bodies was bad for the universities. It distorted the impartiality with which academics should ideally approach educational questions, he said, and even intruded into decisions on appointments. Further, Bryce contended that the overwhelming majority of university electors would have the vote under another franchise. Bryce’s motion drew further declarations of personal ambivalence from the government


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bench. Dilke said that Bryce had made an unanswerable case, but that the government could not accept the amendment because it would go against the bipartisan compact over the provisions of the bill. In the end, Bryce’s motion was crushingly rejected by 260 votes to 79.162 In the last years of the nineteenth century and early years of the twentieth, private members’ bills regularly called for the abolition of university representation. In 1894, for example, a group of thirteen Liberal MPs introduced such a bill. A number of them had strong academic ties, such as Thomas Rayburn Buchanan, a fellow of All Souls College, and Sir Henry Roscoe, a noted chemist and prominent figure at Owens College (and later London’s vice-chancellor).163 As noted earlier, Dilke—whose brilliant political prospects had been blighted by a sexual scandal—submitted bills annually from the late 1890s through the early 1900s to give women the vote and disenfranchise universities. In fact, Dilke’s linking of these two principled causes is somewhat ironic from a party political standpoint. While (as discussed in Section 6) Liberals criticized university constituencies for the preponderance of Conservatives they returned, a persistent argument for denying women the vote was the belief that the Conservatives would benefit most from their votes.164 It was also thought that most of the people entitled to cast more than one ballot voted Conservative, and as the ‘New Liberalism’ that emerged toward the end of the nineteenth century moved to embrace more progressive policies, it mounted repeated challenges to plural voting generally and university representation in particular. In 1892, while the Liberals were in opposition, George John Shaw-Lefevre introduced a private member’s bill to establish the electoral system on one-man-onevote basis and was backed by such notable Liberal leaders as William Harcourt, George Otto Trevelyan, and Herbert Henry Asquith. On behalf of the government, Chancellor of the Exchequer George Joachim Goschen, objected to the bill as undermining special franchises by an indirect process, and it was rejected on second reading.165 Following the general election of that year, even Gladstone—erstwhile MP for Oxford whose previous stance on university representation had been notably ambiguous—came out less equivocally (for him) against the institution during a speech at West Calder. After the Grand Old Man had noted that seven of the eight university seats had gone to the Tories, a voice from the crowd expressed the hope that he would do away with university representation. ‘I do not think I can pledge myself at my time of life,’ Gladstone said in response, ‘but I cordially respond to his wish, and

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I may say that I hope somebody will propose it, and I will support it. (Cheers.)’166 Once the Liberals returned to power in the landslide of 1906, one of their early pieces of reforming legislation, the Plural Voting Bill, would have required voters to cast their ballots in only one constituency and thereby—because it was assumed that people would be far more likely to vote in the constituencies in which they lived—reduce university electorates to such a degree that it amounted to disenfranchisement of the universities ‘by installments’.167 Asquith, now Chancellor of the Exchequer, noted that, with the exception of Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin, university representation was ‘a very modern product indeed’, created by Disraeli in 1867 and 1868.168 Arthur Balfour, for the opposition, objected on grounds that the bill would destroy university seats. During the committee stage, the Conservatives moved amendments to preserve the university vote in one form or another, but these were defeated by the Liberals.169 The Plural Voting Bill was passed by a large majority in the Commons but, like many such measures in these years, it was rejected in the Conservative-dominated Lords as part of Balfour’s strategy of using the peers to derail measures passed by the Liberal majority in the Commons. Six years later, after the famous ‘peers versus the people’ showdown resulted in the Lords’ veto being replaced with the power merely to delay legislation for two years, the Liberals renewed their efforts at franchise reform. In June 1912, the government introduced a bill ‘to amend the Law with respect to the Parliamentary and Local Government Franchise and the Registration of Parliamentary and Local Government Electors, and to provide for the abolition of University Constituencies’.170 Introducing the bill, J. A. Pease, president of the Board of Education, said that the government had ‘no room for fancy franchises’ and that the university vote was ‘inconsistent with the principle of one man one vote’. In particular, Pease pointed to the small size of the university constituencies (averaging 5,000 electors, or around one-third of the average electorate in other constituencies) as justifying their discontinuation.171 The bill was vigorously opposed by Balfour and his successor as Conservative leader, Andrew Bonar Law, as well as by (as might be expected) the university representatives, most vocally Sir Robert Finlay (Edinburgh and St Andrews) and Sir Henry Craik (Glasgow and Aberdeen).172 With the Liberals dominating the Commons and pursuing a progressive course, and with the Lords stripped of their veto, the continued existence of university representation was for the first time in serious jeopardy.


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In response to the Franchise and Registration Bill, the universities marshalled the resources at their disposal to preserve their special franchise. Meeting in January 1913, when the bill was about to go into the Committee stage, London’s Convocation approved a resolution to press for the retention of the university franchise in its present form. Proposing the resolution, the Rev. Dr. A. Caldecott stated: ‘Two very special qualities were required in Parliament at the present day—an extensive knowledge of the past and the capacity of dealing with general principles . . . . They were not there merely to defend privileges, but they did believe that in the universities of this land they had an element capable of assisting materially in the good government of the country.’173 With university representation under a severe threat, Caldecott’s reiteration of the benefits-to-the-nation argument offered the case for retention in the broadest terms possible. Universities responded to the threat individually—for example, London’s Convocation resolved to send a deputation to the prime minister—but they also looked to forms of collective action. London’s Senate passed a resolution requesting the vice-chancellor to invite the cooperation of other British universities to secure the retention of university representation.174 On receiving letters from the chairman of London’s Convocation and Oxford’s vice-chancellor, the Council of Cambridge’s Senate resolved: ‘That the Council of the senate are willing to cooperate with the Hebdomadal Council of the University of Oxford and with Convocation of the University of London in pressing upon his Majesty’s Government the desirability of retaining University representation in some form or other.’175 As already described, this effort involved attempts to gain the support of the unenfranchised universities. In the end, however, issues unrelated to the fate of the university franchise made this mobilization unnecessary. The government was forced to withdraw the bill when the Speaker (prompted by a deft question from Bonar Law) ruled that the planned incorporation of amendments granting women the vote would so alter the bill’s character that it would have to be withdrawn and reintroduced. After the demise of the Franchise and Registration Bill, university representation was next seriously threatened by the Plural Voting Bill of 1913. Although it did not propose outright abolition, the bill again required university electors to choose between voting in their university or residential constituency. As one Conservative MP stated during debate on an amendment to exclude the universities from the operation of the bill: ‘It may be said that this bill does not in so many words disenfranchise

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universities. That is quite true. I think that it would have been more honest if it had, but it does what is even more insidious—it strives to make the university representation ridiculous.’176 Over a host of objections, the bill was passed in the Commons, but then rejected by the Lords in July 1914. The suspension of regular political activity following the outbreak of the First World War in August meant that the bill was never revived in order to override the Lords’ delay. Meanwhile, the fate of Irish university representation had been taken up separately as part of the debates over the 1912 Home Rule Bill. Under the bill, the proposed Irish House of Commons would include two seats for Dublin, but none for the National University or Queen’s Belfast. These arrangements were to remain in effect for three years after the act’s passage, after which the Irish Parliament would be entitled to alter constituencies and the distribution of its members. The nondenominational but largely Catholic National University was naturally anxious to gain representative privileges like those of Anglican Dublin. In April, its Convocation resolved that ‘in the event of a redistribution of seats in Irish constituencies becoming necessary, there should be equality of treatment in the matter of Parliamentary representation in the three Irish Universities’.177 The question of Dublin’s parliamentary status under Home Rule generated some heat, if not much light. A Times correspondent speculated that, since the Irish Parliament would have complete control over educational matters, maintaining Dublin’s representation would set the stage for its amalgamation with the National University. According to another observer, however, ‘The only explanation of the retention of those anomalies in the Irish bill is that the government hoped thereby to placate in some degree the Ulster minority, since the advantages of plural voting and university representation accrue chiefly to the protestant section of the Irish people.’178 Some, like Sir Joseph Larmor, the Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge and Unionist MP for the University, spoke of Dublin as one of the Universities of England, while one of Dublin’s MPs, James Campbell, moved an amendment to exclude the University from Irish control entirely.179 On the other hand, Dublin’s staunchly Unionist professor of ancient history, John Pentland Mahaffy, thought it would be wrong, and possibly dangerous, to exclude the University from Irish control under Home Rule.180 After the First World War, the Labour party, which assumed the fragmented Liberals’ place as Britain’s second major party, was even more ideologically committed to democratization and the abolition of


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elitist privileges in politics. Accordingly, the Labour government elected in 1929 mounted a major effort to abolish university representation. Without an absolute majority in the House, Labour was obliged to respond to pressure from the Liberals, on whose support the government depended, for a measure of electoral reform. In its insecure position and facing the pressing need to deal with the nation’s deepening economic crisis, Labour’s effort to undo long-standing constitutional arrangements that had become dear to the Conservatives (while not going forward with introducing proportional representation favoured by the Liberals) seems all the more remarkable. In response to this challenge, the universities and their friends once again attempted to mobilize support for retaining their parliamentary representation.181 At the end of 1930, the University of London Graduates’ Association—of which the University’s MP, Sir Ernest Graham-Little, was president—sent a circular to 21,000 graduates asking them to urge their local MPs to oppose the Electoral Reform Bill because of its threat to the university franchise.182 Similarly, the burgesses for Oxford and Cambridge also issued a circular in early 1931.183 One exasperated Labour MP, having received ‘a considerable number of letters and post-cards from university graduates’, alleged that he could not respond to most of these communications because the handwriting was so poor.184 Perhaps no one did more to rally opposition to the proposed abolition of the university franchise than Eleanor Rathbone, who had been elected Independent MP for the Combined English Universities in 1929. Daughter of a long-serving Liberal MP, Rathbone was the only woman to occupy a university seat and one of only fourteen returned to the Commons that year. The new Combined English Universities constituency was amenable to her combination of intellectual strength and independent politics stemming from long involvement with feminist and social welfare causes.185 In late 1930 and early 1931, having just won a university seat, Rathbone devoted her formidable political and organizational skills to preserving them. To those who should have been allies but lacked a similar resolve, like Manchester’s vice-chancellor, Walter Moberley, she was correspondingly unsparing: As to your view that concerted action on the part of the Universities is unsuitable, because ‘we are poor witnesses to the special value of our own opinions’, may I just register my emphatic dissent? . . . . If there is one thing that has been brought more strongly home to me in Parliament than any other, during my short

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experience, it is that all this kind of interest and class of question that affects universities is far less effectively organized and defended than the corresponding interests among the industrial workers. This is probably because the Universities are ‘too proud to fight’, like President Wilson.186

In contrast to such academic diffidence, she wrote and circulated a ‘case’ for university representation, which countered charges against the franchise’s undemocratic character and Conservative dominance while also asserting its value for counterbalancing the possibility of a ‘proletarian’ majority and giving votes to Britons living abroad. At the beginning of January 1931, she organized a conference of university MPs, vicechancellors, representatives of learned societies, and other distinguished individuals, which resolved to organize letters of protest from university governing bodies, graduate and professional organizations, and graduates residing overseas that would be sent to the prime minister, the home secretary, local MPs, and the press.187 To this end, a restatement of Rathbone’s ‘case’ was printed up as a form letter to which signatures could be appended.188 Her mobilizing efforts bore fruit. As she later informed the House, ‘at every convocation meeting in all the younger universities a resolution against the abolition of the university franchise has been carried by overwhelming majorities’.189 At Birmingham, for example, members of the University’s Court, Senate, and Council, along with other academic, municipal, and religious worthies organized a letter of protest.190 Several hundred notable academics and graduates signed an open letter protesting against the proposed abolition.191 Echoing the earlier connection between the representation of universities and the representation of learning more generally, support was also forthcoming from professional bodies such as the Royal College of Physicians, which passed a resolution expressing its strong disapproval of the proposal to abolish university representation.192 In March 1931, the clause to abolish university representation was narrowly defeated by 246 votes to 242, primarily on account of a divided Liberal vote (19 against university representation, 16 in favor, and 23 unpaired absences).193 The Liberals’ failure to provide their promised support to the government was yet one more indication of their persistent fractures and a cause of further internecine strife while also damaging the party’s delicate relations with Labour.194 With the original proposal to abolish university representation dropped, the government introduced a new provision to abolish plural voting. Under this plan, like the Liberal bills of 1906 and 1913, university constituencies would


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not be eliminated outright, but graduates would be required to choose between their residential and university vote. Much as they had done before, opposition critics complained that the university vote would be reduced to insignificance as a shadow without substance.195 With the government’s resignation in August, however, the bill became a dead letter. Like Lloyd George presiding over the enlargement of university representation in 1918 after having roundly denounced it only a few years earlier, the second Labour government’s attempt to end university representation had its own ironic consequences. In 1931, William Jowitt, Attorney General under Labour and slated to continue in that role in the new National Government, stood for the Combined English Universities. This caused Harold Nicolson, rival candidate from the New Party, to remind electors that only ten months before, Jowitt had been ‘anxious to suppress the constituency for which he is now standing’.196 More famously, a few months after his rejection at Seaham in the general election of 1935, Jowitt’s boss, Ramsay MacDonald—expelled from Labour for agreeing to lead the National Government—re-entered parliament as a member for the Scottish Universities.197 In response, Labour MP Samuel Viant introduced a motion to abolish the university franchise. After a debate added nothing new to these matters, university representation was spared by an even larger majority than in 1931 when Viant’s motion was defeated by 227 votes to 130.198 The final, ultimately successful, assault on university representation came in 1948. As David Butler noted a few years after the fact, the 1946 replacement of the late Independent Rathbone, ‘so often cited as the strongest argument for university representation, by Mr. H. G. Strauss, one of the most avowedly partisan of Conservatives, can hardly have encouraged enthusiasm for the university franchise’.199 But just as university representation had been extended by benign neglect and preserved by historical accident, its end was not necessarily based on principled objections to an inequitable anachronism. Abolition of university constituencies as a category of plural voting may have had less to do with one-man-one-vote than with the hard political calculus of offsetting the effect of the new electoral map which eliminated a number of traditional Labour constituencies, especially in London.200 In genteel protest against the abolition, Oxford’s vice-chancellor, W. T. S. Stallybrass, wrote to The Times on behalf of the Hebdomadal Council ‘to express its concern and regret at the decision which the Government has taken, and hope that even now the Government may be willing to

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reconsider its proposals on this point’.201 His Cambridge counterpart, C. E. Raven, also ‘made representations to the Government’ for the continuance of the university franchise.202 This time, however, armed with a huge majority and backed by a heightened popular democratic sentiment, the position of the government was impregnable.

6. University MPs

The arguments for and against university representation described so far have mainly been concerned with institutional and political motives, but a substantial portion of this persistent debate focused on the representatives themselves. Advocates for university representation insisted that learned electors would naturally choose to be represented by people of superior quality and integrity. As the Times’s parliamentary correspondent wrote in 1948: ‘One of the strongest arguments for the university constituencies has been that, in addition to bringing the interests of education to the forefront in national affairs, they have enabled many distinguished men who have not been mainly politicians to make their contribution to the work of the Legislature.’203 Such justifications differed little from early nineteenth-century arguments upholding close boroughs as a means for bringing ‘the aristocracy of talent’ into the House of Commons: In this manner the greater part of our distinguished statesmen have entered Parliament; and some of them perhaps, would never have found admittance by any other way. The use of such members to the house itself, and to the country, is incalculable. Their knowledge and talents give a weight to the deliberations, and inspire a respect for Parliamentary discussion, which in these times it is difficult for any assembly to obtain.204

Ironically, this specimen from the early 1820s was written by none other than Lord John Russell, later one of the authors of the Reform Bill that eliminated the most egregious of these constituencies. Yet, there are also clear continuities with Russell’s later championing of mechanisms to give learning in various forms greater Parliamentary representation. In the years leading up to the Second Reform Act advocates for granting representation to the Scottish universities and for London argued that they would be high-minded constituencies that would return equally high-minded MPs. In 1857, for example, Walter Buchanan claimed that ‘those who have been accustomed to study and reflection,


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and who can bring to their senatorial labours that familiarity with principles which is most usefully found among men trained to intellectual exercises’ were less likely to succeed in regular constituencies, where election depended on factors such as flattery, familiarity with current topics, or personal celebrity. He could conceive of ‘no better means for securing the return of educated men to the House of Commons than by enfranchising the Scottish Universities’.205 When moving in 1866 that London’s Convocation send a petition to Parliament in favour of granting representation to the University, George Jessel presented a similarly idealized view: ‘there could not be a better constituency than a number of learned and accomplished men, for it was impossible that such a body of men would consent to be represented by a man who was inferior to the bulk of them in knowledge and education. Such a constituency, moreover, would be above all bribery and corruption, and beyond all suspicion of it’.206 Later, as already discussed, the Combined English Universities agreed to return members of suitable intellectual accomplishment. In many respects, these positions recall the idea advanced by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and others in the early nineteenth century that the university-educated class should think of itself as a ‘clerisy’ with a duty to assume greater national responsibility for preserving culture and morals in the face of advances by the supposedly philistine middle and lower classes.207 Critics of university representation liked to point out that in practise the universities had not for the most part selected notably superior representatives, though this charge was typically made at a high level of generality. In 1831, for example, the Radical Henry Warburton claimed (without offering specifics) that, far from representing literature, science, or art, university MPs had mainly ‘distinguished themselves for violence in politics, or for extreme political opinion’.208 Thirty years later, Edinburgh’s town council voted 19 to 7 to petition Parliament not to grant a member to the Scottish universities in connection with the reforms then being discussed. In response to a motion to petition Parliament in favor of enfranchisement, Duncan McLaren (later to become one of Scotland’s most influential MPs) argued that the universities did not in general return useful representatives: ‘The University men were always the moles that could never see light.’ He also raised the objection, to be repeated by others later, that even when universities did select talented representatives, they ended up rejecting them precisely for demonstrations of their statesmanship. Oxford, he noted, had proved an inhospitable seat for Peel and Gladstone once their policies ran counter

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to the electors’ narrow and intolerant views. But McLaren’s opposition flew in the face of the broader desire to see the Scottish universities take their place in Parliament alongside the other older foundations of England and Ireland. In carrying this amendment, the Edinburgh town council became, as The Times observed, ‘almost the only public body north of the Tweed that has actively opposed the movement for Scotch University representation’.209 During the debates leading up to the Second Reform Act, John Bright also evinced a dim view of university representatives: ‘The representation of the ancient Universities of Oxford and Cambridge was created in times about the worst in our history. The Members they have sent to this House, learned as some of them have been, and amiable as many of them have been, have not been representatives such as it would be wise—I speak of their political views—for the House of Commons to follow.’210 Such criticisms continued into the twentieth century, while also acquiring a somewhat greater degree of personal specificity. In November 1911, when the government was announcing its intentions to introduce a franchise reform bill that would abolish university constituencies, Lloyd George mocked the idea that ‘by this means you get a specimen of the cultured, impartial, calm, judicial, fair-minded sort of person—a kind of superman: somebody who is above the rancour and the excitement of party’. But the reality, he said, was very different: ‘No constituency in the land turns out narrow, more bigoted, or more fierce partisans.’ His examples were Oxford’s Lord Hugh Cecil, ‘a sort of male suffragist who howls down the Prime Minister . . . in a fit of hysteria because he does not approve of his policy’, and Dublin’s Edward Carson, ‘a man who advocates rebellion unless he gets his way’.211 Complaints about the character and contributions of university MPs were very much connected with members’ party affiliation, and it was claimed that this was the real objection underlying what one supporter claimed was ‘the argument ad hominem, which might be used with equal effect to condemn nearly every institution in the country’.212 When James Bryce launched his attack on university representation during the 1885 debates over redistribution, The Times noted that the ‘readiness to extinguish the [university] seats, so far as it exists, springs rather from impatience with the manner in which they have sometimes been filled than from any sense of anomaly, or from any such desire as Mr. Bryce expressed to screen the Universities from the blighting interests of party politics’. In the future, it was hoped, university seats would be ‘less associated with the territorial aristocracy and the range of political ideas


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which have their home in the Carlton Club [and] will be apt to insist that their representatives shall be men of political eminence and personal distinction, and not merely displaced or undistinguished politicians for whom the party leaders are anxious to find a safe and inexpensive seat’.213 There is some evidence that this message and its corollary threat were not wholly lost on the ancient universities, notwithstanding their reputations as bastions of Toryism. In 1891, following the death of one of Cambridge’s MPs, Henry Raikes, the Master of Corpus Christi (known as a rigid Conservative) wrote to the eminent Cambridge classicist Richard Claverhouse Jebb about the possibility of his standing for the seat: Now I have long felt that it may be very desirable to have as representatives of the University men whose claims are not political but academical—not men who already represent (or might represent) constituencies of another kind, who are unacquainted with the life of the University, and whose election by us might be read as an argument for disenfranchising the Universities.214

On the prospect of balancing his duties as Regius Professor of Greek with those as MP, Jebb quipped: ‘Happy thought: ‘‘When is a Chair not a Chair?’’ Answer: ‘‘When it is incompatible with a Seat.’’ ’215 Arguments for or against university representation based on the qualities of the MPs were understandably focused at the extremes: great statesmen versus party hacks; valued contributors versus somnolent backbenchers. To get beyond the limitations of such characterizations, it is necessary to look at the group as a whole. Between 1832 and 1950, 100 people were returned for university seats.216 A number of these MPs had varied careers and it is not easy to place each one into a single occupational group. For the purposes of general analysis, however, I have categorized the university MPs as follows: Table 2: University MPs by Career Category, 1832–1950 Lawyers Politicians Scholars/Scientists Medical Professionals Other Total

34 23 16 11 16 100

That the largest group consists of lawyers of one kind or another owes a great deal to the fact that 18 of the 20 MPs who sat for Dublin

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in these years may be said to have had primarily legal careers. (In common with the backgrounds of MPs generally, a number of those best classified under other occupations had training in the law but did not pursue legal careers.217 ) The next largest category consists of people who pursued essentially professional political careers. These include one prime minister to be (Gladstone) and one ex-premier (MacDonald), three who served as Chancellor of the Exchequer (Goulburn, Gladstone again, and Lowe), and two who served as Home Secretary (Gathorne-Hardy and Walpole). Numerous others in this set held a variety of minor offices. In the third largest group, many of the scholars and scientists held or came to occupy distinguished chairs (including a Regius Professor of Greek at Cambridge, a Regius Professor of Zoology at Glasgow, two Lucasian Professors, and a Slade Professor of Art; some of those classified here as lawyers also held university chairs). The last large grouping is made up of physicians and surgeons, including an obstetrician, a laryngologist, and an oculist; several of these also held professorships. Other occupations of university MPs include four educationists, four writers, three social reformers, three civil servants, one banker, and one businessman. Until 1918, the contesting of university seats was rare in comparison to the increasing frequency of contested elections over the course of the nineteenth century. (As discussed in Section 2, the introduction of proportional representation to multiple-seat university constituencies in 1918 encouraged more electoral challenges, but with limited results in the aggregate.) The principle that no sitting member should be opposed had been established in the eighteenth century.218 Length of service (for simplicity, based on the years in which members took and vacated their seats, not the precise day and month) averaged 10.6 years for the whole group (12.2 years for those first returned before 1918 and 8.4 years for those returned beginning in that year). The professional politicians had the longest average tenure (13.0 years). Lawyers and those in the scholars and scientists group occupied their seats for essentially the same amount of time on average (9.5 and 9.6 years, respectively), with mean tenure for medical professionals somewhat less (8.4 years).219 Two members, both Oxford Conservatives, sat for more than thirty years: Sir Robert Mowbray (1866–1899), a former barrister, and the backbencher John Gilbert Talbot (1878–1910). Twelve others sat for between twenty and twenty-nine years, thirty-five sat for between ten and nineteen years, twenty-four sat for between five and nine years, and twenty-seven for no more than four years. Thus, the stability of tenure for university MPs was such that about half of the total held their


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seats for ten years or more. Mowbray and Talbot contribute to Oxford being the constituency with the longest average tenure for university MPs, 18.9 years. Tenure in other university seats averaged 13.7 years at London, 11.0 years at Cambridge, 9.1 years at Dublin (which might be greater but for the fact that all the Dublin lawyers, many of whom held government legal offices, kept being elevated to the bench), and 8.2 years for all Scottish constituencies. ( The constituencies established in 1918 are omitted here as to short-lived for proper comparison of stability.) With respect to party, the record of university representation from 1832 amply bears out the claims of Conservative preponderance.220 The oldest constituencies of Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin, which together held six seats, were unimpeachably Conservative in orientation. Conservatives won both Oxford seats in every election from 1832 to 1931 (except for losing one of the seats to the Liberals in 1859). Thereafter, internecine divisions among the Tories allowed some Independents to prevail.221 Cambridge, too, was represented almost entirely by Conservatives, with the exception of Independents elected to the second seat in 1940 and 1945. As one analysis has noted, ‘the addresses of Independent candidates [for university seats] usually made clear to which end of the political spectrum they were nearest’.222 The Independents at Oxford and Cambridge were hardly anathema to dominant Conservative sensibilities. Dublin was staunchly, and extremely, Tory, with the mild exceptions of one Liberal Unionist (W. E. H. Lecky) and one Independent Unionist (Sir Robert Henry Woods). But, as sympathetic historians of Trinity College have noted, ‘it must be remembered that the peculiar circumstances of Ireland forced into Toryism many who would in England have been Whigs or even Liberals’.223 The record of London and the Scottish Universities, with a total of three seats from 1868 to 1918 and four thereafter, is more varied, but also substantially weighted toward the Conservative side. In keeping with the University’s progressive origins, London’s first three MPs were elected as Liberals, but the third, Sir Michael Foster, became a Liberal Unionist. These were followed by two Unionists, the educationist Philip Magnus and the physician Sydney Russell-Wells, and finally by the ‘Independent (Conservative)’ Ernest Graham-Little, also a physician. All of London’s members were academics or medical men, or otherwise connected to the world of learning. The Scottish constituencies were also mixed but more consistently weighted toward the Conservatives. Overall, the Scottish universities elected sixteen Conservatives and five Liberals, in addition to one Independent elected in 1945, plus the anomaly of the National

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Labour leader Ramsay MacDonald (elected in 1936), for whom Stanley Baldwin campaigned. For the last group of university constituencies, enfranchised in 1918 and holding a total of five seats to 1922 and four thereafter, the record is even more mixed but with a marked Conservative tilt. Of the seven MPs who sat for the two-member Combined English Universities constituency, three were Conservatives (art professor Martin Conway, and lawyers Alfred Hopkinson and Henry George Strauss), one was a National Liberal (the historian H. A. L. Fisher), and three were Independents (social reformers Eleanor Rathbone and Thomas Harvey, and the Indian civil servant Reginald Craddock).224 Between 1918 and 1926, the constituency returned one Liberal and one Conservative. Thereafter, the general pattern shifted to the election of one Conservative and one Independent. The University of Wales (one member) returned four Liberals and one ‘Christian Pacifist’ (George Davis). But being a Liberal bastion after 1918 could be interpreted in this context as a kind of relative conservatism. There was, for example, no Labour candidate in 1945.225 The by-election of 1943, however, is regarded by some as a minor landmark in the history of regional nationalism because, of the two leading candidates, one was the ex-president and the other an erstwhile vice president of the Welsh nationalist party, Plaid Cymru, although the latter, ultimately successful candidate, Professor W. J. Gruffydd, had switched affiliation to the Liberals before the election.226 The three MPs elected (unopposed) for the single Belfast seat were, as one would expect, all Unionists. The sole MP briefly elected to the Westminster Parliament for the National University of Ireland was a member of Sinn Fein and therefore, according to that party’s general policy, never took his seat. By 1913, the ‘present monopoly of University Seats by the Conservative and Unionist Parties’ was both an established and increasingly controversial fact.227 But Conservative dominance did not spring from a single source. Some factors were institutional, while others reflected broader political trends. Historically tied to the Established Church, Oxford, Cambridge, and Dublin obviously had a long tradition of lining up with the Church’s Tory defenders. Later, by virtue of its political geography, Queen’s Belfast was a bastion of the Protestant and Unionist cause. The regional bases of partisanship that operated for Belfast were mirrored by Wales, which reflected the Principality’s contribution to the Liberal Party’s nonconformist electoral base and, in particular, support for church disestablishment.


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A second group, comprised of London, the Scottish universities, and the Combined English universities, sought in the main to nominate and elect individuals who reflected the intellectual qualities and professional qualifications of their constituents. That many of their MPs were Conservatives or Conservative affiliates may have more to do with the generally ‘small-c’ conservative nature of universities, where curricula and degree requirements are carefully structured, research must conform to peer-evaluated disciplinary standards, and governance requires a high degree of consensus. Graduates of these universities also overwhelmingly entered the professions in a period in which the Conservative Party had made substantial gains in middle-class allegiance. Related to this, it is important to recall that university representation reached its apogee after 1918, when, because of the Liberals’ fragmentation and collapse, Labour’s class basis and newcomer status, and a succession of national crises, the Conservatives were the sole established major political party and when not in power outright were the dominant partner in a succession of centre-right coalitions. Manhood suffrage and the rise of the Labour party after 1918 formed the background against which earlier political and cultural ideas of counterbalancing democratization evolved into the notion that the university franchise was the best means to ensure the continued presence of ‘learning’ and high culture in Parliament. During the debates over the failed 1931 franchise bill, Rathbone advanced the Millite argument that the university franchise offered some safeguard against the danger of permanent working-class dominance in the electorate.228 Yet her position was not based on exclusive notions of class, but rather the representation of ‘interests’—and, as she asserted, the interests of learning were no longer the exclusive preserve of the upper classes. Earlier, Rathbone had noted that the addition of the ‘newer and more democratic’ universities to the franchise was enlarging the meritocratic and non-elite element in university representation, while also moderating Conservative predominance as her own Independent status exemplified.229 Some knowledgeable observers thought the tendency of candidates beginning in the second quarter of the twentieth century to list themselves as Independents reflected the changing tastes of newer and younger electors who ‘appear increasingly favorable to candidates who will be bound by no narrow party orthodoxy and obey no Party Whip’.230 Even a number of party candidates made sure to underscore their independence. When Manchester’s vice-chancellor, Alfred Hopkinson, stood as the Unionist candidate for the Combined English Universities in 1926, he

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looked forward, if elected, to joining ‘as a University representative should, in an independent spirit in resisting ill-considered changes and in promoting sure and orderly progress toward better conditions for the people of our country in the future’.231 John Buchan, too, although elected as a Unionist, felt he could operate with a great deal of political latitude and made this clear during campaigns.232 By contrast, although Ernest Graham-Little stressed the idea that university representatives should be as free as possible from party domination when standing as an ‘Independent (Conservative)’ for London in 1924, 1929, and 1931, he also made it clear that he had been a lifelong ‘convinced Conservative’. In 1929, he even went so far as to quote the Conservative Party Whip’s satisfaction with his record.233 Independence came to be married to the ‘aristocracy of talent’ argument for university representation. In 1935, Oxford’s first Independent MP, A. P. Herbert, a humorist for many years on the staff of Punch, wrote: ‘I regard the principle and prestige of University Representation as, in the long run, a very much more important matter than the addition of one dumb vote to the official list of any Whip.’234 According to Millicent Rex writing a decade later: ‘To stand as an Independent has the advantage of advertising the much vaunted ‘‘objectivity’’ of the university mind which is now the chief argument in favor of university representation.’235 In the face of abolition, Oxford’s vice-chancellor, W. T. S. Stallybrass, wrote: ‘The university franchise has enabled men and women to enter Parliament who would not be likely to stand for an ordinary constituency, and by reason of the independence of their views and refusal to toe the party line would find no organization to support them.’236 Certainly, formal independence enabled Herbert and Rathbone to undertake sustained campaigns for particular causes—divorce reform and family allowances, respectively—that lay outside the main parties’ legislative priorities and required cross-party support to succeed. Nevertheless, as Rex observed, ‘during the last quarter century the universities have remained essentially Conservative in their politics, just as they have always been’.237 As the Evening Standard columnist Charles Wintour perceived, independence and Conservatism were not unnaturally linked. In 1949, after praising the superior quality and performance of university MPs, he observed that ‘Of course the Socialists are glad to see university representation abolished because most of the university members, being individualists, vote against them.’238 Finally, something must be said about the nature and extent of university MPs’ contributions to parliamentary deliberations. During the


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debates over the 1906 Plural Voting Bill, Asquith opined that, while the ancient institutions had been represented by some very distinguished people, some hon. Members might have thought from time to time as they had seen those great scholars and mathematicians sitting silent on these Benches hour after hour, and trudging through the Division Lobbies, that perhaps their time and energies might have been better occupied if they had remained in the sequestered seclusion of the great seats of learning from which they were unhappily sent to mix in the uncongenial turmoil of political parties in this House.239

Leaving aside the lawyers (many of whom held office and were thus required to speak), and the professional politicians (though not all were as vocal as Gladstone), the cases made for and against university MPs are perhaps best tested against the record of members whose primary occupational backgrounds were closest to the spirit of the university: scholars and scientists; medical professionals; educators; and writers. Together, these groups—which for convenience can be called the ‘academic’ university MPs—comprised slightly more than one-third (thirty-five per cent) of university members returned between 1832 and 1950. The first point to make about this group, is that after 1918 they were both more numerous and bulked larger as a proportion of all university MPs than before. For much of the nineteenth century, only the chemist Lyon Playfair (Edinburgh and St Andrews, 1868–86) properly falls into this category, and only eleven others took their seats before 1918. Together, these twelve constituted twenty per cent of all pre-1918 university MPs. From 1918 to the end of university representation, however, this proportion was nearly trebled. There are twenty-three individuals who may be classified as primarily scholars, scientists, educators, or writers, and these made up fifty-eight per cent of the forty university MPs that were returned in this period. There is also a significant difference in the extent of the post-1918 ‘academic’ MPs’ participation in debates from that of their predecessors. As shown in Table 3, more members (the majority) of the post-1918 group made a greater number of contributions on average than those returned before 1918. (Of course parliamentary sessions vary greatly in length, but it is hardly necessary to incorporate sophisticated statistical weightings in order to illustrate the basic point about the more active participation of ‘academic’ university MPs elected from 1918 onwards.) Only two ‘academic’ members turned in abysmally minimal performances: George Gabriel Stokes, Lucasian Professor of Mathematics

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Table 3: ‘Academic’ University MPs’ Contributions to Debate, 1832–1950 Average/Session Fewer than 10 11–20 21–40 41–60 Greater than 90 Total

Elected before 1918 7 1 2(a) 1 0(b) 11

Elected from 1918 9 6 2 3(c) 3 23

(a) Excludes the years in which Lyon Playfair served as Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee and Deputy Speaker. Including these years, which required him to speak often and on many subjects before the House, Playfair’s average contributions per session rise from 28 to 107. (b) Excludes the author and agriculturalist Rowland Prothero, who sat for Oxford from 1916 to 1919 (when he received a peerage), and served as President of the Board of Agriculture during nearly his entire tenure. Prothero averaged 190.5 contributions per session. (c) Excludes H. A. L. Fisher’s years as President of the Board of Education. Including these years, his average contributions per session rise from 37 to 158.7.

(Cambridge, 1887–91), who spoke on only three occasions; and the surgeon Thomas Sinclair (Queen’s University Belfast, 1924–40), who spoke only nine times. The biggest producers of the post-1918 group were Kenneth Lindsay, former secretary to the Board of Education (Combined English Universities, 1945–50), who averaged 152 contributions; the author and journalist Henry Wilson Harris (Cambridge, 1945–50), who averaged 125 contributions; and the historian Kenneth Pickthorn (Cambridge, 1935–50), who averaged ninety-four contributions per session. Further differences between the two groups emerge when examining the subjects on which members spoke. Overall, twenty of the thirty-five ‘academic’ university MPs may be seen as having confined their parliamentary interventions to narrowly circumscribed briefs. For example, the educationist George Morrison (Combined Scottish Universities, 1934–45) averaged around eight contributions per session, but they were almost entirely limited to educational questions, especially those affecting Scotland. Similarly, Ernest Graham-Little, MD (London, 1924–50) averaged roughly sixty-four contributions per session, but they were almost all on medical, public health, or educational matters. These


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post-1918 exemplars notwithstanding, the pre-1918 group included only three MPs who spoke on a broad range of topics: Playfair, Magnus, and the classical scholar Samuel Henry Butcher (Cambridge, 1906–10). By contrast, the twenty-three post-1918 ‘academic’ university MPs included twelve who could be considered wide-ranging speakers, three of them especially broad in the reach of subjects addressed: the historian Charles Oman (Oxford, 1919–35), H. A. L. Fisher, and Wilson Harris. What these analyses reveal is not only that the ‘academic’ university MPs were far more active as members than Asquith and others alleged, but also that, overall, the frequency and range of their contributions were considerably enlarged in university representation’s last phase beginning in 1918. This, combined with the greater prevalence of this type of representative among university MPs and the increasing tendency toward at least nominal political independence, leads to the rather ironic conclusion that, in general, university MPs after 1918 were (consistent with Rathbone’s case for university representation) increasingly resembling the positive characterizations that had long been made on their behalf.

7. Conclusion

In a 1948 letter to The Times, the historian A. J. P. Taylor claimed that many graduates favored abolition of plural voting, and hence of the university franchise to which they were entitled. Taylor also noted that some of these university electors (not unlike the Newnham College debaters of 1894 at the beginning of this article) ‘would like to see alternative possibilities considered, such as university representation in a reformed House of Lords’.240 Fifty-nine years later, although the Blair government’s attempt to complete the work of reforming the House of Lords that it began in 1999 included no proposals to establish seats for universities, the debates over the role of appointed members in a modernized second chamber employed concepts and language that would not have been unfamiliar to those who had argued over the merits of university representation (or, for that matter, close boroughs): To its critics, today’s House of Lords, filled with appointed life peers, a rump of the old hereditary members, a smattering of bishops and senior judges in the shape of serving law lords, represents an unelected bloc that is fundamentally at

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odds with the principles of democracy. To its defenders, the appointed chamber allows expert peers, untroubled by the short-term requirements of elections to scrutinize and, if necessary, delay laws in the long term interests of the public.241

As in the earlier case of university representation, supporters of the plan for Lords reform justified the idea of bypassing regular electoral pressures by the promise of strengthening the legislature with highly talented individuals or species of disinterested experts that might otherwise be unable or unwilling to participate.242 Critics, on the other hand, saw the proposals as inconsistent with general principles of representative democracy and likely to favour the installation of party placemen (e.g., ‘Tony’s Cronies’) who could not succeed at the polls.243 Much of the debate over Lords reform in early 2007 centred on including government appointments along with independently nominated members. As the minister charged with piloting the reform process, Jack Straw defended the hybrid model: ‘It preserves the opportunity to have a number of independent, non party political members of the second chamber who can bring their experience and expertise to the Parliamentary process.’244 Critics responded that ‘The continuation of political nominations will not end the corrosive suspicion which currently prevails, that seats in the upper chamber are effectively sold by the political parties. The only way to restore dwindling public faith in politics is to have the majority of peers elected and the remainder appointed by an independent commission.’245 In the same way, university representation had been viewed as either a source of safe seats or a special parliamentary asset. Between but overlapping with the issues of rotten boroughs and Lords reform, the question of university representation can thus be understood within the context of enduring constitutional tensions in modern British political history. Uniting the three issues was the concern in each case to preserve or create mechanisms by which, it was argued, the contributions of especially talented individuals to parliamentary deliberations could be secured when they might otherwise be discouraged from seeking election through the usual process. Additionally, these mechanisms came to be thought of as a useful counterbalance to the excesses that purely popular electoral procedures might produce. At the same time, objections in all three cases focused on the inequitable, unrepresentative, and undemocratic nature of these arrangements. In the case of university representation—from Lord John Russell’s early ideas about the independent character of university voters to later claims about the independence of university MPs—the persistent belief that it would harness learning to


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the political process without partisanship was never adequately justified, notwithstanding the service of a number of exceptional individuals. As the foregoing analyses have aimed at demonstrating, university representation was an institution of real significance within, and a link between, the broader frameworks of political modernization and the growth of Britain’s higher education system. The seventeenth-century grants that allowed Oxford and Cambridge to send burgesses to the English Parliament, and Dublin representatives to the Irish Parliament, established precedents for giving direct participation in national affairs to the new institutions of higher learning founded in the nineteenth century. It is not clear that representation provided much in the way of direct benefits to the universities’ affairs.246 The presence of MPs for Oxford and Cambridge in Parliament did not, for example, significantly alter the government’s determination to reform the two universities in the 1850s and 70s, while the Inns of Court, with no seats, successfully resisted government intervention. Although it is beyond the scope of this article to take up the question in any detail, it is possible that, in the face of waning influence on the state, the universities’ interests—especially those of Oxford and Cambridge—were looked after in a wholly different way by the increasing number of their graduates occupying decision-making positions throughout the state’s expanding bureaucracy and serving as members or secretaries of the increasingly frequent official boards and commissions concerned with matters directly or indirectly affecting higher education.247 If so, this would help explain why the debates over university representation centred on whether its contribution to national affairs justified its continued existence, rather than accusations of universities using their MPs for narrowly self-interested ends. The growth of university representation between 1868 and 1918 was less an anachronistic anomaly than an integral part of the modernizing process. The new university constituencies that were established in 1868 were consistent with the broadening but still limited electorate. Although it was increasingly criticized, university representation survived and grew further in 1918 in part because it was so entangled with larger issues like franchise reform, plural voting, and the representation of women. On another level, in an era of political transition, providing extra votes for segments of the polity—in this case, the highly educated—most likely to be invested in the stability of the existing order had a clear political logic that seems far more compelling than the cases made for including representatives with special capacities and perspectives. These were also the years in which the modern party system took

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shape, so it hardly seems surprising that party influences would make their mark on university constituencies. University representation was a fortunate institution in that, all apart from whatever merits that might be argued for it, the politics of reform and the timing of external events favoured its continued existence in the face of increasing hostility. It narrowly escaped harm in the early twentieth century during the great parliamentary struggle between Liberals and Conservatives, and subsequently only survived because of the outbreak of the Great War. It seems especially fitting, therefore, that university representation’s extinction occurred in the aftermath of another world war. In one way or another, debates about broadening electoral participation from 1832 to 1918 proceeded from notions about the types of people who were fit to exercise the vote. Accordingly, it is also possible to see in the growth of university representation, a parallel, institutional version of these more general ideas. Anticipating a second measure of Reform, both the Scottish universities and London sought to demonstrate their fitness for enfranchisement, just as the ‘capable citizenry’ had shown to Gladstone’s satisfaction that they should come ‘within the pale of the constitution’.248 Similarly, the modern universities demonstrated value to the nation during the Great War, which opened the way for their enfranchisement in a manner analogous to the experience of workers, women, and veterans below normal voting age. In all cases, national contributions and the readiness to assume the obligations of parliamentary representation were routinely claimed by the universities and their supporters. As with the classes who did not yet have the vote, the complex and gradual constitutional processes that took shape after 1832 established the expectation that it would be granted sooner rather than later. Accordingly, as new universities started coming into their own toward the end of the nineteenth century, they argued that they should not continue to be held in an inferior status. This culminated in 1918 with what could be termed ‘full university suffrage’ (though hardly ‘one-universityone-vote’ given the entirely unsystematic terms on which university constituencies were organized). At the same time, the advent of an essentially democratic franchise fundamentally altered the conditions in which university representation had managed to flourish, and even opening up the multiple-seat university constituencies to the single transferable vote could not make them more relevant to the new polity. Looking at the overlapping interests of university institutions and the general political order helps to answer the question of why university representation survived as long as it did—and why, arguably, it might


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have continued even longer but for the unusual intensity of democratic impulses produced by wartime experience and given effect by the 1945 Labour government. The answer lies in the paradox that lay at the core of university representation. On the one hand, while giving seats to universities may have sprung in part from effective lobbying by those institutions and their supporters, among politicians of all persuasions the university franchise was understood as a safeguard (though hardly the only one) against the democratic trend of politics. Salisbury’s adamant support is fair testimony to the belief that the university franchise was somehow retrograde, and that it served to protect ‘traditional’ interests within the modernizing constitution. This was hardly the Tories’ cause alone (although they reaped the electoral benefits). From Russell to Rathbone, more progressively minded politicians argued for the importance of learning as a special criterion for representation. On the other hand, if the high politics of extending university representation seemed to run against the grain of democratizing reforms, the state also provided the sources of modernization, albeit less directly, via government policies for reforming the ancient universities and encouraging the creation of new centres of learning that extended the social reach and educational purposes of higher education. Extending the representation of universities beyond the old Anglican monopolies to institutions serving new, non-elite social strata and geographical catchments was fully in keeping with progressive developments in higher education and new views about the role of universities in a modern (or modernizing) society. When these seemingly contradictory functions of university representation are added to the panoply of imperfect justifications offered for its existence, the spread and tenacity of this fungus on the tree of British politics are more easily understood. The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation 140 East 62nd Street New York, NY 10065

REFERENCES 1. I am grateful to Mordechai Feingold for encouraging me to write this article, and to the anonymous readers of History of Universities for their helpful comments. At earlier stages, the conception and composition benefited from comments generously offered by David Cannadine, Margot Finn, Susan Pedersen, Sheldon Rothblatt, James Thompson, and James Vernon.

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2.

3.

4.

5.

6. 7.

History of Universities Though space considerations preclude me from naming the many librarians and archivists whose assistance was indispensable, special recognition is owed to Susanne Pichler and Lisa Bonifacic at the Mellon Foundation’s library. Finally, I must thank Don Randel and Harriet Zuckerman for permitting me time and resources for a critical phase of research. Entry for February 12, 1894, Newnham College Political Society Minute Book, 1894–1895, Newnham College Archives, Newnham College, Cambridge. Even A. Lawrence Lowell, that great explicator of the intricacies of British politics (and future president of Harvard), devotes only one small paragraph to the subject in his monumental study, The Government of England (2 vols, New York, 1908), i. 197. See, e.g., John Ehrman, The Younger Pitt (3 vols, London, 1969–96), i. 24–5, 57, 149–50; Kenneth Bourne, Palmerston: The Early Years, 1784–1841 (London, 1982), esp. 50–64, 73–78, 239–48, 506–508; Norman Gash, Mr. Secretary Peel: The Life of Sir Robert Peel to 1830 (Cambridge, MA, 1961), 211–18, 560–4; H. C. G. Matthew, Gladstone, 1809–1874 (Oxford, 1986), 70–2, 129; Susan Pedersen, Eleanor Rathbone and the Politics of Conscience (New Haven and London, 2004), 220–8. The major histories of Oxford and Cambridge mention university representation at appropriate points, but generally emphasize the internal politics of electoral contests. See, e.g., James Bass Mullinger, The University of Cambridge (3 vols, Cambridge, 1911), ii. 459, 463–4, iii. 207; Christopher N. L. Brooke (ed.), A History of the University of Cambridge (4 vols to date, Cambridge, 1988– ), iii. 386–90, 421–22, 485–92; Charles Edward Malet, A History of the University of Oxford (3 vols, London, 1924), ii. 238–9; Nicholas Tyacke (ed.), Seventeenth-Century Oxford (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. IV, Oxford, 1997), 196–8; and M. G. Brock and M. C. Curthoys (eds.) Nineteenth-Century Oxford, Part 1 (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. VI, Oxford, 1997), 46, 54–9, 188, 202, 311–12, 322–25, 236. The University of London’s successful struggle to obtain representation is not touched upon in the volume produced for its sesquicentennial anniversary: F. M. L. Thompson (ed.), The University of London and the World of Learning, 1836–1986 (London and Ronceverte, 1990). Even older works, which might be expected to pay more attention, provide the barest mention—e.g. John Pentland Mahaffy, An Epoch in Irish History: Trinity College, Dublin, Its Foundation and Early Fortunes, 1591–1660 (London, 1903), 156. Review of many histories of the ‘modern’ universities that made up the Combined English Universities constituency (too numerous to be cited here) turns up no mention of representation, even in works dating from the early 1950s, shortly after the constituency was eliminated. W. R. Ward, Georgian Oxford: University Politics in the Eighteenth Century (Oxford, 1958); idem., Victorian Oxford (London, 1965). Millicent Barton Rex, University Representation in England, 1604–1690 (London, 1954).


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8. T. Lloyd Humberstone, University Representation (London, 1951). Humberstone published much of the material in his book as three articles in Parliamentary Affairs, 1 (1947), 67–82, 78–93, (1948), 78–88. See also R. B. McCallum and Alison Readman, The British General Election of 1945, (Oxford, 1947), ch. 21. An earlier account that provides a useful overview of developments up to the beginning of the twentieth century is Edward Porritt, ‘Barriers Against Democracy in the British Electoral System’, Political Science Quarterly, 26 (1911), 1–31. A provisional effort to document the archival record of university representation appears in Adrian R. Allen, University Bodies: A Survey of Intra- and Supra-University Bodies and Their Records (Liverpool, 1990), 81–83, 250, 273–74. 9. Jon Lawrence, ‘The Transformation of British Public Politics After the First World War’, Past and Present, 190 (2006), 185. Influential studies of the complexities and contradictions of political reform include: James Vernon, Politics and the People: A Study in English Political Culture, c. 1815–1867 (Cambridge, 1993); James Vernon (ed.), Re-Reading the Constitution: New Narratives in the Political History of England’s Long Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, 1996); and Catherine Hall, Keith McClelland and Jane Rendall, Defining the Victorian Nation: Class, Race, Gender and the Reform Act of 1867 (Cambridge, 2000). John Garrard, Democratization in Britain: Elites, Civil Society and Reform Since 1800 (Houndmills, 2002) is a notable recent attempt to make a case for British democratization as an essentially linear and benign evolutionary process. 10. Recent exceptions include Keith Vernon, Universities and the State in England, 1850–1939 (London and New York, 2004), and Sheldon Rothhblatt, Education’s Abiding Moral Dilemma: Merit and Worth in the Cross-Atlantic Democracies, 1800–2006 (Oxford, 2007). 11. For the purposes of this article, place names like ‘Oxford’ will serve as shorthand to mean the universities there located. Thus, unless specifically indicated otherwise, discussion of MPs for, seats for, or the constituency of (e.g.) Oxford, it is the university, not the town to which reference is being made. 12. A form of university representation was also adapted to the structures of imperial governance in India in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. I intend to address this subject, and its relationship to the domestic British case, in a separate article. 13. McCallum and Readman, British General Election of 1945, 215. 14. Neal Blewett, ‘The Franchise in the United Kingdom, 1885–1918’, Past and Present, 32 (1965), 30–6. H. C. G. Matthew, R. I. McKibbin, and J. A. Kay, ‘The Franchise Factor in the Rise of the Labour Party’, English Historical Review, 91 (1976), 726. The other franchise not directly linked to property ownership was for freemen (i.e., those granted freedom of the borough), a status that could be acquired not only by individual recognition, but also by birth, marriage, purchase, and other means. See Rosemary Sweet, ‘Freemen and Independence in English Borough Politics c. 1770–1830’, Past and Present, 161 (1998), 90–2.

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15. Rex, University Representation, 29–33. 16. Humberstone, University Representation, 34; Denis Caulfield Heron, The Constitutional History of the University of Dublin (Dublin, 1847), 35 and n. 4. Trinity College, incorporated in 1592, was intended to be the beginning of a collegiate university at Dublin along the lines of those at Oxford and Cambridge. Since no other colleges were founded, however, ‘Trinity College Dublin’ and the ‘University of Dublin’ are effectively synonymous. That Trinity College was, for all intents and purposes, a university in its own right was noted in the 1613 letters patent, an English translation of which is given by Heron as an appendix (213–16). In this article, I generally make reference to ‘Dublin’ since that was formally considered to be the constituency. 17. Humberstone, University Representation, 28–9. Taken from his translation of the letters patent to Cambridge. 18. Humberstone, University Representation, 25–6. Taken from his translation of the letters patent to Oxford. 19. As one of Oxford’s last MPs, the humorist A. P. Herbert, pointed out twenty years after the elimination of university seats: ‘There are many good reasons why the University representation should be restored. An immediately topical one is the link that it would provide between the great and growing world of students and Parliament. After the troubles of 1968 and 1969, the House of Commons lumberingly wound itself up and sent a Select Committee round the Universities to find out what was going on and report. If the University Members had still existed they would have been doing the job long before.’ Alan Herbert, A. P. H.: His Life and Times (London, 1970), 31. 20. See Norman Gash, Politics in the Age of Peel: A Study in the Technique of Parliamentary Representation, 1830–1850 (London, 1953), 57–59. There is particular irony here, because in 1831, Lord Althorp, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, argued that Dublin should receive a second seat in order to protect the interests of the Established Church. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 3, col. 887 (24 March 1831). 21. His subsequent record in England and Ireland notwithstanding, James VI of Scotland had not introduced university representation into the Scottish parliament, which in any case operated along rather different lines than the corresponding bodies at Westminster and Dublin. 22. Report Made to His Majesty by a Royal Commission of Inquiry into the State of the Universities of Scotland; P.P. 1831 (310) xii 111. 23. Michael Sanderson, Education, Economic Change and Society in England, 1780–1870 (Cambridge, 1995), 45–7. 24. On the innovation of external students and degrees, see Sheldon Rothblatt, The Modern University and its Discontents: The Fate of Newman’s Legacy in Britain and America (Cambridge, 1997), 252–8. 25. This paragraph relies upon classic studies of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century development of Britain’s higher education system: Michael Sanderson, The Universities and British Industry, 1850–1970


26. 27.

28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

33.

34. 35.

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(London, 1972), esp. ch. 3; Roy Lowe, ‘The Expansion of Higher Education in England’, and Sheldon Rothblatt, ‘The Diversification of Higher Education in England’, in Konrad H. Jarausch (ed.), The Transformation of Higher Learning, 1860–1930: Expansion, Diversification, Social Opening, and Professionalizing in England, Germany, Russia, and the United States (Chicago, 1983), 37–56, 131–48; as well as the more recent Vernon, Universities and the State, ch. 3. James Heywood, Academic Reform and University Representation (London, 1860), 183. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 121, cols. 440–4 (10 May 1852). On the prejudices against lawyer-MPs, see Joseph S. Meisel, Public Speech and the Culture of Public Life in the Age of Gladstone (New York, 2001), 207–19. A Bill Further to Amend the Laws Relating to the Representation of the People in England and Wales, p. 3; P.P. 1854 (17) v 375. During this period, dissatisfaction with the organization of, and education provided by, the Inns of Court caused some to think that it would be beneficial to reorganize the four Inns into a legal university. The 1855 report of a Royal Commission on legal education recommended this course, but the Inns successfully resisted it. Had such a legal university been created, however, the subsequent history of university enfranchisement (and the declining prejudice against lawyers in the Commons by the late nineteenth century) suggests that it would have been granted representation in due course. See Anna Clark, ‘Gender, Class, and the Nation: Franchise Reform in England, 1832–1928’ in Vernon (ed.), Re-Reading the Constitution, 241–3. J. Parker Smith, ‘University Representation’ [part 1], The Law Magazine and Review, 5th Series, 9 (1883), 21. John Stuart Mill, Considerations on Representative Government (London, 1861), ch. 8. Lady Gwendolen Cecil, Life of Robert Marquis of Salisbury (4 vols, London, 1921–32), iii. 123–24. Salisbury was the descendent of Sir Robert Cecil (later the first Earl of Salisbury), who had been Cambridge’s Chancellor at the time of the original grant of burgesses for Oxford and Cambridge. Humberstone emphasizes Cecil’s role in these developments, but Rex notes that there appear to be ‘no grounds for this assumption’. Humberstone, University Representation, 19; Rex, University Representation, 38 n. 26. See William A. Hayes, The Background and Passage of the Third Reform Act (New York and London, 1982), 121, 255, 264. According to Hayes, ‘The Tories considered the point very important, perhaps partly out of frustration in their failure to protect their interests at other points’ (272 n. 95). In a speech at Bath on 24 November 1911. The Times, 25 November 1911, 12. Conference on Electoral Reform: Letter from Mr. Speaker to the Prime Minister, 5; P.P. 1917–18 [Cd 8463] xxv 385.

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36. Frederic A. Ogg, ‘The British Representation of the People Act’, American Political Science Review, 12, (1918), 499. The business franchise allowed a man to vote in a constituency other than that in which he resided if he occupied a property for business purposes worth £10 or more per year. 37. Asquith was particularly hard on limiting the franchise to MAs, pointing out that ‘the qualification for a University vote was the possession in our ancient universities of an M.A. degree, and an M.A. degree could be acquired by anybody who had passed a not very difficult examination and was prepared to pay a sum of £20 or £25. He himself had not got a vote, because he had never been prepared to pay the £25, although a graduate of Oxford’. Parliamentary Debates, 4th Series, vol. 163, col. 209 (24 October 1906). 38. Martin Pugh, ‘Popular Conservatism in Britain: Continuity and Change, 1880–1987’, Journal of British Studies, 27 (1988), 260. 39. The Times, 16 February 1948, 5. 40. J. Parker Smith, ‘University Representation’ [part 2], The Law Magazine and Review, 9 (1884), 157. 41. ‘P.R. in University Elections: How the System Worked’, Representation: The Journal of the Proportional Representation Society, 42 (1924), 30–2. 42. Brian Harrison (ed.), The Twentieth Century (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. VIII, Oxford, 1994), 378. 43. D. E. Butler, The Electoral System in Britain, 1918–1951 (Oxford, 1953), 152–3. 44. Parliamentary Debates (Commons), 5th Series, vol. 100, cols. 758–96 (7 December 1917). 45. ‘The existing University representation and methods of election shall be retained, Provided that every person who has received or receives a degree (or its equivalent) shall be automatically registered and that no fees shall be charged for registration expenses.’ Conference on Electoral Reform and Redistribution of Seats: Letter from Mr. Speaker to the Prime Minister, p. 6; P.P. 1943–44 [Cmd 6534] iii. 213. 46. See the later statements by the former Conservative chief whip, Viscount Margesson, Parliamentary Debates (Lords), 5th Series, vol. 157, col. 309 (5 July 1948), and by Churchill, Parliamentary Debates (Commons), 5th Series, vol. 447, col. 861 (16 February 1948); both cited in Butler, Electoral System, 114–5. 47. Parliamentary Debates (Commons), 5th Series, vol. 403, cols. 2019–2051 (12 October 1944). It is possible that nearly half the MPs in 1944 had the university vote. Based on entries in Dod’s Parliamentary Companion for 1944, I have counted 305 MPs who were ‘educated at’ one of the represented universities. The number who were eligible for the franchise could be smaller than this, since most entries did not indicate whether degrees had been taken (it seems safe to assume that those MPs who did not have educational information in their entries were not university graduates). The total number of Seats in the Commons was 615, three of which were vacant at the time Dod’s was prepared.


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48. Butler, Electoral System, 139; Dell G. Hitchner, ‘The Labour Government and the House of Commons’, Western Political Quarterly, 5 (1952), 419 and n. 49. The Manchester businessman Leonard Behrens, for example, was urged by his friends to stand for the Combined English Universities in the belief that the government would soon restore university seats. Behrens to J. S. B. Stopford, 27 October 1951, Vice-Chancellor’s Archive, VCA/7/138 (2), The John Rylands University Library, University of Manchester. Behrens, a Liberal who planned to run as an Independent, went so far as to begin preparing his election address. Behrens to W. L. Bragg, 28 October 1951, Sir Lawrence Bragg Papers, W. L. BRAGG/56A/514, Royal Institution of Great Britain. In 1937, Bragg’s father, William H. Bragg (like his son, a physicist) had declined overtures from the Manchester University Constitutional Association to stand as Unionist candidate for the Combined English Universities. A. E. G. Chorlton to W. H. Bragg, 12 and 15 February 1937, William Henry Bragg Papers, W. H. BRAGG/10A/35 and 36, The Royal Institution of Great Britain. 50. Parliamentary Debates (Commons), 5th Series, vol. 493, col. 71 (6 November 1951). 51. ‘The University Vote’ [review of Rex, University Representation], The Times Literary Supplement, 8 October 1954, 634. 52. The Times, 1 December 1982, 7 February 1983; Martin Davies, House of Commons Information Office, e-mail correspondence with author, 1 November 2006. 53. For a summary of the role of university representation in the Republic of Ireland, current views on its utility, and recent proposals for reform, see ´ Seanad Eireann Committee on Procedure and Privileges, Sub-Committee on Seanad Reform, Report on Seanad Reform (2004), 9, 12, 20, 23, 26, 33, 44–5 (accessible at: http://www.oireachtas.ie/documents/committees 29thdail/subcomonseanadreform/Report on Reform of the Seanad.pdf). 54. The term ‘system’ is used here in a general sense, and does not indicate an alternative chronology for the emergence of a recognizably coordinated national network for higher learning described in Vernon, Universities and the State, ch. 5. Whether or not those mounting later efforts were aware of it, universities’ efforts to gain parliamentary representation had deep roots, dating back to the Elizabethan era. Rex, University Representation, 22–9. 55. Gash, Politics in the Age of Peel, 46. 56. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 3, cols. 177–79 (8 March 1831). 57. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 3, col. 1349 (14 April 1831); vol. 7, col. 524–27 (23 September 1831). 58. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 14, cols. 180–3 (9 July 1832). 59. Gash, Politics in the Age of Peel, 47. 60. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 164, cols 121–129 (1 July 1861). 61. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 164, cols 129–130 (1 July 1861). 62. ‘Statement of the Senatus Academicus of the University of Edinburgh in Support of the Proposal to Give Two Members to the Four Scottish

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63. 64.

65.

66.

67. 68.

69. 70. 71.

72.

73. 74.

History of Universities Universities Under the Scotch Reform Bill’, April 1868, Miscellaneous Materials Relating to Glasgow University, Gen. 566/5, Special Collections Division, University of Edinburgh Library. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 187, cols. 404–405 (13 May 1867). ‘Statement of the Senatus Academicus of the University of Edinburgh’; ‘The Petition of the University Court of the University of Aberdeen’, April 1868, Miscellaneous Materials Relating to Glasgow University, Gen. 566/5, Special Collections Division, University of Edinburgh Library. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 192, cols. 879–86 (25 May 1868). In 1832, the Earl of Haddington had proposed this arrangement, the only difference being that Edinburgh would have shared its representation with the two colleges in Aberdeen, King’s and Marischal, which were joined to form the University in 1860. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 14, col. 181 (9 July 1832). Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 192, col. 883 (25 May 1868). In 1832, the Earl of Haddington had proposed this arrangement, the only difference being that Edinburgh would have shared its representation with the two colleges in Aberdeen, King’s and Marischal, which were joined to form the University in 1860. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 14, col. 181 (9 July 1832). A statement reported, and repeated, retrospectively. See, e.g., The Times, 11 May 1899, 13; 9 January 1900, 9. Quoted in ‘Statement of Sir Alfred Pearce Gould, Vice Chancellor and Returning Officer, and Sir Edward Henry Busk, Chairman of Convocation, on the Speaker’s Letter to the Prime Minister dated 27 January, 1917, Reporting the Resolutions Arrived at by the Speaker’s Conference on Electoral Reform’, Proceedings of Convocation, 17 March 1917, University of London Archives, Convocation and Committees, UoL/CN 1/1/13, Senate House Library, University of London. See also Proceedings of Convocation, 24 November 1858, University of London Archives, Convocation and Committees, UoL/CN 1/1/1. Heywood, Academic Reform, 206. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 121, col. 443 (10 May 1852). [James Lorimer], ‘University Representation’, North British Review, 20 (1854), 367. Support for London’s case was evidently widespread (as were its graduates). In 1853, ‘certain inhabitants of the borough of Halifax [in West Yorkshire], praying for Parliamentary representation to the London University’ petitioned the Commons. The Times, 28 May 1853, 3. Proceedings of Convocation, 24 November 1858, University of London Archives, Convocation and Committees, UoL/CN1/1/1. For reports of the committee’s work, see also Proceedings of Convocation, 8 May 1860, 14 May 1861; and Minutes of Committees, 14, 18, and 28 March 1859, 14 May 1866, University of London Archives, Senate, UoL/ST 3/2/6. Quoted in Heywood, Academic Reform, 205. The Times, 12 May 1859, 12.


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75. The Times, 22 March 1866, 12. 76. Reginald Easthope, ‘Durham University Society: History of the Society’, University of Durham, http://www.dur.ac.uk/dusada/history.htm (accessed 3 November 2006). 77. The Times, 17 October 1868, 10. 78. Secretary [to the Vice Chancellor] to Dr. Chapman, 18 January 1913, University of Leeds Archive, Microfilm Reel 134.F1, University of Leeds Library. 79. Minutes of Council, 12 February and 7 May 1913, University of Birmingham Archive, University of Birmingham Library. Leeds’s Convocation, however, resolved that the letter from Magnus lie on the table. Minutes of Standing Committee of Convocation, 17 February 1913, University of Leeds Archive. 80. Minutes of the Committee of the Guild of Graduates, 13 December 1912, 16 January 1913, University of Birmingham Archive. 81. W. P. Herringham to M. E. Sadler, 18 April 1913, University of Leeds Archive, Microfilm Reel 134.F1; the Hebdomadal Council’s proposal is on Reel 133.F42. 82. Minutes of Committee of Convocation, 21 April 1913, University of Manchester Convocation Archive, CON/2/3. 83. Minutes of the Committee of the Guild of Graduates, 21 May 1913, University of Birmingham Archive. 84. See, e.g., Minutes of Court, 28 May, 1913, 19 November 1913, 20 May 1914, University of Manchester Court Archive. Minutes of Council, 2 May 1913, 19 March 1913, 30 April 1913, 26 November 1913, University of Manchester Council Archive. Minutes of Convocation, 17 February 1913, University of Leeds Archive. 85. H. A. L. Fisher, et al., British Universities and the War: A Record and its Meaning (London, 1917), 23. 86. Dale to Hopkinson, 19 March 1913, Archive of the University of Liverpool, Vice-Chancellor, S2339, Letter Books of the Principal Later the Vice-Chancellor, no. XX, University of Liverpool Library. 87. Dale to Henry Miers, 21 June and 5 July 1917; Dale to Leslie Scott, 5 and 19 July 1917; Dale to C. T. Needham, 19 July 1917; Dale to H. A. L. Fisher, 7 and 31 December 1917; and Dale to N. D. Bosworth Smith, 8 May 1918, Archive of the University of Liverpool, Vice-Chancellor, S2344, Letter Books of the Principal Later the Vice- Chancellor, no. XXV. 88. Minutes of Council, 24 October 1917, 13 March 1918, University of Manchester Council Archive. Minutes of Court, 16 May 1917, University of Manchester Court Archive. Minutes of Standing Committee of Convocation, 20 December 1917, 7 January 1918, Minutes of Convocation (extraordinary meeting to discuss matters stemming from the Representation of the People Act), 20 March 1918, University of Leeds Archive. Minutes of Council, 16 July 1917, University of Sheffield Administrative Archive, University of Sheffield Library.

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89. Vernon, Universities and the State, 115–18, 181–95; Renate Simpson, How the PhD Came to Britain: A Century of Struggle for Postgraduate Education (Guildford, 1983), ch. 5, esp. 130–4; Christine Helene Shinn, Paying the Piper: The Development of the University Grants Committee, 1919–1946 (London & Philadelphia, 1986), 39–43. 90. Minutes of Convocation (extraordinary meeting), 20 March 1918, Minutes of Standing Committee of Convocation, 10 April 1918, Minutes of InterConvocation Conference Held at the University of Manchester, 13 July 1918, University of Leeds Archive. ‘Convocation Report of Standing Committee, 1917–18’, Archive of the University of Liverpool, Records of Convocation, S3681. Minutes of the Guild of Graduates, 14 June 1918, University of Birmingham Archive. 91. Charles Melville Gillespie to H. A. L. Fisher, 20 October 1918, H. A. L. Fisher Papers, MS Fisher 63, f. 200, Bodleian Library. The Joint Standing Committee endured after university representation ceased in 1950, eventually becoming the present-day Congress of University Convocations and Graduate Associations. Allan, University Bodies, 81–3. 92. On the government side, responsibility for organizing the new university constituency fell to the Board of Education. 93. The Times, 8 December 1918, 10; H. A. L. Fisher, An Unfinished Autobiography (London: Oxford University Press, 1940), 118. 94. Janet Adam Smith, John Buchan: A Biography (London, 1965), 299. 95. Pedersen, Eleanor Rathbone, 220. Rules about candidates holding meetings in university buildings varied somewhat across the Combined English Universities institutions. Yet, even where prohibitions were in place, candidates could still hold meetings in student unions. See the 1935 exchange of letters between Rathbone and Vice-Chancellor Stopford of Manchester, as well as Stopford’s inquiries to his colleagues, [University of Manchester] Vice-Chancellor’s Archive, VCA/7/138 (2). 96. J. Gwynn Williams, The University of Wales, 1893–1939 (A History of the University of Wales, Vol. II, Cardiff, 1997), 330. 97. The Times, 23 November 1912, 4. 98. Williams, University of Wales, 330. 99. See the letters between John Herbert Lewis and various correspondents in the J. Herbert Lewis Papers, D79 National Library of Wales. 100. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Lords), vol. 27, cols. 1129–1136 (23 January 1918). 101. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 101, cols 1005–2015 (1 February 1918). 102. Williams, University of Wales, 332. 103. The Times, 29 November 1922, 13. The inequity of London’s single member was raised again in the letters pages two years later by J. Beresford Clark, president of the University of London Union Society. The Times, 15 November 1924, 6.


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104. T. W. Moody and J. C. Beckett, Queen’s Belfast, 1845–1949 (2 vols, London, 1959), ii, 466. 105. Parliamentary Debates (Commons), 5th Series, vol. 218, col. 1364–1384 (15 June 1928). 106. William MacBride Childs, Making a University: An Account of the University Movement at Reading (London, 1933), 265. 107. The Times, 25 July 1865, 8. 108. Quoted in Heywood, Academic Reform, 198. 109. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 188, col. 28 (18 June 1867). 110. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 192, col. 1771–1774 (18 June 1868). 111. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 218, col. 1364 (15 June 1928). 112. The Times, 21 November 1884, 10. 113. The Times, 2 December 1895, 7. 114. See Burke’s ‘Speech at the Conclusion of the Poll’, delivered on 3 November 1774 following his election at Bristol. W. M. Elofson and John A. Woods (eds.), Party, Parliament, and the American War, 1774–1780 (The Writings and Speeches of Edmund Burke, Vol. 3, Oxford, 1996), iii. 63–70. 115. The issue of university representation therefore adds a further dimension to debates over the role of nationality in Scottish higher education, neatly summarized in Stuart Wallace ‘National Identity and the Idea of the University in 19th-Century Scotland’, Higher Education Perspectives, 2 (2006), 126–7. 116. Walter Buchanan, The Parliamentary Representation of the Scottish Universities: Being the Substance of a Paper Read at a Meeting of the Scottish Literary Institute Held at Glasgow on the 24th of April 1857 (Edinburgh, 1857), 7–8. 117. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 14, col. 182 (9 July 1832). 118. The Times, 22 March 1866, 12. 119. Butler, Electoral System, 152. 120. F. B. Smith, The Making of the Second Reform Bill (Cambridge, 1966), 37. 121. Mill, Considerations on Representative Government, ch. 8. 122. Walter Buchanan, Parliamentary Representation of the Scottish Universities, 11. But Buchanan also advocated broadening the subjects for AM degrees beyond classics, mathematics, and natural philosophy. He thought classics should be required, but that history, political economy, and modern languages could substitute for the other two subjects (10). 123. Lorimer, ‘University Representation’, 362. 124. Quoted in Lorimer, ‘University Representation’, 368. At the time, he noted, there were only two medical men in the House of Commons: Joseph Hume, a member of both London’s and Edinburgh’s Colleges of Surgeons, and William Mitchell, MD (370). 125. The Times, 22 March 1866, 12.

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126. Lorimer, ‘University Representation’, 370. 127. On the history of the medical profession’s parliamentary representation, see Roger Cooter, ‘The Rise and Decline of the Medical Member: Doctors and Parliament in Edwardian and Interwar Britain’, Bulletin of the History of Medicine, 78 (2004), 59–107; see esp. 71–3 on the importance of university seats. 128. The timing of women’s admission to classes and degrees is far more complex than this simple chronology. See Carol Dyhouse, No Distinction of Sex? Women in British Universities, 1870–1939 (London, 1995), 11–13. 129. Dyhouse, No Distinction of Sex?, 24 and table on 248. 130. Return Showing, for Each Parliamentary Constituency in the United Kingdom, the Numbers of Parliamentary and Local Government Electors on the First Register Compiled Under the Representation of the People Act, 1918; P.P. 1918 (138) xix 925. 131. Minutes of Court, 28 May 1913, University of Manchester Court Archive. 132. Minutes of Council, 26 November 1913, University of Manchester Council Archive; Minutes of Court, 20 May 1914, University of Manchester Court Archive. 133. T. Ll. Humberstone, ‘University Representation in Parliament’, The Arena, 3 (1913), 246. 134. All quotations from ‘Some Opinions on Questions of University Representation’, The Arena, 3 (1913), 246–7. 135. Among other things, women’s fees had been a much-needed source of universities’ revenue during the war. Janet Howarth, ‘Women’, in Harrison (ed.), Twentieth Century, 349. 136. ‘Statement . . . on the Speaker’s Letter to the Prime Minister’, Proceedings of Convocation, 17 March 1917, University of London Archives, Convocation and Committees, UoL/CN 1/1/13. 137. ‘University Elections Bill, 3rd December 1917, CCXXII (3) 230–3’, University of Leeds Archives, Administrative Records: Parliamentary Representation (in file titled ‘Representation of the People Bill/Act, 1917–18’). An introductory note to the bill explains the reasoning behind the clauses, which were incorporated into the 1918 Representation of the People Act. I have referenced this bill by archival location because, even though it has a bill number, it is not listed as part of the parliamentary papers of either the Commons or the Lords, nor does it appear in the journals of either House. Mari Takayanagi, Parliamentary Archives, e-mail correspondence with author, 13 April 2007. 138. Eleanor Rathbone, ‘The Case for University Representation’ (printed circular), December 1930, [University of Manchester] Vice-Chancellor’s Archive, VCA/7/138 (1). 139. The Times, 17 February 1931, 8. 140. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 188, col. 42 (18 June 1867). 141. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 188, cols. 20–1 (18 June 1867).


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142. Proceedings of Convocation, 15 June 1867, 23 July 1867, 12 May 1868 (Report to the Annual Meeting), University of London Archives, Convocation and Committees, UoL/CN 1/1/3. In some ways, the Anglican King’s College could be seen as the University of London’s internal analogue to Durham, but I have come across no evidence that it offered any support for the idea of a merged constituency. 143. Conference on Electoral Reform: Letter from Mr. Speaker to the Prime Minister, p. 5; P.P. 1917–18 [Cd 8463] xxv 385. 144. Proceedings of Convocation, 17 March 1917, 11 December 1917, University of London Archives, Convocation and Committees, UoL/CN 1/1/13. 145. Minutes of Senate, 24 May 1917, University of Manchester Senate Archive; Minutes of Council, 23 May 1917, 7 November 1917, 24 October 1917, University of Manchester Council Archive; Minutes of Court, 16 May 1917. ‘Convocation Report of Standing Committee, November 8, 1917’, Archive of the University of Liverpool, Records of Convocation, S3681; Dale to Henry Miers, 5 July 1917, Dale to Leslie Scott, MP, 5 and 19 July 1917, Dale to C. T. Needham, MP, 19 July 1917, Archive of the University of Liverpool, Vice-Chancellor, S2344, Letter Books of the Vice Chancellor, no. XXV. Minutes of Council, 16 July 1917, University of Sheffield Administrative Archives. 146. Dale to Leslie Scott, MP, 19 July 1917, Archive of the University of Liverpool, Vice-Chancellor, S2344, Letter Books of the Vice Chancellor, no. XXV. 147. Parliamentary Debates (Commons), 5th Series, vol. 98, cols. 2379–98 (8 November 1917). 148. In 1880, the Queen’s University was superseded by the Royal University of Ireland, a degree-conferring body on the London model for the former colleges of both Queen’s and the Catholic University of Ireland (Magee College, and University College Dublin). 149. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 192, cols. 1771–1774 (18 June 1868). 150. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 192, col. 1774 (18 June 1868). 151. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 192, cols. 1777, 1790–91 (18 June 1868). 152. The Times, 23 November 1912, 4. 153. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 99, col. 2416 (29 November 1917). 154. J. Herbert Lewis to David Lloyd George, 21 January 1918, J. Herbert Lewis Papers, D79. Lewis reiterated the same points to other correspondents. 155. The Times, 18 October 1883, 6. 156. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 295, cols. 350–3 (6 March 1885). 157. Cutting from the Methodist Times, 19 September 1918, University of Leeds Archive, Microfilm Reel 133.F42. 158. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 295, col. 363 (6 March 1885).

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159. Andrew Jones, The Politics of Reform, 1884 (Cambridge, 1972), 212–13. 160. The Times, 18 March 1885, 9. 161. See John T. Seaman, A Citizen of the World: The Life of James Bryce (London and New York, 2006), ch. 4. 162. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 295, cols. 323–338, 691–717 (6 March 1885). On the second night of debate, Parnell argued that Dublin was the university of the minority, and therefore not entitled to separate representation. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 295, cols. 641–649 (10 March 1885). 163. A Bill to Abolish the Representation in Parliament of the Universities of the United Kingdom; P. P. (166) viii 569. 164. Brian Harrison, Separate Spheres: Opposition to Women’s Suffrage in Britain (London, 1978), 41. On the strength of Conservative inclusion of women, see Pugh, ‘Popular Conservatism’, 264–68. 165. Parliamentary Debates, 4th Series, vol. 4, cols. 1181–1244 (18 May 1892). 166. The Times, 8 July 1892, 8. 167. The phrase used by S. H. Butcher, MP for Cambridge University. Parliamentary Debates, 4th Series, vol. 158, col. 206 (24 October 1906). 168. Parliamentary Debates, 4th Series, vol. 163, col. 209 (24 October 1906). 169. Parliamentary Debates, 4th Series, vol. 163, cols. 201–252 (24 October 1906). 170. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 39, col. 1326 (17 June 1912). 171. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 39, col. 1340 (17 June 1912). 172. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 40, cols 1733–44, 2104–13 (8, 11 July 1912). 173. The Times, 18 January 1913, 10. 174. Proceedings of Convocation 17 January 1913, University of London Archives, Convocation and Committees, UoL/CN 1/1/12. The Times, 24 January 1913, 8. 175. The Times, 22 January 1913, 8. 176. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series, vol. 55, col. 810 (11 July 1913). 177. The Times, 29 April 1912, 6. 178. Annie G. Porritt, ‘The Irish Home Rule Bill’, Political Science Quarterly, 28 (1913), 312. 179. Letter from Professor J. G. Swift MacNeill (Nationalist MP for Donegal South), The Times, 24 October 1912, 12. Larmor, who took his undergraduate degree at Queen’s Belfast, also believed that institution should be removed from Irish jurisdiction. 180. The Times, 23 October 1912, 8. 181. See Butler, Electoral System, 74. 182. The Times, 11 December 1930, 10. 183. The Times, 27 January 1931, 10.


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184. The Times, 20 February 1931, 15. 185. Rathbone’s colleagues on the executive of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies had been unsuccessful in persuading Rathbone to seek election in 1918, when women were for the first time permitted to stand for Parliament. Pedersen, Eleanor Rathbone, 29–3, 176–7, 219–21. 186. Rathbone to Moberley, 17 January 1931, [University of Manchester] Vice Chancellor’s Archive, VCA/7/138 (1). 187. Printed copy of ‘The Case for University Representation’ (December 1930), and letters from Rathbone to Manchester Vice-Chancellor, Walter Moberley, December 1930 and January 1931, [University of Manchester] Vice Chancellor’s Archive, VCA/7/138 (1). Pedersen, Eleanor Rathbone, 225. 188. ‘University Representation’, 1930 (printed circular), Archive of the University of Liverpool, Vice-Chancellor, P712/6. This file also contains the annotated typescript of ‘The Case for University Representation’. 189. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 249, col. 1803 (16 March 1931). And Rathbone’s work to strengthen the institution of university representation through collective action hardly stopped here. Shortly after the outbreak of war in 1939, for example, she played a key role in the formation of a University Members’ Committee with the aim of holding regular meetings and establishing closer relations with the Vice-Chancellor’s Committee to keep abreast of universities’ dealings with various government departments. Rathbone to J. S. B, Stopford, 26 October 1939, [University of Manchester] Vice Chancellor’s Archive, VCA/7/138 (2). 190. The Times, 2 February 1931, 8. 191. The Times, 2 February 1931, 8; 17 February 1931, 8. Following publication of this letter in The Times, Rathbone wrote to append the names of four additional supporters now dwelling in the Elysian Fields—John Stuart Mill, Lord John Russell, Walter Bagehot, and W. E. H. Lecky—and provided pertinent quotations from each. The Times, 16 March 1931, 13. 192. The Times, 30 January 1931, 8. 193. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 249, cols. 700–10, 1695–1806 (16 March 1931). 194. Butler, Electoral System, 75–6. 195. Parliamentary Debates, 5th Series (Commons), vol. 252, e.g., cols 2006 [John Buchan], 2023–4 [Gerald Hurst] (21 May 1931). 196. Election Addresses 1931, 39, Papers of the National Liberal Club, DM.668, Special Collections, University of Bristol Library. 197. MacDonald had also lent his support to earlier efforts that involved abolishing the university franchise, such as Arthur Henderson’s Representation of the People Bill of March 1912. Bill to Extend the Parliamentary Franchise to Men and Women and to Amend the Registration and Electoral System (Electors and Representation of the People: Absent and Infirm Voters); P.P. 1912–13 (109) v 85. 198. Butler, Electoral System, 86.

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199. Butler, Electoral System, 120. 200. The Times, 16 February 1948, 5. In 1945, sixty-two contests in the London area returned forty-eight Labour MPs. In 1950, thirty-one Labour MPs were elected in forty-three contests. Wartime and postwar demographic trends also favored the Conservatives in the capital. Thomas P. Jenkin, ‘The British General Election of 1950’, The Western Political Quarterly 3 (1950), 184. 201. The Times, 6 February 1948, 5. In a subsequent letter, A. J. P. Taylor and G. D. N. Worswick regretted Stallybrass’s defence of university constituencies and the Hebdomadal Council’s assumption of authority to speak for university opinion in political matters. Many resident graduates, and they themselves, would prefer abolition to the retention of the current system. The Times, 10 February 1948, 5. 202. The Times, 9 February 1948, 5. 203. The Times, 16 February 1848, 5. 204. Lord John Russell, An Essay on the History of the English Government and Constitution from the Reign of Henry VII to the Present Time, 2nd edn (London, 1823), 344–5. Ideas about the positive qualities of university representatives in the modern period exhibit clear continuities with those which obtained under the unreformed electoral system; cf. Frank O’Gorman, Voters, Patrons, and Parties: The Unreformed Electoral System of Hanoverian England, 1734–1832 (Oxford, 1989), 122–5. 205. Buchanan, Parliamentary Representation of the Scottish Universities, 5. 206. The Times, 22 March 1866, 12. 207. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, On the Constitution of Church and State (1830), ed. John Colmer (The Collected Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Vol. X, Princeton, 1976), esp. 46–55. See also Sheldon Rothblatt, The Revolution of the Dons: Cambridge and Society in Victorian England (New York: Basic Books, 1968), 113–15, 148 and n. 2; and Ben Knights, The Idea of the Clerisy (Cambridge, 1979). 208. The Times, 24 September 1831, 4; stated much more mildly in Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 7, col. 526 (23 September 1831). 209. The Times, 22 March 1861, 9. 210. Parliamentary Debates, 3rd Series, vol. 188, col. 25 (18 June 1867). 211. In a speech at Bath on 24 November 1911. The Times, 25 November 1911, 12. 212. Humberstone, ‘University Representation in Parliament’, 243. 213. The Times, 11 March 1885, 9. 214. Edward Henry Perowne to R. C. Jebb, 5 September 1891. Jebb’s correspondence is mostly in private hands but is currently being edited for publication by Dr. C. A. Stray, Swansea University. I am grateful to Dr. Stray for bringing this letter, and the following one, to my attention. 215. R. C. Jebb to Arthur Jebb, 12 October 1891. 216. The following analyses draw in the main from the biographical index of university members compiled by Ian Grimble and included in Humberstone,


217. 218.

219.

220.

221. 222. 223. 224. 225. 226.

227.

228. 229. 230. 231. 232. 233.

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University Representation, 73–123. I have augmented this information where necessary (for example, by including Eoin MacNeil, the Sinn Fein candidate for the National University of Ireland, who was elected in 1918 but never took his seat), and regularizing the career categories noted. On lawyer-MPs, see Meisel, Public Speech, 207–219. Ward, Victorian Oxford, 21. Ward describes in detail the increasing difficulties Gladstone experienced during his years as burgess for Oxford (1847–65), and views his difficulties as symptomatic: ‘A university which preferred Inglis to Peel, and Gathorne Hardy to Gladstone, courted political insignificance’ (p. xv). Two MPs, Sir Henry Craik and Sir William Cheyne sat for the Glasgow and Aberdeen and the Edinburgh and St Andrews constituencies, respectively, before being returned for the new Combined Scottish Universities seats in 1868. For the purposes of this analysis, I have counted the total of their service. Although plural voting in general was thought to benefit the Conservatives, this effect was most pronounced in the case of the university franchise. Blewett, ‘Franchise in the United Kingdom’, 48–51. Harrison (ed.), Twentieth Century, 381. McCallum and Readman, British General Election of 1945, 221. R. B. McDowell and D. A. Webb, Trinity College Dublin, 1592–1952: An Academic History (Cambridge, 1982), 155. See Pedersen, Eleanor Rathbone, 226–8 regarding Rathbone’s influence on the trend toward Independent university MPs. Millicent B. Rex, ‘The University Constituencies in the Recent British Election’, The Journal of Politics, 8 (1946), 205. National Library of Wales, ‘University of Wales By-Election 1943’, http://www.llgc.org.uk/ymgyrchu/Pleidleisio/Is/1943/index-e.htm (accessed 3 November 2006). As indicated by the requests sent by The Arena magazine to several individuals to comment on university representation. The other major issues noted were the possibility of including new universities and giving women graduates the vote. M. Tatham to Alfred Hopkinson, 2 June 1913, [University of Manchester] Vice Chancellor’s Archive, VCA/6/24. Parliamentary Debates 5th Series (Commons), vol. 252, cols. 2012–2018 (21 May 1931). Rathbone, ‘Case for University Representation’. McCallum and Readman, British General Election of 1945, 218–19. The Times, 17 February 1926, 10. Smith, John Buchan, 321. Election Addresses 1929, vol. 2, 207; Election Addresses 1931, 91, Papers of the National Liberal Club, DM.668. In 1929, the University Unionist Association nominated a candidate to stand against Graham-Little, which accounts for his need to emphasize his Conservative bona fides.

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234. The Times, November 12, 1935, 15. A split within Oxford’s Conservative ranks between traditionalists and evangelicals in the 1930s was instrumental in enabling Independent candidates to capture one seat in 1935 and both in 1937 and 1945. Harrison (ed.), Twentieth Century, 381. 235. Rex, ‘University Constituencies’, 207. 236. The Times, February 6, 1948, 5. 237. Rex, ‘University Constituencies’, 205. The questionable status of independents has a longer history, even when party structures are thought to have been less rigid; see Derek Beales, ‘Parliamentary Parties and the ‘‘Independent’’ Member, 1810–1860’, in Robert Robson (ed.), Ideas and Institutions of the Victorians: Essays in Honour of George Kitson Clark (London, 1967). 238. Charles Wintour to Lord Beaverbrook, 24 November 1949, Beaverbrook Papers, BBK/H/253, Parliamentary Archives. In defending the virtues of university representation, Wintour claimed to be ‘advocating a viewpoint with which I know you [Beaverbrook] disagree’. 239. Parliamentary Debates, 4th Series, vol. 163, col. 209 (24 October 1906). 240. The Times, 10 February 1948, 5. 241. Ben Russell, ‘After 10 Years, How Close is Labour to Reforming the House of Lords? The Big Question’, The Independent, 6 February 2007, 30. 242. See Meg Russell, Reforming the House of Lords: Lessons from Overseas (Oxford, 2000), 301–7. At various points, Russell takes note of the independent role of the university Senators in the primarily vocational Irish Seanad created in 1937 (esp. 73, 80, 81, 98, 151–2), though the Irish model is not among those she considered most relevant to the future of the Lords. 243. On proposals for the Lords, see Vernon Bogdanor, ‘Why the Lords Doesn’t Need More Politicians: An Elected Upper House Would Turn Into a Retirement Home for Failed Party Hacks’, The Sunday Telegraph, 11 February 2007, 24. 244. Gavin Cordon, ‘Straw Urges MPs to Support ‘‘Hybrid’’ Lords’, Press Association Newsfile, 20 February 2007. 245. David Heath, ‘Lords Reform Long Overdue’, Western Daily Press, 20 February 2007, 12. Heath was the Liberal Democratic shadow leader of the House. 246. See, e.g., W. R. Ward, Victorian Oxford. 247. See, e.g., the statistics on higher civil servants’ university education in ´ W. D. Rubinstein, ‘Education and the Social Origins of British Elites, 1880–1970’, Past and Present, 112 (1986), 190. 248. See Matthew, Gladstone, 1809–1874, 139.

Review Essay

Sitting Down at a ‘Thyestean Banquet of Clap-trap’ Sheldon Rothblatt

Robert D. Anderson, European Universities from the Enlightenment to 1914 (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 338 pp.; Robert D. Anderson, British Universities Past and Present (London and New York: Hambledon, 2006), 241 pp.; H.S. Jones, Intellect and Character in Victorian England, Mark Pattison and the Invention of the Don (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 285 pp.; John Gibbins, John Grote, Cambridge University and the Development of Victorian Thought (Exeter: Imprint Academic, 2007), 526 pp.; Duke Maskell and Ian Robinson, The New Idea of a University (Essex: Imprint Academic, 2002), 198 pp. The world of universities is composed of endless paradoxes, goals and objectives that are contradictory. Nevertheless, no difficulty appears to stymie policymakers, government planners and dirigistes of many stripes who believe they can reshape modern societies by either ‘steering’ or micromanaging higher education. The stated aims are many: to make universities efficient or productive, whatever that actually means; to strengthen national economic priorities in circumstances constantly trumpeted as requiring global competition; to inculcate skills (as opposed to, or at least not the equivalent of, critical thinking); to make them accessible to groups and classes deemed to be in short supply; to promote various forms of discovery in obedience to research traditions or priorities. At the same time, especially in Anglophone countries but also in the Netherlands or Sweden, groups of academics and particular professional bodies labour to strengthen or revive liberal arts undergraduate teaching or liberal education, no two conceptions being identical.

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As these objectives are usually pursued simultaneously, the overload is substantial and the costs astronomical. From a policy perspective, objectives need to be stated with a certain simplicity, or as civil servants might say, clarity of objectives. Scholars succumb to the temptation from time to time. If one’s life is spent in universities, it is hard to refrain from speaking out and expressing an opinion on the perennial themes: academic freedom, institutional autonomy, the right kind of teaching, the right kind of research and scholarship, the right collection of ideals. Surely somewhere in the rackety history of universities there must exist a guide to the perplexed, a crucial inheritance in need of recovery, an identifiable clear, mellifluous, and thrilling sound? Usually the historical study of universities tends in another direction, certainly not towards obfuscation but rather always towards complexity Burton R. Clark and Ronald Barnett have used ‘complexity’ as a conception that helps explain how universities actually function.1 Historians are accustomed to the mess that is apparent in any account of human activity, although they try to arrange the pieces in some creditable form. No easy task. Thousands of universities exist. Hundreds of them go back centuries; others at least a century, and even newer institutions age quickly, reproducing the legacies of the older ones. The gene pool is astonishingly rich. Sources are unlimited, actors too numerous almost to name. The generations pile upon one another and leave countless memoirs and correspondence. There are endless committee documents, reports, course descriptions, laboratory results, architectural records, accounts of internal disputes, newspaper reportage, government inquiries, financial statements and income streams and commencement addresses, to provide only a short list of accessible materials for the study of institutions ancient in origin. The narratives are impossibly layered. The whole of it forces a certain humility on scholars and brings them to the point where narrative simplification is simply annoying. So the trick is to catch the complexity of the university by visiting its lengthy past, extracting from it enough coherence to provide sensible patterning and some perspective in dealing with wearisome clichés, what the poet Matthew Arnold once gruesomely identified as comprising a ‘Thyestean banquet of claptrap’. It is therefore comforting to report that the material under review contains many fresh contributions to our understanding of how universities underwent periodic changes, how the academic communities in different nations re-conceived their role and obligations, what forces were at work in providing challenges and what was lost and gained over time. Two of

A ‘Thyestean Banquet of Clap-trap’

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the works are built around central university figures of the mid-Victorian period in England (with relevance for Scotland), one of them much better known than the other. Mark Pattison was a prominent Oxford don, and, as typical of some dons of the period, also a public figure. After losing out on a first try, he eventually became Rector of Lincoln College. John Grote was a Cambridge don, also with external connections but known better on the banks of the Cam. He wrote but did not publish much; and since he was a philosopher, his thoughts were not widely accessible. The name ‘Grote’ invariably conjures up his brother George, a banker rather than an academic, if not exactly by choice, but also an M.P., an intellectual, and a philosophical radical of the school of Jeremy Bentham. He applied his talents to a popular utilitarian interpretation of the history of Greece. Not so generally well known, except to those who enjoy the gossip of the period, was his wife, the formidable and eccentric bluestocking (actually she wore red stockings), Harriet Lewin Grote. G.M. Young, who used to be commonly read, once wrote that she ‘would have been a far more effective Member of Parliament than her husband’.2 Two other books more broadly relate the history of universities in the modern period. In them Robert Anderson, who here displays the remarkable talents so evident in his indispensable writings on Scotland, France, elites, and other central subjects, undertakes the formidable challenge of writing a history of universities in Europe from the eighteenth century to the first world war. He also surveys the history of British universities from the medieval period to the present. The fifth book is not a work of history per se, although it picks up on historical themes often mentioned by historians. It is a contribution to the present debate over the proper mission and functions of British universities, or universities in general, but it indicates, as do others of the genre, how often discussions of the ‘proper’ role of universities require but also depart from attention to the historical record. Both of Anderson’s volumes, as do the studies of Grote and Pattison, contain impressive bibliographies and plentiful references to the sources for advice on how to engage in the rewarding but by no means simple task of mining the historical record. Historians are typically concerned with the interplay of continuities and transformations in the interior performance of universities, as well as in the periodic and necessary adjustments of such institutions to wider phenomena, of which examples are legion: the social class reconfiguration of society, bringing new strata into prominence; economic and technological innovation, which also impacts on the social structure;

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or expansion in the duties and responsibilities of government. More subtle and hard to grasp are changes in the family, resulting in altered attitudes towards upbringing and to the place of education in furthering life chances. Since the foundation of universities in the twelfth century, religious belief or thought, or ecclesiastical settlements and structures, have been of the utmost importance in understanding the history of universities. The departure of dominant religious influences from higher education in the middle of the nineteenth century has led historians into analyses of secularizing trends and the effect of these on the teaching and discipline of universities. Church-related colleges and universities comprise an important sector of higher education in the United States even today, if less conspicuous in the curricula of elite and research institutions. But even where influences are discernible, thoughtful historians like George Marsden have noticed a tendency towards ‘established nonbelief ’. So keen is this sentiment that academics of faith are often regarded with suspicion as illegitimate representatives of the profession.3 A commonplace of English university history of the nineteenth century is that the first truly major transformation of the two senior universities of Oxford and Cambridge occurred in the mid-Victorian period. The chronology is no longer as hard and fast as often thought. However, arguments over chronology depend upon a measure of change. Should it be intellectual, social, economic or cultural, a shift in government policy, a major rather than a minor theme? Even at the lowest point in an academic cycle (except for institutions in totalitarian countries), there are usually some redeeming features, some quiet signs of progress. From this perspective any number of Oxford and Cambridge dons and professors were open to new currents of thought and were consequently prepared to participate in the public debates that led up to the appointment in the 1850s of royal commissioners (they had met earlier to consider problems in the provision for university education in Scotland). However, due to the work of the commissions, and that work extended through other committees until the 1870s, Oxbridge4 college and university statutes were revised, financial sources were rationalized, professorial teaching was strengthened (an internal movement to strengthen college teaching had been going on for some time) and the authority of heads of houses was diluted. Religious tests for admission and graduation were slowly eliminated. Celibacy and holy orders as conditions for retaining college fellowships, and therefore necessary for teaching, were also ended. As significant as these alterations were the growth of women’s colleges and


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the development of a wholly new sector of civic or regional university colleges all over the British isles. These had been preceded by the first foundation of the University of London in the 1820s. A second University of London established in 1836 was the basis for a wholly radical way of relating teaching to examining and had a lasting impact on the evolution of higher education in the United Kingdom. The transformations of the mid-Victorian period ushered in what some historians label a golden age for Oxbridge elite education, freeing up energies that had been constrained by prior financial arrangements and allowing for the growth of professional academic careers. These have been well explained. The development of an alternative higher education sector in the form of university and technical colleges or other specialized schools—movements occurring on the continent too—did not challenge Oxbridge hegemony or prestige. Indeed, quite the opposite. Wealth, connection to the historic governing and clerical elites and to a sector of privileged and revitalized independent schools, plus the enormous benefits of prestige often conferred on ancient institutions, provided advantages that a weakly-endowed higher education segment could never match. Sociologists of higher education would later offer the hypothesis that one of the certain consequences of a market-driven higher education system—which is what existed in mid-Victorian Britain—is institutional differentiation. Whereas once Oxford and Cambridge stood alone, they were now at the apex of a network of hierarchically-sorted colleges and universities. The newer and less privileged institutions absorbed the students who were unprepared for the more rigorous academic demands that college dons were at last more consistently free to enforce. Mark Pattison has long been regarded as a useful symbol of the hectic and controversial activity of the period of the English royal commissioners. At first glance, this may appear odd. He was not himself, as H.S. Jones says, a celebrated institutional reformer, although he sometimes regarded himself as such. He was in any event well-informed about what was happening and looked ahead to what universities could become rather than anterior to what they supposedly had been. He was not particularly effective as the Rector of Lincoln College. Wanting very much to be head of house, he nevertheless cared little for the administrative labour. He wrote, but much of it was anonymous. He spent some time in Germany, impressed, as were so many others, by the intellectual and philosophical quality of the universities there. He also expressed a wider interest in German affairs, reporting from Berlin for

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The London Times. Despite a distaste for administration, he served as a curator of the Bodley and a delegate of the Clarendon Press. Although a mid-Victorian critic of the enthusiasm for competitive examinations, coming to believe that teaching to a common syllabus defeated true education, he examined for the India Civil Service and the University of London. He supported women’s education and votes for women and served on one of the royal commissions on secondary education. So while not an active reformer himself, he appears to have participated in many of the activities that defined the reform period. Matthew Arnold, a friend, was however disappointed by Pattison’s literary output. With a few exceptions, he was conspicuously unable to form loving relationships, either with family or with his much younger wife. He had a nasty temper and could be acerbic and priggish. Lonely and very selfconscious as an undergraduate, he passed over from religious belief to scepticism without much inner turmoil, saying only that he had ‘grown’. His Memoirs, which caught the attention of the great William Gladstone, encouraged readers to view him as self-satisfied and disagreeable. For a long while it was speculated that Pattison was the prototype of George Eliot’s portrait of the pompous and tedious pedant, Edward Casaubon, forever chasing the rainbows of grand scholarship, although another candidate was Henry Halford Vaughan, Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford from 1848–1858, who held views that seemed to anticipate Pattison’s (180).5 The Casaubon syndrome is interesting as a way of catching at the developing mid-Victorian issue of academic professionalism. There appear to have been any number of dons who, hoping to emulate German scholarship, set themselves ambitious writing targets that they could never meet and succumbed to headaches and self-reproach. Thus appeared, possibly for the first time in England, the phenomenon of academic failure. There was a real Isaac Casaubon, however, a celebrated seventeenth-century scholar, and Pattison’s talents were at their best in his study of the man.6 Post-Victorian readers have a better appreciation of the Memoirs, sensing its psychological underpinnings. But these were easily missed at the time. The Cambridge philosopher Henry Sidgwick, another featured actor of the reform and later periods, called Pattison’s autobiographical effort a ‘curious unconscious confession of sordid egotism. . . . I cannot but admit that his life is a moral fiasco.’ Henry Jackson, yet another important Cambridge professor, regarded the Memoirs as ‘a terrible book’. The press offered similar opinions, one reviewer complaining that Pattison failed to sublimate his loss of faith into loftier sentiments. But


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this was not exactly Sidgwick’s conclusion, for he noticed that whatever the failings, Pattison possessed ‘a genuine ardour for an academic ideal of life’ (127, 138). This is the entering point for Jones’s concentration on Pattison as a seminal figure. Pattison is invaluable to historians because he perfectly captures, through his thought rather than his personality, the mental life of Oxbridge on the point of transition. The removal of inherited conditions for teaching in college now necessitated the articulation of another academic identity. Pattison was not alone in seeking that identity, but Jones is attracted to Pattison’s union of the English man of letters ideal type with the German Gelehrter because Pattison derived it from the special perspective of a history of ideas, the methods of a history of ideas and the history of the university. Jones regards Pattison as a pioneer in developing those genres. (Other scholars may well have other candidates.) There is the possibility that Pattison may have influenced Hastings Rashdall, whose three-volume history of the medieval university published in 1895 has retained its significance. Pattison especially seems to have understood how a history of ideas might provide a novel understanding of how academic ideals illuminate academic structures (although one could also argue that Coleridge pointed the way). For example, he concluded that the purpose of a fellowship in the medieval college was to support advanced work rather than subsidize liberal arts teaching. He suggested that since the colleges were better endowed than the university, the old fellowship system might be restored, the endowments used for scholarship. The university or professorial role would therefore be appropriately directed to lectures of a more general or liberal nature, quite the reverse of what other Victorians were saying. Jones disagrees strongly with writers who have accused Pattison of wishing to dissolve the colleges and transfer their assets to the university. Anyone reading Pattison understands that he was a serious and fruitful scholar, who illuminated whatever topic caught his interest. Jones is quite right to emphasize his intellectual qualities, and, as Sidgwick recognized, his emotional search for academic principles suited to a new age. His stern and ascetic nature appeared to buttress an intense commitment to learning provided by the examples coming out of Germany and to incline him towards a dislike of academic frivolity and the temptations emanating from fashionable metropolitan circles. He accepted the German idea of specialism and the requirement that the scholar must develop a thorough understanding of some branch of inquiry.

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At this point Jones introduces some important qualifications. Pattison is usually regarded as a supporter of the new idea of university-based research, but that is erroneous. When Pattison spoke about ‘research’, he did not necessarily mean cutting-edge inquiry or discovery almost for its own sake (and the prestige that such may afford), research as commonly understood today. That sort of research was better performed in specialized institutions. John Henry Newman, in his lectures on the idea of a university, offered the same solution. Pattison decided that the pursuit of originality was likely to bring about ‘a puffy, unsubstantial mental condition’ (230), and he specifically criticized the Oriel Noetics, the liberals who so offended Newman when he fought with them over the conduct of college teaching in the 1830s. Besides distracting from teaching, a search for the new was likely to ignore earlier intellectual achievements. Contrary to how he is usually regarded, Pattison turns out to be a supporter of the idea that universities primarily exist for liberal education, and that of the different categories of teacher, professors were better able to undertake that mission than college fellows. Furthermore, also contrary to the received wisdom, Pattison accepted the traditional Oxford commitment to character formation as the purpose of liberal education, and he strengthened that conclusion by what he knew of German conceptions of self-realization. What is odd about Pattison’s position is that he also believed that specialism, usually held to be a condition for research, would actually improve liberal education. While education for the shaping of character was never far from the lips of any Victorian academic or intellectual, Pattison’s arrival at a familiar destination was certainly unique. The conventional argument is that specialism requires a narrowing and fragmenting of knowledge and is the wrong method for providing undergraduates with a general education. It sounds implausible; but in fact today’s academic community is largely composed of specialists, at least all scholars and scientists are trained in specialties and bring the methods of disciplinary research into courses designed more generally. It is true that no two conceptions of general education exist, and Pattison would not have recognized the validity of programmes labelled liberal education today. The shaping of character has not entirely disappeared from university education, but it is certainly difficult to spot. It is not the dominant justification for a liberal education, although from time to time it creeps back in the guise of values or personality traits that all highly-educated people are supposed to possess. This is an area of education in which competing views are rampant and often vague. Furthermore, distinguishing


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between ends and means in liberal education is always challenging, which is why the debates remain so unsettled and cloudy. The connections are always clearer in vocational instruction, where, employing the fashionable mechanical vocabulary of economics, inputs are related to outputs. The connections are not at all so certain in liberal education. Therefore it is not surprising to find that Pattison, working his way towards ‘inventing a don’, is often hard to pin down. If he spoke about character formation being the desired end of a liberal education, he also said that a philosophical cast of mind was the aim. If we inquire further into how the two ends relate, one answer might be that gaining a philosophical cast of mind was ipso facto an improvement in character. (Other Victorians eschewed an intellectual approach to character formation and relied instead on games at school or residence at a university.) Was the search for truth the fundamental purpose of knowledge-acquisition? Of course truth of some kind presumably had always been a reason for being educated. Medieval scholars were interested in truth and so on through the ages, but Pattison was oddly ambivalent. At one point he specifically ruled out the search for truth, ordinarily regarded as an aspect of the German knowledge revolution, but at another he thought of it as the product of continuing scholarly inquiry. Jones explains the confusion by contrasting Pattison with Newman, and others of his persuasion, for whom truth was dogmatic and derived from religious sources. In other words, as is typical of such scholarly debates, language use is shaped by specific antagonisms. Released from those antagonisms, words acquire a different meaning. There is another confusion deserving attention. Pattison wished to combine the German idea of a scholar with the English notion of a man of letters or critic, but the man of letters was, in our understanding, a public intellectual, axiological as some might say, who judged men and manners by the best standards of society. Pattison, we heard, believed that scholarship required isolation. The German role of the scholar was closer to the spirit of the great Isaac Casaubon. Pattison did not seek a public role and does not appear to have advocated it as part of the package of what made a don, although apparently he exercised the man of letters function in his numerous contributions to the middle-brow journals of the day. All Anglo-American narratives about liberal education are haunted by the ghost of John Henry Newman. If Pattison disagreed with Newman that truth was the end of a liberal education because he himself

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no longer regarded religion with the same veneration as earlier in life, Newman’s influence was nevertheless pervasive. Jones’s argument is new and plausible. The young Pattison grew up in the days of the Tractarian movement, even once leaning in their Romanizing direction. The Memoirs did not offer an accurate account of the inheritance. But in truth Pattison was attracted to and permanently touched by Newman’s emphasis on college teaching (catechetical rather than tutorial), by his essentialist view of the purpose of a university, by the intensity with which educational ideals were pursued and by the belief, very mid-Victorian incidentally, that commitment to an ideal was a necessary part of the professional baggage of a don or a professor. A framed photograph of Newman sat on Pattison’s mantelpiece. Despite the sour comments of contemporaries, Pattison’s reputation appears to have improved by the time of his death, his intellectual qualities appreciated at home and abroad. Was he however the prototypical Victorian ‘don’ (a corruption of the Latin dominus which also provided dominie, a Scottish schoolmaster)? Jones’s subtitle contains a double entendre. It suggests that in some ways Pattison might have been the professional academic of the future, if not the future of the twenty-first century. The subtitle also suggests that it was in and around the life of Mark Pattison that rich and fruitful discussions about the role of an academic took place, and he in particular caught at the strands of existing thought and wove them uniquely together. This seems to be the stronger reading. We pass from Oxford to Cambridge and to the figure of John Grote, resurrected in almost full fig after comparative neglect as another of the Victorians worth our attention. John Gibbins says that he has worked on Grote for thirty-nine years, initially led to him by materials deposited in the Durham University Library. Much primary source material only became available in 1989, found in the possession of a branch of the English Rothschild family with marital antecedents relevant to Grote. He is hardly a simple read, but Gibbins has relentlessly and impressively pursued every nuance. The result is a devoted and detailed study of the numerous philosophical movements—the ‘moral sciences’ at Cambridge—leading up to and surrounding Grote. Gibbins goes to great lengths—possibly with unnecessary repetition—to prove that Grote is properly speaking an idealist philosopher and not, as some have said (myself included), following the compelling but careless paradigm devised by J.S. Mill, an ‘intuitionist’. His case is strong. He is able to


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explain exactly how idealist philosophy and intuitionism differ, tracing the relevant legacies not to German thinkers, whose influence on Grote was at best indirect, but to home-grown schools of thought extending back to the Cambridge Platonists of the seventeenth century and forward to the poet and ‘unorthodox idealist theologian’ Samuel Taylor Coleridge (66). As intellectual historians and philosophers are more acquainted with the late nineteenth-century school of Hegelian-based idealism at Oxford, as represented by T.H. Green, Bosanquet and others, Gibbins wants to establish that Cambridge dons were in the field earlier, not only developing that branch of thought but actually incorporating it into the curricular reforms that well preceded the convening of the great royal commissions. He has much to say about another important Cambridge figure, who has certainly attracted considerable attention, Frederick Denison Maurice. In the 1840s when the Cambridge curriculum, at least the examinations degree curriculum, was dominated by mathematics and classical philology, Trinity and St John’s Colleges were requiring a knowledge of philosophy in college fellowship examinations. Gibbins places Grote firmly into the category of a generation of Trinity dons of reputation who were liberal or Broad Church Anglicans with wide and reformist views on university governance, finance, the award of scholarships and the use of religious tests. They were consequently the target of more conservatively-minded dons in an age of strongly-held opinions. Many aspects of Grote’s thought are closely examined. He developed a novel theory of language, with special emphasis on ordinary rather than, say, original or historical meanings. Grote felt that historical explanations were limited, not only with respect to the study of language but also with regard to Christian belief. He was a strong intellectual opponent of various contemporary schools of thought: positivism, materialism, relativism and scepticism. Pattison also disliked certain forms of French positivism, finding them dogmatic. But he could not have disagreed more on the value of historical study, and he had crossed the line from religious belief to scepticism. Besides explaining the foundations and contributions of Grote’s philosophical ideas, arguing the case for his preeminence and internal influence on younger dons and his place in steering Cambridge towards Victorian high-mindedness, Gibbins has another purpose. It is his view that historians writing on the intellectual transformation of Cambridge in the nineteenth century have understated Grote’s role and influence, downplaying the intellectual variety and strength of Cambridge philosophy long before the

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first generation of royal commissioners met to take up the reformist cry. They have done so—if they have paid any attention to Grote at all—by accepting J.S. Mill’s paradigm lumping idealism and intuitionism together as identical and conservative philosophical systems. Idealists could then be dismissed as backward-looking tory opponents of necessary institutional reform. Henry Sidgwick (the darling of the much later Scrutiny critics, for whom he represented the best type of don in Cambridge) knew and respected Grote, but Gibbins also holds him responsible for promoting a view of the earlier decades as laggardly, helping to throw historians off the scent and depriving Grote of his due place in Cambridge history. Leslie Stephen, another contemporary, is similarly guilty of being dismissive, as well as one of Stephen’s admired biographers, Noël Gilroy, Lord Annan (not Sir Noël Annan). Gibbins quite correctly provides a counter argument advanced in one form or another by on-going work on Cambridge romanticism, philosophical idealism, the liberal Anglicans and the scientists and philosophers named by Walter Cannon (as once known) as the ‘Cambridge Network’ that came of age in the first half of the nineteenth century. However, Gibbins is hesitant on the timing of the growth of academic careerism, wanting to place it earlier but eventually conceding that as far as academic philosophy is concerned, the later period is more salient. No true revolution in the idea of a college career could take place as long as the career restrictions remained. So this large and learned study has at least two primary thrusts: first, to establish Grote as an original thinker who made significant contributions to most of the major philosophical fields of his day; and second, to place Grote in the context of the revitalization of Oxbridge in the middle decades of the nineteenth century and the modernization of academic life. Origins and chronologies are questioned. No reviewer could possibly object to work that seriously questions received chronologies about the stages of change and the importance of various actors in that change. This is after all what historians do and what they ought to do; and as history is not an exact science but a reading of the experience of men and women over time, and of their interconnections with institutions and structures, in obedience to the best available canons of evidence, Gibbins’ lifelong commitment to understanding the life and times of John Grote is an addition to our knowledge of certain significant inner dimensions of Cambridge history. That being the case, it is now time to explore the arguments regarding the periodization of English


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university history at greater length, since Gibbins often mentions my early writings on the subject. They are referred to (along with others) as ‘recent’ (142). Alas, were that but true I would not feel the years racing along. The Revolution of the Dons, Cambridge and Society in Victorian England was first published forty years ago (and reissued in 1982 with a special introduction, mentioning additional materials that had appeared since first publication). It would be odd indeed if new ideas and methods and new evidence about how to organize a study of education and society did not appear after so long a period of time, especially in a profession that encourages revision (and revisionism). But nuances and corrections apart, is the Sidgwick/Stephen paradigm invalid in every respect? The donnish ‘revolution’ referred to is the origin but more the development of the Cambridge supervisorial (tutorial) system of college undergraduate teaching by fellows. Gibbins notes that Grote was a hard-working professorial lecturer. He could hardly have been responsible for the low student turnout for a subject so inherently difficult, but J.B. Mayor, one of Grote’s close colleagues, did not think that he really saw much of undergraduates. The ‘revolution’ of the generation of Sidgwick was undertaken in the context of the larger movement, government-led but supported by vocal opinion, to ‘nationalize’ the ancient universities, that is to say, to diminish the existing aristocratic and clerical social connections while retaining salient, re-thought elements of its culture. This in turn led to the argument (rationalization?) that a university best serves society and government according to precepts and values embodied in its own (new) academic career commitments. The ‘revolution’ provided the opportunity to re-value those commitments. Pattison fits this mould. The initial role of the Victorian state was to assist the process of institutional re-definition by removing legal and financial barriers inherited from the past. Once done, the state, being politically ‘liberal’ in a nineteenth-century sense, was more or less willing to withdraw from active and frequent intrusion into the governance and education offered by Oxbridge until well into the next century. Gibbins is undoubtedly correct in pointing to prior intellectual achievements. However, individual thinkers and reformers aside, no massive, systematic and sustained transformation of the ancient universities was possible until public opinion was aroused (or public opinion aroused the state). That is the point. Possibly D.A. Winstanley’s sometime sharp distinction between ‘reformed’ and ‘unreformed’ Cambridge is overdrawn, and

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maybe even tired, but when all is said and done, the mid-Victorian period still represents a collective rather than piecemeal take-off into a new phase of university history in England. Sidgwick et al, now operating in a changed and for them encouraging national climate, featuring a sudden sharp increase in student demand for entry, were no doubt emboldened by events to cast their fate with the future rather than credit the past. Objectivity is an easy victim of academic in-fighting, and so is gratitude. We saw that Pattison did not care to publicly acknowledge his debt to Newman however he admitted to it privately. Gibbins blames some of the neglect of Grote on his successor as Knightbridge Professor of Philosophy. He writes of the ‘winter of Birks’ (466). Thomas Rawlinson Birks was an intuitionist and may have distracted contemporaries from appreciating Grote’s contributions, but Grote bears some responsibility. His style was famously hesitant, tortured and self-deprecating (174). Assuredly, Gibbins and others who have found signs of both intellectual strength and reform-mindedness in the decades leading up to the royal commissioners are right to emphasize particular continuities or even innovations in the history of Cambridge or of Oxford. Revisiting those eras myself, only a few years after publication of The Revolution of the Dons, principally through studies of the history of examinations, student societies, college workloads and campus architecture and planning, I assigned new importance to the student political and aesthetic cultures of the Romantic Age, the period beginning around 1790. ( These essays are not referred to). I also began to draw market distinctions between supply and demand in the writing of university history. There is a bottom-up dimension revealed in undergraduate subcultures and in the pressures exerted on college foundations by anxious parents. Changes accumulate discretely from below and become evident in time, if hardly in predictable form. It is not only thinkers who innovate. The revolution of the dons was not possible without prior alterations in modes of conduct and expression, intellectual, academic, social and cultural. To that extent Gibbins and I agree. We are certainly in his debt for bringing to our fuller attention the personal and intellectual qualities of the lesser known of the two brothers, for deepening our understanding of the complex dimensions of early and mid-Victorian philosophical thought, for drawing necessary distinctions between modes of thinking that have been joined together, thereby forcing us to see more clearly the implications of each of those modes.


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Few if any scholars of the modern European university have as accomplished and sure-handed a grasp of the languages, the literature and sources and the major themes that define the genre of the comparative history of higher education institutions as does Robert Anderson. His capacity for accurate and felicitous summary is enviable. He has demonstrated these abilities repeatedly. His conclusions and judgments are undogmatic, and they invariably ring true. In two newer books he provides overviews of the many strands of university history. In one, he begins with an Enlightenment etatist conception of the function of European universities, a somewhat unusual approach, and he brings the story of successive social and educational transformations to the edge of the Great War. The other book is focused on British universities. It starts in the middle ages and ends with reflections on the present massive changes affecting Britain’s provision for higher education, now correctly viewed as a ‘system’ steered, guided and overseen from central government as never before. If the role of the state in shaping universities since the Age of Reason is the principal organizing theme of the study of the European university, the other primary topics of university history are amply illuminated. While common threads exist—the university is an institution that has always traveled well—national differences do matter. Attention is paid to the early Prussian model and the lead-up to the Berlin model, and Piedmont is identified as the first European state to attempt to link secondary to tertiary education, an innovation without which no later elite conception of a university would have been possible. Room is found for full discussions of curricula, academic cultures, religious inheritances and the transition to lay governance and secular thought, how elites are recruited and formed, the entrance of women into higher education, a revolutionary change in retrospect, student subcultures, technology and the professionalization of academic life (for England the ‘invention of the don’). Anti-semitic attitudes as held and expressed by students and professors are not ignored, as is often the case in university history. Even nineteenth-century liberals were capable of holding exclusionary views, as the historian Sir Lewis Namier revealed in his book on the revolutions of 1848. In fact, insofar as continental liberals in particular were highly nationalistic, they were open to the attendant biases. The book is an exceptional compression, but never a skimpy one, of what has been learned about the history of the European university since the ancien régime. Historians (and it is hoped others) will repeatedly

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turn to Anderson for examples of how to frame the problems. A comprehensive survey constructed with such astonishing overall clarity cannot be summarized in any review essay. It is therefore convenient to follow Anderson’s own lead by extracting his running theme of the role of the state in shaping national systems of education, a movement that on the continent began with absolutist states and was not followed in England until the late nineteenth century, especially in the civic university sector, but only came to full realization a century later. Anderson has long pointed out that the Scottish universities followed a different pattern. For reasons dating back to the periods in which that nation was independent, the Scots expected and continue to press for royal and parliamentary subventions throughout the nineteenth century. In this respect, Scotland was far closer to the continental model of state/society relations than was England. Depending upon the nation, splintering tendencies in class and economy, pluralistic religious strains, secular values and popular culture convinced rulers and governing elites that the one institution capable of integrating a modern enterprise society was the university. The great exception, as often noted, was France. The Napoleonic inheritance destroyed the university as a set of unitary institutions, created a unique University of France structure administered from the capital, and, building upon Bourbon precedents, expanded the number of high quality technical and administrative specialized schools to create a prestige higher education sector. Even when the universities were restored as single-campus institutions after 1884, the loss of priority status remained. Otherwise governments, whether inclined to authoritarian models or laissez-faire as in Britain, preferred to grant particular privileges to universities and professors in exchange for promises to respect national as against more particularistic ends. This led to the German paradox, often commented upon, of astonishing professorial authority over institutional governance, the organization of research (post-1850) and teaching, research as now understood and not in Pattison’s terms. Anderson mentions that the soi-disant Humboldtian legacy first established at Berlin as a response to French military victories carried with it the idea that a university, especially a German university, had to re-unify the nation through a national culture. The philosophers of the period transformed that into the celebrated higher culture and higher learning that so enthralled European and American academics for at least a century. The Humboldtian settlement protected universities from the pressures from below that would later arise when the nation


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industrialized, and the task of technological development was handed over to a different set of educational institutions. Later, however, as Europe moved towards a ruinous war, the state/university association broadened to include support for a military industrial sector. Anderson also explains that the ideal of spiritual and intellectual self-cultivation known as Bildung, associated with the Humboldtian university and traceable back to Luther, but based on a common high model (thus different from American individualist aspirations), contained the notion that the state was the guarantor of inner freedom. So while the German universities were commonly admired for the intellectual boldness typifying scholarship and science, they rendered unto Caesar what was Caesar’s. In matters that touched upon the political and legal authority of the state, the professors were silent. They were also not particularly inclined towards democratic sentiments, failing to support the failed post-war experiment of the Weimar Republic. Outside Germany in the free nations academics tended to lean leftwards, if not necessarily far left, in general favouring the reformist, liberal (if not always democratic), civil rights movements of the nineteenth century. ‘Broadly progressive’ is the phrase that Anderson uses (188). The Italian universities, oddly oligarchic even to our own day, were particularly open-minded, allowing Jews and socialists to ascend professorial chairs. French students and professors remained left of centre (although that was hardly to prove a safeguard for Jews in the long run). However, from about 1900 to the first world war student movements in some countries moved to the right, fed by the militant nationalism of the period. Professors began to exhibit similar tendencies if perhaps with less zeal. The Dreyfus Affair in France, in which a Jewish military officer was framed and incarcerated, was however instigated from the outside; and in the 1890s attacks on the French universities from that source increased as part of a general national rightward shift of sentiment. Fascist movements on the continent ended any generous cast of mind that university populations may have from time to time exhibited. Historians can see the beginnings of complicity in what would become regimes capable of committing unspeakable crimes, and signs of professorial behavior that mock the lofty ideals voiced in German and British ideas of a university. Russia’s universities were and remained hopeless, as that czarist nation, with its cycles of arrested reform, moved steadily towards further repression and final collapse.

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Anderson picks up the theme of the creation of a university culture that was influenced if not always dominated by the liberal and middle class movements of the nineteenth century. The legacy was complicated and the variations numerous. But by 1914 university elites, supported in different ways by strong governments long employed in building modern states, had succeeded in the task of national integration assigned to them. Universities were now also underpinned by publicly-financed systems of compulsory lower education that performed the task of university preparation and selection, allowing for the creation, never perfect, of meritocracy, the career open to talent. States financed and supported this transformation of universities on the grounds that providing for the common good was the responsibility of government working through reliable and talent-laden institutions whose members were willing, indeed often eager, to negotiate and cooperate. History is never a narrative of clear-sighted leaders intelligently and reasonably steering a nation towards healthy goals. Anderson’s analysis is full of the necessary side-explanations, digressions and variations that are the stuff of the historical record. But as the modern state has greater available economic and technological resources than any state before it, how government made use of universities, and indeed often remade them, has to be the right choice for extended historical analyses. The result is sobering: universities are only as free and creative as the centres of national authority allow, and how that freedom and creativity are expressed will vary according to the nature of the government, its representatives, its constitution, its habits of negotiation. There is no such thing as absolute academic freedom or complete institutional autonomy. This has been said before, but never so well illuminated through comparative history. This is top-down history, but the bottom is never ignored. And at one point Anderson joins in the call for historians to pay more attention to the demand side of higher education history as represented by enrolment cycles, student subcultures and especially how the entrance of women into traditional men’s universities affected them, as well as ‘the strategies and mentalities of families’ (273). He has written before on students, and here again he observes, as do others of similar inclination, that students have received less attention from historians than professors (such as Pattison and Grote) and disciplines, or, one might add, the history of educational ideas. Student societies are easier to study, he rightly says, than the everyday life of the undergraduate; and in several interesting paragraphs he lays out some of the


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topics that deserve extended treatment, proceeding in the rest of the chapter to enrich our understanding of student communities and student politics. Whereas Anderson’s survey, British Universities Past and Present, begins in the medieval period, about half the book is about the twentieth century (Britain is also dealt with in the volume on universities since the Enlightenment). It may be said that one principal aim of this work is to provide a narrative that takes us well into present upheavals and metamorphoses, thus paving the way for perspectives and reflections. This is not as whiggish as it might sound. As in his study of the European university, Anderson is thoughtful rather than dogmatic. The past does not necessarily lead up to the present in any clear progression, but the present is incomprehensible without a consideration of antecedents. Thomas Carlyle once said that the centuries were lineal descendents of one another: one age passes on habits and patterns to another. Policymakers sometimes ignore the complications presented to them by legacies and believe that they can plow ahead as if no historical arrangements existed. Contemporary critics of government policy approach the past differently, plucking from its thickets those ideas and beliefs that they offer as the true or purer idea of a university’s constitution. Neither can satisfy the historian’s desire to engage the elusive past. Anderson’s opening chapter moves swiftly over the centuries, explicating the theme of the university’s connections to church and state. The consequences of a massive invasion of the ancient English universities by the scions of landed families in the early modern period is discussed, one of which was a de-emphasis of professional education (law, medicine and divinity) and a boost to the liberal arts, hitherto regarded as preliminary to higher vocational studies. The Oxbridge college took precedence over the university, college lecturing over professorial lecturing. This was the situation that prevailed until the systemic reforms of the nineteenth century. But one result was a humanistic style recognized for centuries afterwards as the hallmark of a gentleman. In a later chapter Anderson explores that style in the format of ‘effortless superiority’, easily envied as a mark of status and easily satirized as a sign of snobbery. (Even in democratic America professors displayed a certain prejudice against immigrant newcomers who were not ‘gentlemen’. The attitude did not become unacceptable until the 1950s.) Landed domination of the senior universities continued until the mid-Victorian reforms which, although they may have suited the aspirations of the non-aristocratic

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classes, were not necessarily undertaken to conform to those aspirations. They were, says Anderson, intended to improve the quality of central administration as it expanded to meet the need for ability in state and empire. The long-term goal was ‘merit’. But it might be offered that merit in the aristocratic form of sponsored mobility had started to appear as early as 1800, if limited. How much that early form of talent-spotting may have been influenced by non-patrician values is a nice question and deserves some inquiry. The growth of the famous Oxbridge competitive degree examinations, as well as improvements in college study requirements, were also serious anticipations of later structural changes. ‘Effortless superiority’ implied the self-confidence and aplomb long associated with Europe’s most successful and prestigious territorial classes. Aristocratic legacies, the British humanistic style, so much to this day a subject for film and book, continued, their function to ‘civilize’ an aggressive economy that had turned industrial, urban and professional. A century later that legacy was vilified as too successful, creating what a decade of detractors termed the economic decline of Britain. One historiographical conundrum is how exactly to characterize the educational success of the English universities in the eighteenth century. No similar difficulties present themselves with Scotland, whose urbanbased universities were closely integrated with Scottish society and national aspirations and less socially exclusive than below the Tweed, if not exactly ‘democratic’ in ways that we might understand today. Anderson has dealt expertly with this and related themes in previous writings. But Oxford and Cambridge were often decried as academic deserts, the dons busily engaged in toadying to their higher-born and pleasure-seeking undergraduates, whose families controlled access to ecclesiastical preferment. There were however academic successes, most notably Newtonian mathematical science, strong classical scholarship and a latitudinarian approach to religion, producing a more tolerant environment. Not all that long ago Dame Lucy Sutherland found that the received opinion was faulty. Broader curricular options existed, if not mandatory, at both ancient universities. Acknowledging the spirit of these revisions, Anderson nevertheless concludes rather firmly that the long period from 1715 to 1850 was one of ‘intellectual stagnation’ in England (15). British Universities Past and Present appeared before publication of Gibbins’ book-length study of John Grote (there were some anticipatory articles), so we do not at this time have a chance to notice whether the argument would in any way alter Anderson’s judgment.


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He gives welcome attention to the growth of institutions markedly different in wealth, style and curricula from Oxbridge, the Victorian university colleges of England, Wales and Ireland. He observes that this sector of higher education institutions was far more self-confident of their mission and achievements than noted. He also goes on to speculate, counterfactually he says, that had the Victorian royal commissioners done their work less well, the civics might have become more competitive with Oxford and Cambridge. He makes a similar observation with respect to the royal commissions that investigated that condition of the leading endowed schools. Although his views on that situation are less harsh than those of critics who suggest that schools once intended to be accessible to the public were handed over to the wealthy, he can imagine a situation in which a state system of secondary schools might have arisen whose pupils would have been better prepared to compete for university access. The long-term result was unfortunately a unique national system composed of ‘a socially divided school system and a unitary national system of universities’ (71), that is to say, (supposedly) academically homogeneous. Numbers matter. The truism with which urbanologists continually wrestle is equally true of universities. For centuries universities everywhere were small. They were, in the late American sociologist Martin Trow’s categorization, ‘elite’, meaning that they featured ideal staffing ratios, intensive instruction that was residential and humanistic (rather than technical) education. And they were always expensive. They were not necessarily meritocratic, but in time became so, more or less. Trow set the threshold of elite at a participation rate of up to 15% of the relevant age cohort. Afterwards national systems were to be described as mass-access, although individual institutions could remain elite. Trow pointed out in a number of classic papers that once the elite boundary had been crossed, the ramifications for higher education, for its curricula, standards, governance, financing and recruitment, were nothing short of revolutionary. Anderson follows the numbers. In the seventeenth century, if we include the inns of court, the participation rate was 2.5%. Two centuries later it was actually less, 0.3% in England, 1.4% in Scotland, rising by 1910 to 1.3% in the first, 1.9% in the second. Not much happened a quarter of a century later, when the values were about 2% (in a period of economic depression). After the second world war, by the time an important higher education committee met under the chairmanship of the economist Lord Robbins, the participation rate had risen to 8.5%.

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Robbins planned for an expansion to 17%, but by 1980 the ratio was more like 13%, or still within Trow’s elite category. (By comparison, American participation rates were historically also elite, around 2–4%, until after the post-war explosion in student numbers when veterans, with the aid of government financing, returned to campus.) Robbins had recommended an increase in the numbers of elite institutions, campus size generally falling into the range of 3000–4500 students. In retrospect, the Robbins recommendations were conservative. But as the size of the secondary school population had greatly risen, pressure for admission to the university system was unprecedented. By the 1980s the British higher education system could now be said to have outgrown its typical elite ratios. Successive governments could have responded by continuing to protect the title ‘university’, which implied both a pure research and a degree-granting mission, by directing students to the important sector of polytechnics. Since Robbins universities had been distinguished from polys by a ‘binary’ line. But the polytechnics sought university status, and both Labour and Conservative governments were eager to display their egalitarian credentials. Some polytechnics were allowed to upgrade and some held back by policies that were eventually overthrown in 1992 when the binary divisions were erased. The pressure for upward academic drift proved eventually irresistible because it was aided by a Conservative government that was curiously egalitarian with respect to institutional differentiation and harboring its own grievances with Oxbridge. Demand fluctuated and inflation was a problem at one point, but the essential difficulty was the blaring economic fact that no nation, however wealthy, could afford a wholly national elite system where government was both the direct and indirect banker. Eventually the story of higher education financing came to be dominated by the politics of fees, the ending of a system of free or mostly free public higher education that was actually fairly new in the history of British universities. Anderson is of the opinion that top-up fees became necessary (accompanied one would hope by the heavy use of financial aid instruments), but they were certainly initially resisted by the academic establishment. Sentiment remains divided but not equally so, as discussions about the range and limits of top-up fees, income that makes up the difference between what universities receive from the state and what they can seek in the student market, continues. Anderson discusses these familiar and other related themes, providing a fine summary of the main changes and the politics and some of


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the consequences of policy decisions undertaken by Conservative and Labour governments. The final chapter offers an opportunity to look back and to reflect upon the present. How has the transition from elite structures to mass-access status been managed, he asks? Since Robbins that transition has been largely managed from the top consistent with the main thrust of European history. More recently governments have been pushing universities towards various private markets in order to relieve pressure on central financing. Science parks have appeared in Britain as they have appeared everywhere else to bridge the gap between universities and the high tech industrial sector. Some universities are better able to tap into industrial and private wealth than others, especially but not solely the established institutions. But academic hesitations remain. Whereas historians can argue that the state (or church and state) has always been a greater potential and actual danger to academic freedom and institutional autonomy than industry, academics have generally preferred the first to the second through long identification with elites drawn from landed and professional society and from a belief that industry represented a sordid and vulgar consumer culture while the state represented the best that had been thought and said in the world.7 Anderson appears to be in two minds about state action, noticing how the necessary intervention of parliament saved English and Scottish universities or underwrote German ideas of cultivation but deploring the tendency in recent decades to micro-manage. However, he believes that while the transition from elite to mass has not been well-managed by the state, he also blames the academic community for recalcitrance and inflexibility, refusing to understand the relevance of market pressures and the need to respond intelligently to them. At the same time, he is irritated by the failure of the dons to effectively counter government insistence on wealth generation as the primary function of a university when, historically, universities have a multi-faceted inheritance. His final discussion, which contains many other points than those I will mention, evinces this ambivalence with regard to an issue that particularly concerns him, the social basis of access to the nation’s leading universities. Let me add that ambivalence is only natural, since no quick solution is available to the problem of how to combine elite standards of selection with a belief in democratic opportunity. Or should it be said that the belief is easy but the social and economic realities truly daunting. A truly revolutionary reversal in state and university relations occurred when the dons lost the protection of the principal funding arm established

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in the 1920s, a subcommittee of the Treasury called the University Grants Committee. Had university leaders read the signs correctly, alternative (if supplementary funding) would have brought attention to market discipline, inviting donors, students, parents and other market forces a chance to express views on higher education and to enter into extended dialogue or negotiation with universities much as in the American system. But academics thought of market relationships as mainly coercive, not seeing them as arenas for mutual discussion where numerous parties were at work. Academics were also to let go of their principal patron. They had become unaccustomed to dealing with outside benefactors, and they speculated that what might have worked in the Victorian period, at least for the richly-endowed Oxbridge colleges, had become impossible in an age of high-level and costly research. Government itself only paid lip service to markets despite talk of a return to Victorian liberalism, self-help and private sector initiative. It was, however, a brave step, Anderson says, for government to have conceded that overstretched financial commitments required the help of a ‘topping up’ fee policy. This was a fierce battle over many years since many academics and politicians forgot that ‘free’ education only dated back to the post-1945 period. Given a major role in university policy, markets create a differentiated higher education system. Anderson, as remarked, sees the value of such a system, since it provides numerous entrances for high school graduates, but at the cost of abandoning any notion of a common or homogenous high standard of excellence. Furthermore, segmented markets mean that some universities will enjoy distinct advantages unavailable to others. The elimination of the binary line has proven that the title ‘university’ does not grant automatic status. A differentiated system existed in Victorian Britain. It allowed Oxford and Cambridge, and later the London School of Economics and Political Science and the Imperial College of Technology, to occupy the top of the academic status ladder. Under the conditions of de facto competition today a British Ivy League, the ‘Russell Group’ of universities, has emerged. Also, another rule of thumb in university history is that institutions at the top usually remain there even when systems greatly expand in size and numbers. In market circumstances fluctuations in status do occur from time to time, but long-term stability appears to be the rule. Endowment income is a terrific hedge against market challenges. Oxford and Cambridge were academically weakest when no competition existed. Otherwise competition, united to traditions of excellence, breed


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generations of leaders, professors and students eager to sustain those traditions. Ivy League in America has never been stronger, joined today by other private ‘newcomers’ like Stanford or the California Institute of Technology, and several American public research universities have retained their reputation over at least a century (although not without concerns that current funding difficulties may erode elite standing as graduate research institutions). Expansion in the numbers of higher education institutions in Sweden has hardly altered the status of Lund, Uppsala, the Royal Institute of Technology or the Karolinska medical school, except to improve them (but binary lines of sorts do exist), and the grandes e´ coles in France have not lost a step. As participation rates for higher education burgeon, select institutions become even more select. This being the case, and inevitable, Anderson still worries that talent markets unconstrained by government action always work to the advantage of institutions already well-placed, whose access to alumni, industrial or even international support is superior. They also do not have to carry the burden of serving student communities that enter without cultural capital. This normal functioning of market discipline, he speculates, is exacerbated in Britain because of what he earlier identified as a socially-divided system of lower schooling (which is why more radically-inclined members of the Labour Party once talked about ending the advantages enjoyed by independent schools). He may be underestimating the degree to which American schooling is uniform. Private and suburban high schools in the U.S. have advantages similar to their counterparts in Britain, and elite colleges and universities could easily fill their places with those graduates. The horns of a dilemma. Higher education needs to be differentiated so that mass-access can be guaranteed, but in open markets differentiation favours the already favoured. The role of government, Anderson reflects, is somehow to relieve that situation, possibly by breaking the pattern evolved over a hundred and more years of using rigorous and narrowlybased school-leaving examinations as a means of educational sorting, a development happily accepted by universities at least a century ago because it eased the problem of selection once the merit principle triumphed. He deplores the rejection by government of opportunities for ‘creative reform’ (197). But as he knows from his own sophisticated understanding of the action of government in times past, no guarantees exist that ministers and politicians will consistently act in ways that

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promote the freedom of universities to pursue historical and national goals according to their own long-standing and intellectually pluralistic desiderata. Critics today are thoroughly displeased with the emphasis by government on the university as an engine of economic growth and the corollary that higher education must focus on ‘skills’ (a department of state in Britain actually contains that word). In a sense this is only a recent version of a long-standing academic argument over the utility of higher education, with ‘utility’ defined as anything from direct labour market preparation to citizenship through liberal education, obviously radically different and confusing word use. But the basic debate is over what the eighteenth century called ‘useful knowledge’. In the next century the followers of Bentham promoted a similar agenda, decrying the dominance of the inherited conceptions of liberal or ‘polite’ education that suited the lifestyle of the landed classes, although J.S. Mill began to have doubts about the wisdom of his mentors. The University of London was an initial response by the Benthamites, with a particular stress on medical education. Newman entered the argument at this point, as did others, and from the intellectual to-and-fro of the mid-nineteenth century came plentiful views on the ideal education to be offered by universities. There were many others eager to advance their opinions because reform possibilities gave them an opening. German ideas floated in and out of the academic conversation. However, in the prime period of debate the stress was not on research as Germans would later define it but on the improvement of teaching. This is exactly what Newman meant when in the opening pages of his famous lectures on the idea of a university he defined the correct role of a university to be a place for the diffusion and extension of knowledge and not its advancement. He also, taking the word from Aristotle, maintained that without the support of the Church (here it would have to be Rome) a university did not possess ‘integrity’, a certain wholeness and stability which, as explained, Pattison and others rejected. Since most commentaries on Newman are by secular writers, the Church is left out. But that is Newman with the soul missing. However, in secular form, this realm of thinking became the school of high culture, ‘culture’ being a metonym, a substitute for religion. It also became, according to Anderson, the ‘orthodox’ view (111). All the other possibilities were scorned from on high as noise and commercialization, middle class humbug and dumbing down. Yet surely a certain amount of careful popularization was valid if the benefits of education, high and


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low, were to be spread throughout society to those poorly positioned to partake of expensive full-time residential instruction? There were dons who saw the significance of extra-mural teaching, reading clubs and edification societies, adult education and the other forms of parttime and distance learning important in the later nineteenth century and hugely important in our own day with open universities, the invention of the internet, on-line instruction and interactive teaching technologies. Anderson provides a good review of the issues and sees both sides of them. The debates go on. Every year more books and articles on the present discontents are offered by authors uncomfortable with the pluralism of the multiversity, institutional differentiation and the (admittedly) tiresome clatter about economic growth, skills and productivity gains, about ‘seat time’ and students as ‘consumers’ and all the other managerialspeak and clichés that have been insinuated into the vocabulary of university governance. We have plausible evidence of a Gresham’s Law of Education. Critiques often hark back to Newman and other authorities who are said to represent a ‘true’ idea of a university that must be regained8 and to confound the relativists who refuse to remain silent. Historians enter into these arguments, but historians are not always reliable allies of the high culture orthodoxies (however some may wish it) because they see how often those orthodoxies have changed over the course of time and how many rival versions have existed. Often enough, then, the anti-market position is advanced by philosophers and literary critics who may well employ historical arguments in establishing their case but do so by selecting the ideas most attractive to them. It makes a certain sense, of course, because otherwise no polemical basis exists for taking up particular educational positions. Duke Maskell and Ian Robinson are literary critics who taught in Wales. They begin their critique of British universities with the statement that while much of their book is ‘anecdotal’, history itself is anecdotal. ‘[l]iterature itself consists of anecdotes raised to the level of art’ (vii–viii). They attack the present stress on the university as an instrument of wealth generation, disputing the claim that universities can really make society richer or stimulate productivity. Controlled experiments are impossible. In agreement, Anderson mentions that the economic argument was never advanced by either the Robbins committee or its later successor, the Dearing committee whatever their faults and omissions. At any rate, Maskell and Robinson say that in the past societies first became wealthy

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and then endowed universities. But supposing that the premise was true, and universities became the bankers of modern society, why imagine that riches make societies just and wise? The reference is to the United States. One could ask the reverse. What evidence is there that poverty makes a society just and wise? In the eighteenth century, as European society grew wealthier, the chemist and intellectual Joseph Priestley remarked that while a poor society has crime, a rich society has only vice. But never mind. However, besides excoriating government and the universities for misplaced aims, the main purpose of the authors is to join with those who adhere to another kind of essentialist argument dating back to the mid-Victorian dons who were rebuilding the moral interior of the university. The true purpose of a university is liberal education, although why this should be truer than professional education, which the school of Hastings Rashdall established as the primary aim of the medieval university, is not clear. Anderson concludes that while the liberal arts did take precedence in Britain in the early modern period, administrative law remained important for state-building on the continent. The authors pounce on Newman and dispute the common view that he believed that knowledge was a good in and for itself. He, like the school of Rashdall, was really a collaborator with the utilitarians, regarding the liberal arts as merely preliminary to professional study. Newman therefore fudged the issue. He compromised in order to persuade the Victorian public that while education was supposed to be an end in itself, it was really useful as career preparation. Maskell and Robinson are not pleased with a ‘sophistry’ (28) that nails the inherent value of liberal education to the mast of a successful career in the world. The Conservative prime minister, Mrs. Thatcher, by bringing the utility issue into the open, finished off Newman’s ‘dodge’ (72). No legal and financial barrier separating polytechnics from universities could any longer survive. In 1992 the binary line was dissolved, lacking the justification once provided that different types of higher education institutions would offer different types of education. The way was open—it had long been open—to de-humanize a university education and substitute skills for personal cultivation. Words employed by Newman such as ‘mental culture’, ‘culture of the intellect’, ‘cultivation of mind’, are, say Maskell and Robinson, ‘very slippery’. I could not agree more. (I have tried to suggest elsewhere that Newman is hard to pin down on the question of educational means and ends or how much independence of mind ought to be


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encouraged in undergraduates.9 ) But these are the words that have stayed in the vocabulary about the purpose of a liberal education, let alone the best curricular means for gaining it. Newman is no more guilty of eliding the conceptions than anyone else in the historical record—just try to pin down the exact meaning of Bildung. Furthermore, Newman’s influence over contemporaries—apart from thinkers—is problematical. Anderson is of the opinion that despite his subsequent fame as a sage, Newman was not generally that influential in his own century, and I might add even less influential in Scotland with its own strongly-developed commitment to general education. Was he more important to America as Anderson suggests? That is hard to decide. Philip Gleason of Notre Dame says that nineteenth-century Protestants were not keen on Roman Catholic thinkers. And Gleason does not think that Newman was at all influential in Roman Catholic education in the United States and only became noticed later in the twentieth century in great books courses on Victorian thinkers.10 The basic point is that any attempt to define a liberal education in any particular historical setting is fraught with ambiguities, inconsistencies and the human inclination to somehow make the liberal arts relevant, whether socially, ethically, for self-understanding, for citizenship, for character formation (what character might you want?), for thinking clearly and deeply about central issues of the human condition. Move away from an historical context, and the task is easier since it becomes ‘purer’. Once-upon-a-time purity could be found in great books courses in the U.S., a staple of literature or humanities departments or history and literature programmes. The ‘great tradition’, to use the phrase of the Cambridge don F.R. Leavis, featured authors like Jane Austen. Maskell and Robinson are particularly interesting in their discussion of her as perfect for understanding what in their view a liberal education means. One is inclined to enthusiastically agree that if ever there was an exquisite definition of the liberal arts as a humanistic education, it can be found in her novels. The key element is conversation, a staple, incidentally, of polite education in the Enlightenment. Conversation takes place in a profoundly human setting. Language, far from being an instrument of obfuscation as claimed in some versions of deconstruction, is the method by which truth is approached and known, judgment and discernment learned and earned. Literary critics have long called attention to Jane Austen’s perfect use of talk to

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reveal the moral dimensions of character and to work through ethical difficulties. Nothing could be further from present-day claims about the need to inculcate skills or provide for ‘training’. If training were so important, say the authors, why waste so much time in discussions of re-training? Many reasons exist for the undoing of the great books tradition in American colleges or universities, although a few colleges, notably if not solely the two small St. John’s, one in Annapolis, Maryland and the other in Santa Fe, New Mexico, cling mightily to it. Pace Pattison, disciplinary specialism is one reason, but others are criticisms that the great tradition was biased against the work of ethnic minorities. As a result, writers such as Toni Morrison, author of the popular book, play and film, The Color Purple, have been elevated into the canon. She has also been set for A-levels, causing Maskell and Robinson to explode. ‘The book is rubbish of a peculiarly American sort—something low with pretensions to the ‘‘higher’’ and ‘‘more spiritual’’ . . . Fake, democratic modesty, real conceit’ (133). With Newman in tatters, inferior writers penetrating the liberal arts canon and university administrators and dons acceding to government demands for relevance—‘Why, man, they did make love to this employment’ (167)—the contemporary university is simply a ‘fraud’. Maskell and Robinson could not be expected to be happy with the notion of the university as a ‘multiversity’ (the word was coined or adapted in 1963 by Clark Kerr, sometime President of the University of California, and not by the names given by them). The multiversity is not only a collection of disciplines and schools. It is also a collection of differing attitudes and views about liberal and professional education, pure and applied science, musical composition, social work, research and the advancement of knowledge. Most readers of Kerr’s classic Harvard lectures of 1963 do not sense his ambivalence about a phenomenon that he said was an historical necessity but not a ‘reasoned alternative’,11 nor is he given sufficient credit for supporting liberal education. A graduate of the Quaker college of Swarthmore, he believed so passionately in liberal education12 that he established an entire campus devoted to collegiate undergraduate education. He went to his grave sorrowfully complaining that the potential success of the University of California at Santa Cruz as a fountainhead of publicly-financed liberal education had been undermined by the faculty and perhaps even the students of the generation of the 1960s. At any rate, one can certainly agree with Maskell and Robinson that the contemporary university does not collectively espouse a single


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educational ideal and certainly does not stand for any inherited conception of high culture. Academics are divided ideologically, politically and by professional aims. They resist the commercial impulse. They embrace the commercial impulse. They advocate high culture. They deplore high culture. They defend elite education. They despise elite education. They denounce the university’s complicity in dumbing down. They support it as necessary in circumstances where working-class sons and daughters or the children of particular ethnic minorities cannot meet the educational standards required to advance into higher education. It is understandable that historians of universities will choose their paragons and defend them as exemplars of high-minded thinking. We have our favorites: Newman, Arnold, Pattison, Grote. Seen in the round, some are more attractive than others, but none are paragons in every respect. They exhibit the full range of human frailties, faults, prejudices or parti pris. We would not be surprised but for the residual and mostly attractive strength of nineteenth-century versions of the higher purposes of a university. But academics disagree over the meaning of truth or the methods for obtaining it, or whether it is even important; and they can be horribly led astray into support of nasty causes and the most odious and destructive ideologies that the world has ever known. Every domestic or global issue finds its way into humanistic and social science scholarship, with the consequence that as these are partisan issues, scholars divide bitterly over them. And even when colleagues flout the canons of evidence, their dismissals are opposed on grounds of academic freedom, as if the right to utter claptrap is legitimate because the alternative would be worse. We would revert, the argument goes, to the historical situation in which protection for heterodox thinking is absent. So where is the line to be drawn between serious scholarship and science and the freedom to use the classroom for advocating ideological commitments advanced as the outcome of earnest inquiry? Probably a next assignment for historians of universities would be a close examination of this difficulty, a study of the development of canons of accuracy and truth in particular historical contexts and disciplines and their subsequent fate. I am thinking especially of Max Weber’s advocacy of value-free knowledge, although not of knowledge without values.13 It is distressing to realize that no attachment to liberal education or to high culture has prevented academics from espousing bigotries or wrong-headed or perverted theories. Newman once actually said this,

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contrasting St. Basil with Julian the Apostate. Both of them, he said, were educated at the same grammar school in Athens, yet one was a supporter of the Church and the other its implacable foe. The historical record does not, unfortunately, assure us that a higher education based on what Maskell and Robinson regard as the ideal studies of literature, history and philosophy would save academics from going astray. No subject is inherently liberal or liberalizing. The Battle of the Books has a long pedigree in university history, reaching back well beyond Jonathan Swift. Jane Austen can be taught as Maskell and Robinson would like, and I agree should, but she is also taught from a variety of other quite different viewpoints embodying current ideological premises about authorship and context.14 A university, they say, can dispense with dentistry, astrophysics or business studies (173). Could it also dispense with mathematics, the intellectual pride of Enlightenment Cambridge? Or medicine? Plenty of scope for a humanistic education there, much opportunity for a happy conjunction of disciplines focused on the issue of what it means to be alive and the meaning of being alive. Anderson is measured. He comes down more gently on the academic baroni, as he tries to deal with the persistent democratic conundrum of how to balance quality with access in higher education. As this is an historical difficulty, arising from the transition from elite to mass higher education, any solution needs to take the historical circumstances into account. However attractive a purist approach might be, it cannot possibly yield a solution. Victorians such as Pattison and Grote, whose definitions of academic role were developed within the context of elite education, did not yet have to deal with numbers. They had a freer hand. But Matthew Arnold looked ahead to the democratic challenge, despaired of the possibilities for a high national culture and contemplated withdrawing. ‘Plenty of people there will be without us’, he wrote, country gentlemen in search of a club, demagogues in search of a tub, lawyers in search of a place, industrialists in search of gentility—who will come from the east and from the west, and will sit down at that Thyestean banquet of clap-trap which English public life for these many years past has been.

But why be hasty? [W]e are sure that the endeavour to reach, through culture, the firm intelligible law of things,—we are sure that the detaching ourselves from our stock notions and habits,—that a more free play of consciousness, an increased desire for sweetness and light . . . is the master-impulse even now for the life of our nation


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and of humanity,—somewhat obscurely perhaps for this actual moment, but decisively and certainly for the immediate future.15

Sweetness and Light? Ridiculous. Surely you agree. Department of History University of California, Berkeley Berkeley, CA 94720

REFERENCES 1. Burton R. Clark, ‘The Problem of Complexity in Modern Higher Education’, in The European and American University since 1800, Historical and Sociological Essays, eds. Sheldon Rothblatt and Björn Wittrock (Cambridge, 1993, repr. 1996), 263–79; Ronald Barnett, Realizing the University in an Age of Supercomplexity (Buckingham, UK, 2000). 2. George Malcolm Young, Portrait of an Age, Victorian England (London, 1977), 22. 3. George M. Marsden, The Soul of the American University, From Protestant Establishment to Established Nonbelief (New York, 1994). 4. Anderson notices that the compound first appeared in Thackeray’s novel Pendennis. 5. See also E.G.W. Bill, University Reform in Nineteenth-Century Oxford, A Study of Henry Halford Vaughan 1811–1885 (Oxford, 1973). 6. An unusual take on the Casaubons is A.D. Nuttall, Dead from the Waist Down: Scholars and Scholarship in Popular Imagination (New Haven, 2003). 7. For a lively attack on this dichotomy, see Deirdre N. McCloskey, The Bourgeois Virtues, Ethics for an Age of Commerce (Chicago and London, 2006), 412 ff. Apparently there are two kinds of capitalism: sordid and enlightened. 8. See Gordon Graham, The Institution of Intellectual Values, Realism and Idealism in Higher Education (Exeter, England, and Charlottesville, 2005). 9. See The Modern University and Its Discontents, the Fate of Newman’s Legacies in Britain and America (Cambridge, 1997), chapter 1; and ‘An Oxonian ‘‘Idea’’ of a University: J.H. Newman and ‘‘Well-Being’’ ’, in M. G. Brock and M. C. Curthoys (eds), Nineteenth-Century Oxford (The History of the University of Oxford, Vol. VI, Oxford, 1997), Part 1, 287–305. 10. See the fine article by Philip Gleason, ‘Newman’s idea in the Minds of American Educators’, in Building the Church in America: Studies in Honor of Monsignor Robert F. Trisco on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, ed. Joseph C. Linck and Raymond J. Kupke (Washington, D.C., 1999).

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11. Clark Kerr, The Uses of the University (5th ed., Cambridge, MA, 2001), chapter 1. 12. He was surprisingly shy and restrained, the emotion easily missed. 13. A start from the perspective of the history of ideas is Barbara Shapiro, Probability and Certainty in Seventeenth-Century England, A Study of the Relationships between Natural Science, Religion, History, Law and Literature (Princeton, 1983). 14. Gibbins offers the suggestion that a study of Grote’s philosophical methods provide a model of how to answer the arguments of ‘anti-foundationalism, deconstruction, relativism and thesis of postmodernity’. The Grote approach is open-mindedness, patient, careful, brave and confident. See page 4. But if Grote’s methods are so effective, why is he overlooked? 15. Matthew Arnold, Culture and Anarchy (Cambridge, 1961), 209–12.

Reviews

Leonardi Garzoni, Trattati della calamita, ed. Monica Ugaglia (Milan: FrancoAngeli, 2005)

In 1600 William Gilbert published De Magnete, a treatise on magnetism that was swiftly recognized by contemporaries as founding a new science. Over the next few decades, several magnetic philosophies emerged, divided by such issues as the nature of magnetic declination and Copernicanism, which Gilbert had linked to magnetism. Various sincere and ironic instruments were fabricated to replicate or ridicule terrestrial diurnal rotation. Jesuit natural philosophers in particular sought to construct a magnetic genealogy bypassing Gilbert’s errors and rendering magnetism doctrinally harmless. The safe Jesuit candidate promoted by such prominent natural philosophers as Niccolò Zucchi and Niccolò Cabeo was Leonardo Garzoni (1543–1592), whom they claimed had written an important magnetic tract before Gilbert. Next to nothing was known about Garzoni, but Monica Ugaglia’s edition of two magnetic treatises and her erudite introductory biographical study now provide an excellent introduction to this figure. Readers seeking an accessible synopsis of her argument should consult ‘The Science of Magnetism before Gilbert. Leonardo Garzoni’s Treatise on the Loadstone’ in Annals of Science, vol. 63, no. 1, 2006, pp.59–84. One challenge for historians of magnetism is that two important preGilbertian treatises have long been missing. Paolo Sarpi’s manuscript tract probably burned along with many of his papers in 1769; Garzoni’s was reported to have circulated widely, but then disappeared. A copy was recorded in the first volume of Kristeller’s Iter Italicum in 1965, but this was before the recent blossoming of modern historical study of Jesuit natural philosophy, so it passed unnoticed. Thanks to the studies of Ugo

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Baldini, who described the manuscript in his Legem impone subactis. Studi su filosofia e scienza dei gesuiti in Italia 1540–1632 (Roma, Bulzoni, 1992) and scholars such as Peter Dear and Mordechai Feingold, a new generation of students has been trained to take such texts seriously. Ugaglia’s edition of the manuscript, located in the Pinelli collection of the Ambrosiana Library in Milan, is thorough and illuminating. She provides generous and exhaustive footnotes elucidating the traditions and innovations of the two incomplete tracts, and a long introduction arguing for Garzoni’s authorship of them. This is a complicated discussion, and although Ugaglia presents her case forcefully, the attribution is far from secure. The identification relies on an anonymous nineteenthcentury attribution added to the manuscript title-page, and while the contents of the tracts might well closely resemble what we would like Garzoni to have written, this is inconclusive as evidence. Ugaglia’s main argument for Garzoni’s authorship is that Cabeo and Zucchi both claimed to have read Garzoni’s tracts, and that their work closely resembles the Ambrosiana texts, but this does not preclude the possibility that Pinelli and his circle compiled some kind of compendium of magnetic theories and experiments, including those of Garzoni. Ugaglia elegantly demonstrates that the tracts cannot be Sarpi’s, and that Giambattista della Porta and Gilbert may have read them, or something like them. The manuscripts themselves are in a peculiar state: seven hands are involved in their transcription, including Pinelli’s own. A comparison with other Pinelliana might have revealed the significance, if any, of this fact, along with the identity and potential motive of the nineteenth-century attribution. In order to understand why Garzoni was retrospectively canonised, we surely have to look at the spectacularly violent institutional conflicts between the Jesuit College and the Studio at Padua, described with glee and gusto in Edward Muir’s recent Culture Wars of the Late Renaissance (Harvard, 2007). The Jesuits of Padua had introduced a curriculum in philosophy in 1579, which Ugaglia posits as the likely period of Garzoni’s composition. By 1592, the year of Garzoni’s death, the Studio had forced the closure of the college to non-Jesuit students. Philosophical, institutional and political motives intertwined in the closure of the lower scuole. In 1606 the Jesuits were expelled from the Veneto, with Sarpi playing a major role in writing anti-Jesuit propaganda. The next generation of Jesuit natural philosophers sought to write an internal institutional history of natural philosophical progress, in which figures such as Sarpi or Gilbert could not figure. The lack of institutional context

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in Ugaglia’s account means that the tracts are incapable of changing over time—the later Jesuit mobilization of Garzoni is read as proof of his earlier importance, rather than a strategy responding to a particular crisis. And, while William Gilbert and Robert Norman have provided historians with opportunities to think about artisanal contributions to the making of natural philosophical knowledge, Garzoni’s protestations that mariner’s reports of magnetic declination are inherently unreliable elicits no interest here. This is all the stranger, given that later Jesuits, such as Athanasius Kircher, would later attempt to produce world maps of magnetic declination by exploiting the centralized and global order of the Society of Jesus. Ugaglia is surely correct in her description of the transformations of magnetism in this period from a loose series of sometimes contradictory and under-theorised observations driven by curiosity to a discrete body of knowledge and practice. But, as her copious notes make clear, authors such as Cardano and Maurolico were already revising the medieval treatment of magnestism in the middle of the sixteenth century, and there may be as much continuity as revolution in the subject. The two trattati, whether or not they are in fact the ‘missing’ Garzoni tracts, are certainly important additions to our knowledge of magnetism before the De Magnete, and a welcome addition to our limited primary sources for this crucial period. Ugaglia should be commended for her painstaking reconstruction of textual transmission and transformation within the tracts; what remains to be seen is how they might be positioned within grander narratives of the emergence of Jesuit natural philosophy, and how that story modifies other versions of the scientific revolution. Nick Wilding, Department of History Georgia State University Atlanta, GA, 30302

Emanuela Scribano, Angeli e beati. Modelli di conoscenza da Tommaso a Spinoza (Bari: Laterza, 2006), v + 287 pp

Emanuela Scribano’s project is quite ambitious: tracing the lineage and fortunes of three models of knowledge in Thomas Aquinas’ philosophy—the human, the angelic, and the blessed—from their Platonic and Aristotelian roots to three of the most important Early Modern thinkers: Descartes, Malebranche and Spinoza. The models are discussed in terms of the role and possibility of a naturalized knowledge of created things and of God. The result of Scribano’s research is a meticulously researched and well written book. Most of her interpretations are rigorously argued, with strong textual support, and they often offer interesting challenges to existing scholarship. It is a worthwhile addition to the library of Early Modern Philosophy scholars, especially, but not exclusively, those interested in epistemology. In Chapter 1, Scribano describes the origins and features of Aquinas’ three models. The first model, human knowledge, is strictly Aristotelian. Based on the epistemic similarity principle, or ‘the similar knows the similar’, Aquinas argues that bodies are the proper objects of knowledge for humans, the soul being the act and form of the body. The soul accesses the form or species in the composite via different levels of abstraction. Being embodied, the human mind cannot access immaterial substances directly; being finite, it cannot access God. The only knowledge of God available to humans is a form of negative theology. Disembodied created minds pose different challenges. Aquinas draws a distinction between the angelic mind and the mind of the blessed. Here Scribano discusses two elements of Platonism that find different places in Aquinas’ epistemology: innateness and the Augustinian notion that knowledge is participation to the uncreated ideas in the mind of God through an act of union with it.

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While Aquinas rejects innateness for man, he accepts it vis-à-vis the angelic model. Angelic knowledge is possible because the forms imprinted in the angel’s mind are the same that are imprinted in matter by God during creation. If angels become blessed—for Thomas, they can choose not to—they can also access exemplars directly in God. Only the blessed mind (angelic or human) has knowledge by participation: with divine assistance, the blessed overcome their finiteness and participate in God’s knowledge of his own essence. Human knowledge is finite, naturalized and embodied; the knowledge of the blessed is disembodied and infinite, but necessarily dependent on supernatural assistance. Aquinas’ struggle with angelic knowledge is very interesting. Prima facie, it is not possible for angels to know God, unless they become blessed. Because of the epistemic similarity principle, Aquinas must deny that the infinite essence of God can be represented by a finite idea in a created mind. Angelic knowledge, moreover, is intuitive, not inferential (as human knowledge is). So, how is angelic knowledge of God possible? Aquinas’ solution is that angels have access to God’s essence mediately via their own created nature, which is a resemblance of God’s. Aquinas uses the mirror analogy: the angel, by seeing his essence, sees God ‘as in a mirror’. For Aquinas, this one-step vision makes knowledge intuitive rather than inferential. As Duns Scotus remarked, however, this knowledge is still knowledge of God by means of a species, and, therefore, inferential. So, Scribano concludes, Aquinas’ model of angelic knowledge fails to deliver. The rest of the book examines later developments of Aquinas’ epistemology. Chapter 2 analyzes Scotus’ criticism of Aquinas and his response to the Augustinian epistemology endorsed by Henry of Ghent. Henry had argued that knowledge by participation in the divine exemplars is the only way to overcome scepticism. Without participation we can never be sure of the correspondence between mutable things and their archetypes. Scotus’ rebuttal discusses truth as correspondence in two ways. Truth can be the correspondence of finite ideas in the created mind to the exemplars in God: discovery of this truth is possible only through participation. Truth, however, is also the correspondence of finite ideas to created natures. Scotus maintains, against Henry, the possibility of true natural knowledge in this second sense. Vis-à-vis the cognitive powers of the unassisted created mind, Scotus rejects Thomas’ similarity principle precisely because it does not allow for knowledge of God via

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finite ideas. Such knowledge of God is possible for Scotus because there exists between God and creatures a relation of univocity rather than of analogy, as Aquinas had argued. Because God and creatures are both being, there exists an element of proportion (not similarity) that allows for positive knowledge. Being, in fact, is the proper object of knowledge for the created mind. Starting from Aquinas’ account of angelic knowledge, Scotus introduces a distinction between intuitive and abstractive knowledge to explain the possibility of a naturalized knowledge of God. ‘Intuition’ is not here opposed to ‘deduction’. Intuitive knowledge requires the immediate presence of its object: therefore, intuitive knowledge of God is only accessible to the blessed. Abstractive knowledge, in descending degrees of clarity, is knowledge by finite ideas, and is abstracted from the existence of its object. For Scotus, moreover, representation does not require adequacy of the cognizer’s nature to the nature of the represented. It is then possible for a finite idea to represent God inadequately with respect to God’s infinity, but adequately with respect to the finite intellect of the cognizer. This makes possible angelic and, consequently, human knowledge of God: for Scotus, the human intellect is only contingently embodied, and therefore belongs to the same species as the angelic intellect. If Henry were right, only participation would make possible a positive knowledge of God: knowledge that Henry claims to be necessary for faith. Then, either humans and angels are blessed by default and know God, or knowledge of God is off limits for them until blessed. This unacceptable dilemma is avoided by Scotus by arguing that knowledge of God is based on a species that represents the infinity of God without being infinite itself. The next two chapters discuss Descartes, who follows in Scotus’ footsteps towards rational theology—without divine participation. Descartes believes that a finite mode of thought can adequately represent the infinite, and that knowledge of God is not intuitive. We know of God’s existence through a deduction, not from the simple vision of the idea of God. Descartes’ discussion of innateness is not dissimilar to Aquinas’ description of the angelic mind. However, Scribano remarks, the similarities ought not to be overestimated. Aquinas consistently denied that the human mind has innate ideas or any positive knowledge of God. Against Aquinas, Descartes denies that the human mind depends on bodies to access truths: the human mind has an innate intuitive knowledge of first principles that is the same as angels.

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Chapter 4 offers a little detour. Scribano convincingly argues that Cartesian voluntarism has no role in his use of the ‘evil demon’ argument to make a case for naturalized epistemology in Meditations. In his writings after Meditations, Descartes struggled with his epistemology because of the problem of created eternal truths, which, if dependent on God’s will, are theoretically changeable. Scribano, however, shows that Descartes’ claim that man can access the truth without supernatural assistance is not affected by his stance on the dependence of eternal truths. Descartes’ epistemology, rather than his voluntarism, is the main target of Malebranche’s attacks, discussed in Chapters 5 and 6. Malebranche maintains the powerlessness of the mind unassisted by God. All true knowledge, including knowledge of external bodies, is a form of vision in God—the model of knowledge that Aquinas had reserved for the blessed. In particular, Malebranche defends this position as more attractive than innateness because it emphasizes the dependence of man on God, while the Cartesian mind accesses truths without supernatural assistance. For Malebranche, the existence of God is known via a ‘simple vision’, but its object cannot be in our minds, because it cannot be something finite and created. He follows Descartes in accepting that we have a positive idea of the infinite; he then follows Aquinas in accepting that a finite idea cannot represent the infinite, against Descartes and Scotus. The idea of God cannot be a finite idea, and therefore it is not in our mind. Scribano shows that Malebranche’s argument for the vision in God is textually close to Aquinas’ discussion of the blessed. Malebranche expands it to all true knowledge of created natures: because ideas in God are the exemplars of created nature, the knowledge we have of them is also knowledge of things. Malebranche, however, attempts to distinguish human knowledge from knowledge of the blessed. He argues that the vision of God by which man knows God is not a vision of the essence of God. This, Scribano argues, dooms his project. To say that we know God by a simple act of vision, and then that the vision is not a vision of God’s essence begs the question of how is it, then, that we know God. Chapter 7 on Spinoza’s epistemology is the only one that I find unpersuasive. Scribano interprets Spinoza’s description of the difficult path to intuitive knowledge—the only one that allows us to know individual things sub specie aeternitatis—as evidence of a strong Platonic element. Every human mind has adequate ideas because it is the idea of its body. As the body instantiates properties common to all bodies, the

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mind has adequate ideas of these properties. It can access these ideas by becoming active, rather than passively following the fortuitous order of sensory knowledge. Once this happens, the mind can understand itself and the body ‘under a form of eternity’: not as something with infinite duration, but as finite essence necessarily conceived through the essence of God (Ethics, V.22). Scribano reads this through Platonic glasses: the mind only knows adequately when ‘in God’, or ‘united with God’. Since in Spinoza everything is ‘in God’, or ‘united with God’, this sounds prima facie trivial, so let us elaborate. Knowledge of God is possible ‘because a part of the human mind, the part having the body’s essence as ideatum, is in a different world from that of sensory perception: the world of eternity, the divine dimension. In sum, it is the participatory model that in Spinoza explains the access to the truth, to necessary universal propositions, in contrast to the Cartesian innatist model’. (Scribano, 274: my translation and emphasis). For Scribano, Spinoza invites the reader to ‘abandon the body’ in order to access that part of the mind that is always and already eternal during one’s lifetime. Scribano argues that, for Spinoza, we must abandon the body (274), turn Platonically inwards, and inspect the adequate ideas of the mind in order to access the idea of God. This is problematic in several ways. To begin with, for Spinoza the mind benefits from a body that interacts in many ways with other bodies (Ethics II.14). Bodily interactions with external bodies make the mind more capable of being active and to acquire adequate ideas (the second kind of knowledge) which are the starting point from which the adequate idea of God is formed. It is from this, says Ethics V.14, that the mind can relate everything to God. In other words, a withdrawal from the body is not a condition for knowledge of God—if anything, it is counterproductive. Furthermore, the notion of the eternity of the mind does not imply the form of mind dualism Scribano describes. To be conceived under a species of eternity means, for Spinoza, simply to be conceived as contained in God (i.e. not as separated created substance) and as necessarily following from God’s essence (Ethics V.19 Scholium). The demonstration of the eternity of the mind as something following necessarily from the attribute of thought is ‘seen’ and ‘felt’ by the mind not because of some mysterious act of vision in, or union with, God, but because, as Spinoza writes, ‘the eyes of the mind, by which it sees and observes things, are the demonstrations themselves’. (Ethics V.23 Scholium.) This is not an Augustinian talking.

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The difficulty with Scribano’s interpretation is that, in inserting Spinoza in the Platonic-Augustinian tradition (as others have done), she overlooks the role of transcendence in this tradition, and the importance of Spinoza’s rejection of it. The angelic and blessed models of knowledge she persuasively describes need either participation—union with the divine mind, only possible through divine agency—or innateness—the creation of truths in the finite mind by God—because of the transcendence of God and of divine exemplars. Spinoza does not have this problem. Our mind is a finite expression of the mind of God, and our true ideas are ideas that are true in the very same mind of God. There is no need for supernatural assistance if God is nature and if the power of the mind is the power of God. There is no need for union or participation where there is no transcendence. The Spinoza chapter, therefore, overreaches. Nonetheless, this is a remarkable work, and it is my hope that an English translation will make it accessible to non-Italian speaking scholars. Francesca di Poppa Department of Philosophy MS 3092 Texas Tech University Lubbock, TX 79409

L. E. Rodr´ıguez–San Pedro Bezares (ed.), Historia de la Universidad de Salamanca. Saberes y confluencias, (Historia de la Universidad de Salamanca, Vol. III) (Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, 2006), 1417 pp

Volume Three of the Historia de la Universidad de Salamanca is a work in two parts. It belongs to a four-volume work, coordinated by The Alfonso IX Center for the History of Universities, University of Salamanca. The project was conceived by L. E. Rodr´ıguez-San Pedro Bezares, the Center’s Director, in cooperation with J. L. Polo Rodr´ıguez as Technical Coordinator. Volume One (2002) deals with the history of University of Salamanca and the core institutions associated with it. Volume Two (2004) aims to provide a deeper and more structured approach to the different branches of learning, presented not as a static system but as one capable of change and response to various influences. Volume Three introduces the cultural capital and context of the institutions, discussing their original functions and the changes of purposes which have enabled them to increase their spheres of influence and to survive the passage of time. A fourth volume will be titled Vestigios y entramados and will present manuscript and printed documents, today’s research orientations, and a bibliography. The four volumes have been conceived as a unified set, in which each volume is nonetheless an autonomous and coherent work. At the same time, as a common theme is approached from different points of view and by different authors, so that many cross-readings are possible alongside a merely narrative and chronological reading. With Volume Four, the collaborators in this vast project embracing the history of what can be called a cathedral of knowledge, will number more than ninety scholars.

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This varied and impressive survey is composed of highly specialized and original studies developed by eminent Spanish and international scholars. For this reason, the different chapters of Volume Three provide indispensable reference material on the history and development of any branch of learning in the Iberian Peninsula and beyond. Volume Three consists of forty-five contributions by thirty-eight scholars—half of them from the Civil University of Salamanca, the Catholic University of Salamanca and other important universities including Alcalá de Henares, Murcia, Pais Vasco, Valencia, Valladolid, Coimbra and México. In addition there are the contributions of scholars from reputable institutions such as the Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid or the Archivo General de Simancas de Valladolid. The number of collaborators reflects the triumph of harmonizing such an extensive scholarly collection. Like the prior volumes, Volume Three is supplemented with a set of themed pictures (105 photographs) set in the various chapters. These pictures provide a range of significant visual references for both Volume Three and the entire work. The cover of this volume shows the images of Hercules and Venus in counterpoint with the image of the philosopher emperor Marcus Aurelius. They come from the University of Salamanca’s Plateresque façade. Part one of this third volume investigates the intellectual sphere and the contents of the disciplines, introducing the historical evolution of Faculties and branches of knowledge. It discusses the classic branches of learning, including Law, Theology, Medicine, Physics, Philosophy, the Humanities, and Music, as well as the present-day Faculties and Schools. It investigates some of the means of cultural transmission, such as books, libraries, and finally the press. Part two deals with the University of Salamanca’s image and historical influence in a European context, chiefly Portuguese and Italian. It considers also the dominions of the Spanish crown in Iberia and Latin America. Italian readers may be especially concerned with part two of Volume Three, which covers international cultural exchange. This section provides an insight into Salamanca’s impact on local universities and offers three valuable accounts of the influence of the Salamanca model over the Portuguese, Italian and Hispano-American cultures. In its influence in Portuguese circles, the University of Salamanca can be considered the second most important university after Coimbra. Many eminent Portuguese intellectuals attended Salamanca from the Middle Ages to the nineteenth century, promoting relations between the two countries until the twentieth century. The relationship between

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Salamanca and Portugal can be considered even more significant than that established with other peninsular territories, such as Catalonia, Aragon or Valencia. During the Renaissance, the University of Coimbra was reformed after the Salamancan model. Three contributions focus on the relationship between Spanish and Italian universities and their contexts; the first covers the relationship between Salamanca and the Italian universities between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries. The Italian peninsula was then a magnet for students wishing to study law or humanities. For the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, Spanish and Italian cultural interchange is investigated with reference to universities’ political and administrative development. For the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Italian influences on Spanish culture are explored through a discussion of the achievements of Iberian alumni of the Spanish College in Bologna, especially those who followed legal careers. This section reflects the ties between Italy and Spain which have persisted since the early days of the University of Salamanca. New information and suggestions are provided on the Bologna model and its impact on Mediterranean culture. Salamanca’s status as the university of the Spanish Catholic Monarchy is considered in relation to Bologna’s regression, from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, to a local, municipal sphere of influence. Bologna was to be reformed as an important cultural and political symbol of a united Italy, as confirmed by its redesigned seal. This section is complemented by a small iconographic set mainly concerning the University of Bologna and the Spanish College in Bologna. This part ends with a study of Salamanca’s American influences and connections. More than thirty university institutions were established in Latin America from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century. Whilst the Universities of Lima, Mexico City and Caracas were shaped according to the Spanish model, other universities were ‘convent & college’ institutions, based on Dominican or Jesuit schools, with ties to the convent network in the Iberian peninsula. This expansion of universities can be explained by the need to train a new civil and clerical ‘middle bureaucracy’ for the development of political and administrative structures in the Indian territories. Finally, within the history of Salamanca’s faculties, a section is devoted to the Law and Theology faculties on the basis of their immense contribution to the administrative development of Early Modern Spain and to the consolidation of the new Catholicism that had emerged

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from the Council of Trent. Particularly noteworthy is the extremely detailed study of the Law Faculty and the manuscript and printed work of eminent Salamancan jurists between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries. The theological school is discussed in connection with authors linked to the sixteenth-century Dominican promotion in the university of Thomasian thought; this is accompanied by a critique of the concept of the Salamanca School in historiographical constructions from the sixteenth to the twentieth century. Simona Langella European Community and University of Salamanca Spain

William Whyte, Oxford Jackson: Architecture, Education, Status, and Style 1835–1924 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 268 pp

In this attractive book, William Whyte has wisely and ably brought Sir Thomas Graham Jackson out of the peculiar obscurity to which much of the twentieth century consigned him. Without an architectural guide, the wanderer of today may well not appreciate how many of the prominent structures of Oxford University are Jackson’s, nor that in choosing Rutland over Headington stone he even transformed the colour of the University. It is no exaggeration to say that he virtually rebuilt Oxford University, and his examples inspired others to rebuild the City of Oxford. The large North Oxford villas, housing the families of post-celibate donnish Oxford, were influenced by him. The New Examinations Schools of 1876 was an especially crowning achievement. It celebrated the triumph of the honours schools system of competitive examinations and the rise of meritocracy (but detractors said that examinations dampened independence and curiosity), and its eclectic design—Elizabethan, Jacobean, Italian—was striking. Even the restored Carfax tower, standing in the center of the city, is Jackson’s. Finally, after many years acquiring fame as Oxford’s architect, ‘Anglo-Jaxon’ received important commissions for science structures at Cambridge, as that University, building upon its historical eminence in mathematics, announced its intention to put science on an equal footing with classics. The same talents are evident in the numerous structures he designed for the top segment of elite independent schools. Jackson trained in the studio of the great Sir Gilbert Scott, whose particular gifts were employed on behalf of the gothic style which dominated architecture in the first half of the nineteenth century. (Scott, however, could do the other styles as well.) Jackson did not completely break with that genre. He employed gothic themes and motifs throughout

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his long life, but he was nonetheless at some pains to distinguish himself from the generation of Scott by pursuing a more eclectic style, which was developed and reinforced by his substantial historical studies and foreign travel. Building after building demonstrated Jackson’s capacity for revisiting and combining past syntactical elements in novel fashion. His domed neo-Byzantine creation for Giggleswick School is very special, but his Temple Speech Room at Rugby School is really idiosyncratic, an amazing compilation of styles: portico in front topped by a classical balustrade, a hipped roof, a quasi-Elizabethan, overly dominant tower, a gothic side (but not entirely) and a cruciform plan. Awash in historical genres, Jackson nevertheless thought of himself as modern and even progressive. ‘His buildings hummed with modernity’ writes Whyte (25), and he further comments that Jackson and some of his patrons would even have welcomed a description as avant-garde. But any reader acquainted with the modernist movement in architecture is confused by the use of terms that appear to be unjustified by a practitioner who never made a clean break with the genres of his day and identified so strongly with artisan-influenced traditions and revivals. This is an old problem in the history of architectural styles, for the palladian and the neo-classical were also once regarded as modern and progressive (or just trendy). So the only objective way of comprehending why certain rhetorical terms are employed is to view the problem in its proper historical context. That is Whyte’s working principle, and it is surely correct. The questions to be asked, then, is who were Jackson’s patrons? Who wanted him, and for whom did he build? The answer according to Whyte cannot be found in a conventional client-practitioner relationship. In fact, in two instances in which such a relationship existed, a town house in South Kensington and a town hall in Tipperary, Ireland, Jackson was not particularly successful, although for reasons for which he was not at fault. Jackson’s numerous commissions were the result of his affinities to one of the most important academic communities that had ever existed in Britain, the Victorian generations that reshaped the independent schools and led the Oxbridge colleges into the national and imperial period. Whyte takes a phrase once used by the renowned Master of Balliol College, Benjamin Jowett, and made famous in an essay by the late Lord Annan, and aligns Jackson with the ‘intellectual aristocracy’. Its members, few of whom were landed, were amongst the greatest academic and literary names of the Victorian and Edwardian eras. Their roots lay in the religious revival extending back to the century’s beginning. A network of evangelical families

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came together, their children inter-married, attended the famous schools and colleges, and Jackson emerged from this milieu. A fellowship at Wadham College gave him a solid footing in Oxford. The network bestowed plentiful commissions upon him. For Jackson’s contemporaries amongst the intellectual aristocracy, religion was not quite the lifeand-death affair it was for their ancestors (although many remained connected to the churches). However, the next generation of intellectual aristocrats, the Bloomsbury circle of writers, painters, critics and thinkers, made the break. They ceased to regard their Victorian forebears with any reverence and dismissed them as stodgy and retardataire. Indeed, that is why Jackson came to seem dated. He was part of a past and a social network that was subjected to root and branch repudiation. For the new generations he was hardly modern at all and not by any stretch of the imagination, avant-garde, certainly not by radical continental standards. In his heyday Jackson built for an intellectual aristocracy that was reforming the leadership and the character of the ancient universities and the great public schools, diversifying curricula, improving teaching, bringing science and research fully into education, supporting women’s colleges and assimilating Oxford and Cambridge to intellectual trends occurring elsewhere in the academic universe.1 But the Oxbridge dons and public school beaks were reformist rather than revolutionary. They sought to bring the ancient colleges and schools into the national mainstream and reduce if not eliminate their subservience to the landed and clerical classes that had for so long dominated elite education. Enrolments had increased, and buildings were required for new student and academic activities: music and science buildings, residence halls, playing fields and sporting structures, libraries for sure. Marital life and the entrance of women into the universities required different architectural signals. Of course Jackson would build at the radical woman’s college, Somerville. Of course he would build for the noncollegiate students, who deserved some sort of recognition in an expanded higher education environment. Of course he would be asked to do the Radcliffe Science Library and the Electrical Laboratory—his last Oxford commissions. Being reformist required an architectural rhetoric that was sufficiently different to mark off a new era but not so outré as to destroy the continuities and networks that provided support and status. In this setting, being reformist meant not being so utterly beholden to the medievalisms so favoured earlier in the century up to the great Barry/Pugin collaboration

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of the Houses of Parliament. For the reformers, the gothic styles implied a narrow focus, illiberal moral attitudes and a shallow adherence to convention and respectability. For the dons, the gothic referenced an age before about mid-century when college fellows (but not heads of houses) were required to be unmarried if they were to remain in residence or draw stipends while doing nothing. The gothic could be retained—if ‘judiciously’ used—but it was not to be dominant. (Yet the gothic also had a new life for a new industrial age, in railway stations for example.) Apparently the only logical or cultural way for Victorian architecture to be reformist but not revolutionary was to turn to history. The past could be almost indefinitely mined for ideas and symbols. The past was also a repository of architectural styles that were long accustomed to dwelling in propinquity, and the styles did not appear particularly at odds when constructed of the same building materials and were more or less of a uniform colour. This is Whyte’s original thesis, if much telescoped (he does tend to repeat, however). But here is a companion explanation about the battle of architectural styles that is so prominent a feature of building for education in both Britain and the United States in the second half of the nineteenth century. Architects of the period often wished to be thought of as daring and pathfinding, but they were tethered to neo-historical genres for two seemingly contradictory reasons. First of all was the desire of clients to acquire the prestige of older institutions, whether country houses, churches or ancient schools and colleges. Those who were coming up wanted some of the standing of those who were already up. The new public schools of the nineteenth century in Britain borrowed many of the rituals and symbols of the established ones, and the civic universities were also constructed in one or more of the available revival styles. Second, and oppositely, to make a social mark also required being noticed. Architecturally that meant adopting a grammar that provided new visual messages, similar in some respects but also different from the styles that were hitherto dominant. In short, new campuses and buildings of the nineteenth century had to be both old and new at one and the same time. They had to be old in order to be legitimate and accepted into the prestige pantheon of established institutions. They had to be new in order to attract sponsors who wanted distinctive buildings, or, more loosely, simply to attract attention in competitive educational environments since so many buildings were privately commissioned. Whyte does in fact say that the socially-minded leaders of Cranbrook School in Kent welcomed the new Oxford style.

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Neo-historical styles accomplished the two aims: old but not really, modern but not really, and different enough to claim originality. Architects borrowed freely from the immense repertoire of architectural designs and details, combining motifs from virtually every historical period but always struggling to find something genuinely novel, as at Stanford University in the 1890s where buildings of the Spanish Mission style were wrapped around an immense piazza. At the same time, Stanford’s cross-Bay rival, the University of California at Berkeley, employed a French architect to create a more urban style, a sort of Washington, DC on the slopes of the Pacific Ocean. A turn-of-the-century hammer of the universities like the terrifying American academic critic, Thorsten Veblen, denounced all such neo-historical styles as mere theatrical effects, the gifts of pretentious arrivistes far more interested in boasting about themselves than in seriously promoting education. The new eclecticism required scholarship, and many of Jackson’s contemporaries were scholars and writers. A knowledge of past styles served them well for restoration projects in an ancient country, and Jackson in particular was a great restorer of buildings. They were masterful but not slavish. He tried to understand the original composition according to its historical provenance and then went on to capture the spirit. He had a decent command of some of the modern languages and was a prolific architectural historian (he also wrote ghost stories). His account of the architecture of the Dalmation coast apparently remains a standard work, and Whyte excitedly pursued him there. One is hard put to understand how Jackson wrote and designed so much, especially as his architectural office, unlike Scott’s, was not noted for having a large staff. He was clearly a man of energy, concentration and apparently good health since he lived a very long life. Whyte fortifies his argument about patronage networks by pointing out in a particularly interesting section why Jackson failed to extend his reach much outside the educational environments however much he tried, and he did indeed try. He was not very successful in London. He submitted exquisite drawings for various competitions, and they were appreciated, but he lacked a gift for the monumental suitable for decorating an imperial capital. His career had been closely allied to collegiate and school architecture. Whatever he drew reminded juries of Oxbridge colleges and the great boarding schools, and perhaps the puns, allusions and wit of the learned habitués of Oxford common rooms, an in-group that despite all efforts to the contrary could be viewed as cloistered. One day the donnish tone would become jaded.

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The superb detail of his ornamented facades reflected his association with the arts and crafts movement and his love of the crafts (like Scott, he also designed glassware and other domestic items). In the battles over the professionalization of architecture, Jackson supported the view that architects and artisans were closely allied and that architecture, viewed as a profession, would prove to be antithetical to craft traditions, but Whyte does not dwell on this theme or explain the depth of the disagreements. One way of inserting the issue into his wider thesis is to adopt Harold Perkin’s thesis about professions as the ‘forgotten middle classes’ of the nineteenth century. Industrialism and urbanism were creating new forms of social stratification; the liberal and newer professions were eager to differentiate themselves from any suggestion of workingclass associations. As surgeons dissociated themselves from barbers, or scientists from ‘mere’ practitioners, or musicians from entertainers, architects also sought the social recognition that necessitated drawing a line between those who were educated in specialized schools and were ‘qualified’ through examinations, and those who remained the products of an apprenticeship system. Many of the architects of the past had been builders rather than highly-prepared professionals. A designer of schools and colleges, the only substantial town house that Jackson ever designed was for an acidic and wealthy political reactionary in South Kensington who was so disliked that the animosity rubbed off on the innocent Jackson. But in truth he was not an architect for the plutocrats of his day, and his South Kensington house, intriguing for its wild eclecticism, may indicate his discomfort with brash wealth. If it was not successfully received, it is still an astonishing structure, a pastiche of flamboyant or exaggerated motifs designated by one writer as ‘FrancoFlemish-Gothic’. Even if he did not build for inordinately rich, the exquisite detail of which he was a master was costly, and in general Jackson’s buildings were never cheap. Because a newer stratum of public boarding schools could not afford him, nor could the benefactors and leaders of the Victorian civic university colleges, he became closely associated with the more privileged educational stratum. So this was another reason why his reputation was not more national than his talents promised and why, with the spread of more social democratic sentiments, he lost ground. An equally interesting story is Jackson’s town hall for Tipperary in Ireland. It no longer exists, but the drawings show it to be a pleasant and presumably unexceptional structure in the fashionable Queen Anne style. But it aroused furious distaste not for what it was but for the man who had commissioned it, a hated landlord, who was the target of a land reform

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movement. Here is a perfect illustration of the attribution of symbols to a building that conveys nothing of the sort to those uninstructed about the circumstance. Whyte has provided us with a highly-informed account of an architectural career and, for those unaware of how much of Oxford is ‘Anglo-Jaxon’, an eye-opening book, a pleasure to read and greatly enhanced by numerous plates and illustrations. What is missing—and Whyte doubtless has the knowledge to supply it (a reference to one of his essays suggests this)—is a lengthier discussion of how architects translate moral visions or tastes into particular forms. The moral certitudes of the gothic are perhaps easier to read, given the pervasive religious influences available in Victorian England, but should we know more about the astonishing eclecticism of the Jackson era? The mid-Victorian Taunton royal commission on the reform of the endowed schools seemed to put out a call for buildings that were healthful (or symbolized health), and represented order, dignity, good teaching and status. Whyte cites this passage. How did Jackson’s submissions—how did architecture, Cotswold Renaissance, pseudo-Spanish with a hipped roof a là Christopher Wren—meet the criteria? What were the moral or educational lessons conveyed by Jackson’s extraordinary facades: Beauty? History? Cosmopolitanism? Yes, but can the story be made even richer? Possibly not, but surely worth a gamble. Jackson wrote prodigiously, and he wrote on the theory as well as the history of architecture, but we do not hear his (written) voice, his possible responses to the criticisms that he received or the reasons why he chose particular styles. Architecture works at many levels, which is one of many reasons why the subject is so fascinating. Here, then, are a few other questions relating to architecture’s prime aspect, its authority over space and what is today called ‘placemaking’. Why did Christ’s College Horsham reject Jackson’s quadrangular submission as impractical, old-fashioned and unsanitary? One may understand why the heavily-employed quadrangle is perceived as old-fashioned, but why should that be a handicap or why should it be unhealthy or impractical? After all, the picturesque quadrangle was the core of the Anglo-American undergraduate experience, the dedicated and controlled space so important to Romantic conceptions of self-discovery and belonging. ( Jackson appears to have breached the form on at least one occasion by opening one side at the Oxford Military College, much in the manner of American campus planners.) The staircase of the residence hall was also falling out of fashion, but why did Jackson adhere to it? From good cause, one might argue, as the

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staircase was literally the spine of elite collegiate instruction, the space where a handful of undergraduates lived together with their tutor, a perfect place by present standards for an excellent staffing ratio. Why go to the alternative, the corridor, a favorite feature of American campus architects (influenced by prison architecture, a colleague once told me!), unless it provides some fiscal, social or pedagogical advantage unavailable in the staircase? Basil Champneys, who won commissions Jackson might have had, abandoned the staircase and the quadrangle when designing that other radical woman’s college, Cambridge’s Newnham, and the results remain exciting and beautiful, greatly elongated buildings of red brick and white wood opening out onto a park. We are missing accounts of the optimal layout for a library, or a laboratory, or a science museum or an engineering workshop—purposebuilt structures which Jackson designed. Was he concerned with lighting, with heating, with sight-lines in the lecture hall, or mainly facades? The New Examinations Schools suggests that internal space arrangements were indeed important to him. On several occasions Whyte refers to Jackson’s indifference to ‘planning’. An analysis of this aspect of Jackson’s architecture would be a good next addition to the enlightening story that Whyte has told. Sheldon Rothblatt Department of History University of California, Berkeley Berkeley, CA 94720

REFERENCES 1. Regarding debates in the Victorian period over research and undergraduate teaching by the new dons, Whyte states that Mark Pattison, the Rector of Lincoln and a celebrated proponent of what was called the ‘endowment of research’, favoured the first over the second. But this is not at all the position of H.S.Jones in a recent book, Intellect and Character in Victorian England, Mark Pattison and the Invention of the Don (Cambridge, 2007). However, Jones’s book came out a year later.

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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 832 references to books and articles on the history of universities in the world. We can offer bibliographical lists for Austria, The British Isles, Bulgaria, The Czech Republic, Germany, Hungary, Italy, Poland, Scandinavia, Switzerland, and The United States, together with some additional references for Canada, France, Lithuania and Romania. We are especially happy to see a major update for Scandinavia, which will be treated as a whole from now on, and for the Czech Republic again. 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—112 items) Robert A. Anderson∗ (The British Isles—38) Georgeta Nazarska (Bulgaria—14) Jiˇrina Urbanová and Petr Svobodný∗ (Czech Republic—68) Marie-Luise Bott∗ (Germany—16) László Szögi∗ (Hungary—15) Maria Teresa Guerrini and Simona Salustri (Italy—241)

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Veronika Kiku (Poland—14) Pieter Dhondt (Scandinavia—219) Suse Andresen (Switzerland—42) Marcia Synnott (The United States—78) Individual contributions were received from Ana-Maria Stan (2) and Natalia Tikhonov (13). Anyone who wishes to contribute (or to renew their former co-operation in this project) 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 truly 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, e-mail [email protected]

Austria Additions to Earlier Lists For 1984 Maschl, Heidrun, 20 Jahre Institut für Geschichte Salzburg, 1964–1984, Salzburg, 1984 [Salzburg]. For 1985 Bichler, Reinhold (ed.), 100 Jahre Alte Geschichte in Innsbruck. Franz Hampl zum 75. Geburtstag. Mit einem Schriftenverzeichnis und einer Bibliographie der Schüler Franz Hampls (Forschungen zur Innsbrucker Universitätsgeschichte, 13), Innsbruck, 1985 (=Veröffentlichungen der Universität Innsbruck 151) [Innsbruck]. For 1986 Neurath, Paul, Das Paul Lazarsfeld-Archiv an der Universität Wien. Vorgeschichte, Gründung, Bestände und Pläne. Forschungsauftrag des Bundesministeriums für Wissenschaft und Forschung, Wien, Vienna, 1986 [Vienna]. For 1987 ¨ Abdalla, Rosemarie, Uber die Rolle der Frau in der Musik mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Hochschule für Musik und darstellende Kunst in Graz, s.l., 1987 (Graz, Diplomarbeit 1987) [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. Höflechner, Walter, ‘Metamorphosen und Konsequenzen. Zur Auflösung der Allgemeinen Geschichte an den Universitäten Wien, Prag und Graz’, in

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Geschichte und ihre Quellen. Festschrift für F. Hausmann zum 70. Geburtstag, Graz, 1987, 289–298 [Graz, Vienna]. For 1988 Grass, Nikolaus, ‘Claudius Martin Ritter von Scherer. Universitätsprofessor und Protomedicus in Innsbruck und Graz. Zugleich ein Beitrag zur Familiengeschichte des berühmten Kanonisten Rudolf Ritter von Scherer (Graz und Wien)’, in Recht und Geschichte. Festschrift Hermann Baltl zum 70. Geburtstag, Graz, 1988, 183–218 [Graz]. For 1990 Caesarea Archiducalis Universitas Oenipontana: Universität Innsbruck 1669– 1990. Retrospektiven, archivalische Miniaturen zur Geschichte der Universität Innsbruck (1669–1800), ed. Universitätsarchiv Innsbruck, Innsbruck, 1990 [Innsbruck]. Ebner, Herwig, Horst Haselsteiner and Ingeborg Wiesflecker-Friedhuber (eds.), Geschichtsforschung in Graz. Festschrift zum 125-Jahr-Jubiläum des Instituts für Geschichte der Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz, Graz, 1990 [Graz]. Heppner, Harald, ‘Die ‘‘Nationale’’ der Universität Graz als Quellen zur steirischen Geschichte’, Blätter für Heimatkunde, 64.4, 1990: 155–159 [Graz]. Heppner, Harald, ‘Die Studenten aus den slowenischen Ländern an der Universität Graz 1884–1914’, in Ebner, Haselsteiner and Wiesflecker-Friedhuber (eds), Geschichtsforschung in Graz, 255–259 [Graz]. Heppner, Harald, ‘Die Studenten aus den slowenischen Ländern an der Universität Graz 1884–1914. Die geographische Herkunft’, in SüdosteuropaFallstudien. 20 Jahre ‘Südosteuropäische Geschichte’ in Graz (Zur Kunde Südosteuropas 2, 16), Graz, 1990, 23–47 [Graz]. Kernbauer, Alois, ‘Dissertationsgutachten als wissenschaftliche Quelle. Anhand der Gutachten zu den Schülerarbeiten am Grazer Historischen Seminar bis in die Zeit des Ersten Weltkrieges’, in Ebner, Haselsteiner and WiesfleckerFriedhuber (eds.), Geschichtsforschung in Graz, 395–402 [Graz]. ¨ Wiesflecker, Hermann, ‘Die Grazer Lehrkanzel und Abteilung für Osterreichische Geschichte seit der Wiedererrichtung 1945’, in Ebner, Haselsteiner and Wiesflecker-Friedhuber (eds.), Geschichtsforschung in Graz, 443–453 [Graz]. For 1991 Benda, Sebastian, Bericht u¨ ber die Amtszeit als Rektor (1987/88 bis 1990/91), ed. Hochschule für Musik und darstellende Kunst in Graz, Graz, 1991, 115 p. [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. For 1992 Brandstätter, Renate, ‘Südosteuropäische Geschichte’ an der Universität Graz: Fachinstitut—Lokalität, s.l., 1992 (Diplomarbeit Univ. Graz) [Graz].

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Breuss, Renate (ed.), Kunst in Tirol im 20. Jahrhundert. Bestandskatalog der Sammlung des Institutes für Kunstgeschichte der Universität Innsbruck. Ausstellung im Neubau der Geisteswissenschaftlichen Fakultät der Universität Innsbruck vom 22. Mai bis 26. Juni 1992 (Ausstellungskatalog. Institut für Kunstgeschichte der Universität Innsbruck, 3), Innsbruck, 1992 [Innsbruck]. For 1993 Augscheller, David, Die romanistischen Lehrkanzeln an der Universität Innsbruck von 1918 bis 1945. Ein Beitrag zu ihrer Geschichte, s.l., 1993 (Diplomarbeit Univ. Innsbruck) [Innsbruck]. Jakubovitsch, Hermann, Die Forschungsgeschichte des Faches Ur- und Frühge¨ schichte der Universität Wien und Innsbruck im Uberblick. Mit einem Beitrag zur Forschungsgeschichte des Burgenlandes. Teil 1–2, s.l., 1993 (Dissertation Univ. Wien) [Innsbruck, Vienna]. Kaiser, Peter, ‘Die Universität Klagenfurt—eine Geschichte der Hindernisse’, Die Brücke, 19.2, 1993: 9–12 [Klagenfurt]. Steininger, Rolf (ed.), Institut für Zeitgeschichte—eine Bilanz 1983–1993. Zehn Jahre Zeitgeschichte an der Universität Innsbruck, Innsbruck, 1993 [Innsbruck]. For 1994 Lechner, Manfred and Eduard G. Staudinger (eds.), Lebenszeichen. 10 Jahre Abteilung Zeitgeschichte an der Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz (Publikationen aus dem Archiv der Universität Graz, 31), Graz, 1994 [Graz]. For 1995 Kaudel, Helga, ‘Franz Zebinger als Student und Lehrer an der Akademie bzw. Hochschule für Musik und darstellenden Kunst in Graz’, in Franz Zebinger. Komponist und Interpret. Ausstellung an der Hochschule für Musik und darstellende Kunst in Graz, Graz, 1995, V–VIII [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. Kolleritsch, Elisabeth, ‘Das Institut für Jazz an der Grazer Musikhochschule’, in Elisabeth Kolleritsch (ed.), Jazz in Graz. Von den Anfängen nach dem zweiten Weltkrieg bis zu seiner akademischen Etablierung. Ein zeitgeschichtlicher Beitrag zur Entwicklung des Jazz in Europa (Beiträge zur Jazzforschung, Studies in Jazz Research, 10), Graz, 1995, 199–205 [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. Müller-Lorenz, Maria Elisabeth, Die Entwicklung des musikdramatischen Unterrichts an der Hochschule für Musik und darstellende Kunst in Graz, s.l., 1995 (Graz, Diplomarbeit) [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. For 1996 Kaudel, Helga, ‘Die Komponist und Pädagoge Herbert Blendinger an der Hochschule für Musik und darstellenden Kunst in Graz’, in Herbert Blendinger. Bratschist und Komponist. Ausstellung an der Bibliothek der Hochschule für Musik und darstellende Kunst in Graz, Graz, 1996, 93–110 [Graz, Kunstuniversität].

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For 1997 Kaudel, Helga, ‘Die Kompositionen Georg Aranyi-Aschners an der Akademie und Hochschule für Musik und darstellenden Kunst in Graz’, in Georg AranyiAschner. Komponist und Lehrer. Ausstellung an der Bibliothek für Musik und darstellende Kunst in Graz, Graz, 1997, 55–78 [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. For 1998 Dörner, Wolfgang, Das Studium Orchesterdirigieren an der Hochschule für Musik und Darstellende Kunst in Graz, s.l., 1998, 93 p. (Hochschule für Musik und darstellende Kunst in Graz, Diplomarbeit) [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. Kopp-Duller, Astrid E., Vom Kärntner Universitätsbund zur Universität Klagenfurt. Ein Beispiel zur Gründungsgeschichte der Hohen Schule in Kärnten (Archiv für vaterländische Geschichte und Topographie, 79), Klagenfurt, 1998 [Klagenfurt]. For 1999 Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Scientific Changes in Germany 1933, 1945 and 1990: Towards a Comparison’, Minerva, 37, 1999: 329–354. Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Die Wissenschaften in der Geschichte der Moderne (Antrittsvorlesung am Institut für Geschichte der Universität Wien, 2. April 1998)’, ¨ Osterreichische Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaften, 10, 1999: 105–129 (English abstract p. 131). Bieber, Regina, Die Expositur Oberschützen und ihre Ensembles seit 1965, s.l., 1999, 105 p. (Universität für Musik und darstellende Kunst Graz, Diplomarbeit) [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. Schwarcz, Iskra, ‘Die bulgarischen Studenten und das Seminar für Osteuropä¨ ische Geschichte (1907–1918)’, in Osterreich-Ungarn und die Entwicklung der bulgarischen Eliten, 1815–1918. Materialien der Ersten wissenschaft¨ lichen Tagung der bilateralen Arbeitsgruppe ‘Osterreich und Bulgarien’, Sofia, 1999, 84–107 [Vienna]. For 2000 Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Die Universitäten im 21. Jahrhundert’, in Martin Bernhofer (ed.), Fragen an das 21. Jahrhundert, Vienna, 2000, 61–73. Beneder, Karin, Beiträge zur Sozialgeschichte des Lehrkörpers der Universität Wien im 18. Jahrhundert anhand ausgewählter Universitätsprofessoren, s.l., 2000 (Diplomarbeit Univ. Wien) [Vienna]. Bergmann, Ulrike, 100 Jahre ‘Wirtschaftsgeographie’ an der WU (Wirtschaftsuniversität) Wien. Ansätze zur Analyse der fachlichen und organisatorischen Entwicklung, s.l., 2000 (Diplomarbeit Wirtschaftsuniversität Wien) [Vienna, Economics]. ¨ Bösch, Jessica, Der (un-)aufhaltsame Aufstieg der Frauen an Osterreichs Universitäten. Eine Literaturstunde zur historischen und gegenwärtigen Situation

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der Hochschullehrerinnen, s.l., 2000 (Diplomarbeit Univ. Innsbruck) [Innsbruck]. Zinnhobler, Rudolf and Kriemhild Pangerl (eds.), Kirchengeschichte in Linz. Fakultät—Lehrkanzel—Professoren (Neues Archiv für die Geschichte der Diözese Linz. Beihefte, 7), Linz, 2000 (Mit Beiträgen von Johannes Ebner, Josef Lenzenweger, Isfried H. Pichler, Friedrich Schragl und Monika Würthinger) [Linz]. For 2001 Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Heißt ‘‘Humboldt International’’ auch ‘‘Humboldt inter¨ kulturell’’? Uberlegungen zur Rezeption deutscher Universitäts- und Wissenschaftsstrukturen in anderen Ländern’, in Rainer C. Schwinges (ed.), Humboldt International. Der Export des deutschen Universitätsmodells im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Basle, 2001, 335–346. Waldhart, Ernst, Die Geschichte und Entwicklung der Zahn-, Mund- und Kieferheilkunde und der Mund-, Kiefer- und Gesichtschirurgie in Innsbruck, s.l., 2001 (Diplomarbeit Univ. Innsbruck) [Innsbruck]. For 2002 Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Wissenschaft und Politik als Ressourcen für einander’, in Rüdiger vom Bruch and Brigitte Kaderas (eds.), Wissenschaften und Wissenschaftspolitik—Bestandaufnahmen zu Formationen, Brüchen und Kontinuitäten im Deutschland des 20. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart, 2002, 32–51. Aurenhammer, Hans H., ‘150 Jahre Kunstgeschichte an der Universität Wien (1852–2002). Eine wissenschaftshistorische Chronik’, Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für Vergleichende Kunstforschung in Wien, 54.2/3, 2002: 1–15 [Vienna]. Jontes, Lieselotte, ‘Die Grazer Jahre der Montanistischen Hochschule 1934–1937’, Res montanarum, 27, 2002: 38–48 [Leoben]. ¨ Kaudel, Helga, ‘Offentliche Musikausbildung. Zur Geschichte der Kunstuniversität Graz’, in Künstlerinnen auf ihren Wegen. Texte und Dokumentation einer Ausstellung an der Universität für Musik und darstellende Kunst Graz, ed. Arbeitskreis für Gleichbehandlungsfragen an der Universität für Musik und darstellende Kunst Graz, Graz, 2002, 22–27 [Graz, Kunstuniversität]. Urban, Otto H., ‘ ‘‘. . . und der deutschnationale Antisemit Dr. Matthäus ¨ Much’’—der Nestor der Urgeschichte Osterreichs? Mit einem Anhang zur Urgeschichte in Wien während der NS-Zeit. 2. Teil’, Archaeologia Austriaca, 86, 2002: 7–43 [Vienna]. For 2003 Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Forced Migration and Scientific Change: Steps Towards a New Overview’, in Edward Timms and John Hughes (eds.), Intellectual Migration and Cultural Transformation: Refugees from National Socialism in the English-Speaking World, Vienna, 2003, 241–263.

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Ash, Mitchell G. (ed.), Hochschulen und Wissenschaften im Nationalsozialismus. ¨ Stand der Forschung und Projekte in Osterreich, Vienna, 2003 (CD-ROM). Bischof, Günter and Böhler Ingrid, ‘Forschung und Lehre am Innsbrucker Institut für Zeitgeschichte (1983–2003). Die ‘‘Innsbrucker Schule’’ in der o¨ sterreichischen Zeitgeschichtsforschung’, Zeitgeschichte, 30.6, 2003: 387–398 [Innsbruck]. For 2004 Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Innovation, Ethnicity, Identity: German-Speaking Jewish Psychologists and Social Scientists in the Interwar Period’, Jahrbuch des Simon Dubow Instituts, 3, 2004: 241–268. Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Kommentar zu Teil 3: ‘‘Gelehrtenbiographien/Selbstzeugnisse von Wissenschaftlern’’ ’, in Sonja Hajder (ed.), Die Bildung des Subjekts. Bildungstheoretische Analysen, special issue of Zeitschrift für Pädagogik. Beihefte, 48, 2004: 182–188. Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Vertriebene, Verbliebene, Verfehlungen. Der Nobelpreis und der Nationalsozialismus’, in E. Mittler and F. Paul (eds.), Das Göttinger Nobelpreiswunder. 100 Jahre Nobelpreis. Vortragsband, Göttingen, 2004, 84–113. Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Wissenschaftswandlungen in politischen Umbruchszeiten— 1933, 1945 und 1990 im Vergleich’, Acta Historica Leopoldina, 39, 2004: 75–95 (published 2005). Chrysos, Evangelos, ‘Vierzig Jahre Wiener Byzantinistik’, in Wolfram Hörander, Johannes Koder and Maria A. Stassinopoulou (eds.), Wiener Byzantinistik und Neogräzistik. Beiträge zum Symposion vierzig Jahre Institut für Byzantinistik und Neogräzistik der Universität Wien im Gedenken an Herbert Hunger (Wien, 4.-7. Dezember 2004) (Byzantina et Neograeca Vindobonensia, 24), Vienna, 2004, 25–34 [Vienna]. Mylonaki, Ioanna, ‘Die Reisen der Universität Wien nach Griechenland, 1911 und 1914’, in Hörander, Koder and Stassinopoulou (eds.), Wiener Byzantinistik und Neogräzistik, 315–323 [Vienna]. Schachenmayr, Alkuin Volker, Prägende Professoren in der Entwicklung des theologischen Lehrbetriebes im Cistercienserstift Heiligenkreuz von 1802 bis 2002, Langwalden, 2004, 339 p. [Stift Heiligenkreuz, Austria]. For 2005 Ash, Mitchell G., ‘Innovation, Ethnizität, Identität. Deutschsprachige jüdische Psychologen und Sozialwissenschaftler in der Zwischenkriegszeit’, in Marc Schallenberg and Peter U. Walther (eds.), ‘. . . immer in Forschen bleiben’. Rüdiger vom Bruch zum 60. Geburtstag, Stuttgart, 2005, 237–264. ¨ Kleinbichler, Susanne, Paul Gelmo. Osterreichischer Farbenchemiker— Entdecker der Sulfonamide, s.l., 2005 (Wien, Technische Universität, Dipl.Arb.) [Vienna, Technical University].

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Publications 1998 Barv´ıková, Hana and others (eds.), Vˇeda v cˇ eských zem´ıch za druhé svˇetové ˇ 1998 [Science in the války: Sborn´ık z konference, Prague, Archiv AV CR, Czech Lands during WWII: Conference Proceedings]. Beˇcka, Jiˇr´ı, ‘ ‘‘Arabic Science’’ at Prague University in the 14th and 15th Centuries’, Archiv orientáln´ı, 66.1, 1998: 47–54. Beránek, Karel, Mistˇri, bakalárˇi a studenti praˇzské filosofické fakulty. Magistri, baccalaurei nec non studentes facultatis philosophicae Pragenses 1640–1654, ˇ 1998 (summary in Latin, German) [Masters, Prague, Národn´ı knihovna CR, Bachelors, and Students of the Prague Philosophy Faculty, 1640–1654]. Fajkus, Bˇretislav and others, Pˇrı´rodovˇedecká fakulta Univerzity Karlovy 1920–1998, Prague, 1998 [The Faculty of Natural Sciences of Charles University 1920–1998]. Havránek, Jan and Zdenˇek Pousta (eds.), Dˇejiny Univerzity Karlovy 1348–1990. 4. 1918–1990, Prague, Karolinum, 1998 [History of Charles University 1348–1990]. Havránek, Jan, ‘The University Professors and Students in Nineteenth Century Bohemia’, in Bohemia in History, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1998, 215–228. Hendrych, Duˇsan (ed.), Právnická fakulta Univerzity Karlovy 1348–1998, Prague, 1998 [The Faculty of Law of the Charles University 1348–1998]. Hlavácˇ ková, Ludmila and Petr Svobodný, Biographisches Lexikon der deutschen medizinischen Fakultät in Prag 1883–1945, Prague, Karolinum, 1998. Jirásek, Zdenˇek, ‘Perzekuce sˇ kolstv´ı Moravy a cˇ eského Slezska v letech ˇ ˇ 1948–1954’, Casopis Slezského zemského muzea. Rada B—vˇedy historické, 47.1, 1998: 59–96 [Persecution of the School System in Moravia and Czech Silesia in 1948–1954]. ˇ Krejˇc´ı, Renata, Marian Strunc and Karel Krˇska, ‘Portréty významných fyzik˚u a meteorolog˚u, kteˇr´ı p˚usobili na Vysokém uˇcen´ı technickém v Brnˇe’, Dˇejiny vˇed a techniky, 31.3, 1998: 157–177 (summary in English) [Portraits of important physicists and meteorologists who worked at the Technical University of Brno]. Mˇeˇr´ınský, Zdenˇek, ‘Studenti z B´ıtova na v´ıdeˇnské universitˇe (1382–1447) a význam universitn´ıch matrik pro poznán´ı kulturn´ıch vztah˚u Moravy a ˇ Slezska s rakouskými zemˇemi’, Casopis Matice Moravské, 117.2, 1998: 431–452 (summary in German) [Students from B´ıtov at the Viennese University (1382–1447) and the Importance of University Registers for a Study of Cultural Exchange Between Moravia, Silesia, and the Austrian Lands]. ˇ Nachajov´ a, Mária (ed.), Ukrajinská svobodná univerzita (1921–1996), Prague, ˇ 1998 [Ukrainian Free University (1921–1996)]. Národn´ı knihovna CR, Olˇsovský, Jarom´ır and Karel Müller, ‘ ‘‘Templum honoris’’ Martina Anton´ına Lublinského, K ikonografickému programu neznámé doktorské univerzitn´ı

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teze Frantiˇska Eusebia hrabˇete Khuena’, Stˇredn´ı Morava, 6, 1998: 60–68 [‘Templum Honoris’ of Martin Anton´ın Lublinský. On the Iconographic Programme of Unknown Doctoral Thesis of Frantiˇsek Eusebius, Count Khuen]. ˇ ych Paˇrez, Jan and Zdenˇek Kalvach, Irové na praˇzské lékaˇrské fakultˇe a v Cesk´ zem´ıch v 17. a 18. stolet´ı. Katalog výstavy, Prague, Strahovská knihovna, 1998 [Irish Presence at the Prague Medical Faculty and in Czech Lands in the 17th and 18th Century]. ˇ a literatura, kultura Pousta, Zdenˇek, ‘Engliˇsu˚ v rektorský rok’, in Rok 1947. Cesk´ a spoleˇcnost v obdob´ı 1945–1948 [1947. Czech Literature, Culture, and ˇ 1998, ´ Society in 1945–1948], Prague, Ustav pro cˇ eskou literaturu AVCR, 177–185 [Engliˇs’s Year as a Rector] (henceforth Rok 1947). Prahl, Roman (ed.), Posedlost kresbou. Poˇca´ tky Akademie umˇen´ı v Praze 1800–1835, Prague, DIVIUS, 1998 [Obsession with Painting. Beginnings of the Academy of Arts in Prague in 1800–1835]. Saxová, Tereza and Stanislav Soused´ık (eds.), Rodrigo de Arriaga (1667). Philosoph und Theologe, Prague, Karolinum, 1998. Slavica Pragensia ad tempora nostra. Sborn´ık stat´ı z mezinárodn´ı vˇedecké konference ke 150. výroˇc´ı zaloˇzen´ı stolice slovanské filologie na Karlovˇe univerzitˇe, Praha, 8.-10. cˇ ervna 1998, Prague, Euroslavica, 1998 [Proceedings of an International Conference Marking the 150th Anniversary of Foundation of the Chair of Slavic Philology at the Charles University, Prague, 8–10 June, 1998]. ˇ Smahel, Frantiˇsek, ‘Poˇca´ tky praˇzského obecného uˇcen´ı. Kritické reflexe k jubileu ˇ y cˇ asopis historický, 96.2, 1998: jednoho ‘‘národn´ıho monumentu’’ ’, Cesk´ 253–291 (summary in German) [The Origins of a Studium Generale in Prague. A Critical Reflection on the Jubilee of a ‘National Monument’]. ˇ Svarcov´ a, Zdenka, ‘Japanese Studies at Prague University’, Archiv orientáln´ı, 66.1, 1998: 31–37. Svobodný, Petr (ed.), Johannes Marcus Marci. A Seventeenth-Century Bohemian Polymath, Prague, Charles University Press, 1998. Togner, Milan (ed.), Historická Olomouc. 11. Sborn´ık pˇrı´spˇevk˚u ze sympozia zamˇerˇený k problematice dˇejin olomoucké univerzity, Olomouc, Vydavatelstv´ı Univerzity Palackého, 1998 [Olomouc in History. Proceedings of a Symposium on the History of the University in Olomouc]. Uhl´ıˇr, Zdenˇek, Mistˇri a studenti Karlovy univerzity a jejich d´ılo ve stˇredovˇeku, ˇ 1998 [Masters and Students of the Charles Prague, Národn´ı knihovna CR, University and their Work in the Middle Ages]. Vacek, Jaroslav, ‘Indian Studies at Charles University’, Archiv orientáln´ı, 66.1, 1998: 1–16. Zilynská, Blanka, ‘Univerzita Karlova v kontextu vývoje spoleˇcnosti v letech 1945–1948’, in Rok 1947, 161–176 [Charles University in the Context of Social Changes in 1945–1948].

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Publications 1999 40 let pedagogické fakulty, Hradec Králové, Vysoká sˇkola pedagogická, 1999 [40 Years of the Faculty of Education]. ˇ e republiky, Prague, Vysoká 80 let vysokého ekonomického sˇkolstv´ı na u´ zem´ı Cesk´ sˇkola ekonomická, 1999 [80 Years of Tertiary Education in Economy on the Territory of the Czech Republic]. Beˇcváˇrová, Martina, Z historie Jednoty 1862–1869 [From the History of the Association 1862–1869], Prague, Prometheus, 1999 (summary in English) [The Association for Free Lectures in Mathematics and Physics and Its Founders]. Brandˇstetr, Jiˇr´ı, Adolf G. Pokorný and others, Chemie na technických sˇkolách v Brnˇe 1849–1999, Brno, Vysoké uˇcen´ı technické, 1999 [Chemistry at Technical Schools in Brno 1849–1999]. ˇ Cornejov´ a, Ivana, ‘Pécˇ e o p´ısemnosti praˇzské univerzity. Jezuitské archivy’, in Michal Svatoˇs (ed.), Sciencia nobilitat, Prague, Karolinum, 1999, 105–114 (Pˇr´ıspˇevky k dˇejinám vzdˇelanosti v cˇ eských zem´ıch [Contributions to the History of Education in the Czech Lands], 1/1998) [Care and Maintenance of Documents of the Prague University. Jesuit Archives] (henceforth Svatoˇs (ed.), Sciencia nobilitat). Gabriel, Jiˇrı´, ‘Karlova univerzita a poˇca´ tky filozofického semináˇre na filozofické fakultˇe v Brnˇe’, Filosofický cˇ asopis, 47.1, 1999: 83–95 (summary in English and German) [Charles University and the Beginnings of Philosophical Tutoring at the Philosophical Faculty in Brno]. Havránek, Jan, ‘Stˇredoevropské univerzity v 19. stolet´ı a postaven´ı univerzitn´ıch profesor˚u’, in Svatoˇs (ed.), Sciencia nobilitat, 129–139 [Central European Universities in the 19th Century and the Status of University Professors]. Herold, Vilém, ‘Filosofie na praˇzské univerzitˇe pˇredhusitské doby. Schola Aristotelis nebo Platonis divinissimi?’ Filosofický cˇ asopis, 47.1, 1999: 5–14 (summary in German and English) [Philosophy at the Prague University in the Pre-Hussite Period: Schola Aristotelis or Platonis divinissimi?]. Hoffmannová, Jaroslava, ‘K univerzitn´ımu p˚usoben´ı Václava Novotného’, Mediaevalia historica Bohemica, 6, 1999: 161–198 (summary in German). ˇ u a Akademického Krejˇcová, Helena, ‘Výbory Spolku cˇ eských akademik˚u Zid˚ spolku ‘‘Kapper’’ ’, Paginae historiae, 7, 1999: 46–84 (summary in German) [Committees of the Association of Czech Jewish Academics and the Academic Association ‘Kapper’]. Majer, Jiˇr´ı, ‘Ke zˇr´ızen´ı Vysoké sˇkoly bánˇ ské v Pˇr´ıbrami: k výroˇc´ı 150 let jej´ıho p˚usoben´ı’, Podbrdsko, 6, 1999: 41–50 (summary in English and German) [On the Foundation of the University of Mining in Pˇr´ıbram: Commemorating the 150 Years of Its Existence]. Mates, Pavel, ‘K vývoji právn´ı u´ pravy vysokoˇskolských titul˚u’, in Státnost cˇ eská a cˇ eskoslovenská –tradice a kontinuita, [Czech and Czechoslovak

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Statehood—Tradition and Continuity], Prague, Karolinum, 1999, 225–229 (summary in English) [On the Developments of Legal Regulations of Academic Titles]. ˇ Mˇeˇr´ınský, Zdenˇek, ‘Cernohorˇ st´ı z Boskovic na v´ıdeˇnské universitˇe v pozdn´ım stˇredovˇeku a raném novovˇeku’, in Nový Mars Moravicus aneb Sborn´ık pˇrı´spˇevk˚u, jeˇz vˇenovali Prof. Dr. Josefu Válkovi jeho zˇa´ ci a pˇra´ telé k sedmdesátinám [A New Mars Moravicus or Collection of Essays Dedicated to Prof. dr. Josef Válek by His Students and Friends for His 70th Birthday], Brno, Matice moravská, 1999, 285–306 (summary in German) [Members of ˇ the Cernohorsk´ y of Boskovice Family at the Viennese University in the Late Middle Ages and Early Modern Period]. Mˇeˇr´ınský, Zdenˇek, ‘Studenti v´ıdeˇnské university z Polné (1377–1524)’, Vlastivˇedný sborn´ık Vysoˇciny. Odd´ıl spoleˇcenských vˇed, 11, 1999: 59–75 (Collection of Articles on Vysoˇcina. Section on Social Sciences) [Students of the Viennese University from Polná (1377–1524)]. Novotný, Gustav, ‘Prvn´ı lesnický kurs a jubilejn´ı oslavy na lesnickém odboru Vysoké sˇkoly zemˇedˇelské v Brnˇe v památném roce 1929’, Dˇejiny vˇed a techniky, 32.2, 1999: 109–124 (summary in English) [The First Course of Forestry and Anniversary Celebration at the Department of Forestry of the University of Agriculture in Brno in 1929]. ˇ Pernes, Jiˇr´ı, Skola pro Moravu. 100 let Vysokého uˇcen´ı technického v Brnˇe, Brno, Vysoké uˇcen´ı technické v Brnˇe, 1999 [A School for Moravia. 100 Years of the Technical University in Brno]. ˇ ıhová, Milada, Dvorn´ı lékaˇr posledn´ıch Lucemburk˚u. Alb´ık z Uniˇcova, lékaˇr R´ král˚u Václava IV. a Zikmunda, profesor praˇzské univerzity a krátký cˇ as i arcibiskup praˇzský, Prague, Karolinum, 1999 (summary in German) [The Court Physician of the Last Luxemburgs. Alb´ık of Uniˇcov, Physician of King Wenceslaus IV and King Sigismund, Professor of the Prague University and briefly also Archbishop of Prague]. Savickij, Ivan, ‘Specifika Pragi kak duchovnogo centra emigracii [Specific ´ Position of Prague as a Spiritual Centre of the Emigr´ e Community]’, in ˇ Duchovn´ı proudy ruské a ukrajinské emigrace v Ceskoslovensk´ e republice (1919–1939). Ménˇe známé aspekty [Spiritual Movements of the Russian and ´ Ukrainian Emigr´ e Community in Czechoslovakia (1919–1939). Less Known Aspects], Prague, Slovanský u´ stav, 1999, 47–95 [The Russian Faculty of Law, founded 18. 5. 1922]. Sekyrková, Milada, ‘Studenti z cˇ eských zem´ı na v´ıdeˇnské polytechnice v letech 1850–1875’, Dˇejiny vˇed a techniky, 32.3, 1999: 129–142 (summary in German) [Students from Czech Lands at the Viennese Polytechnic in 1850–1875]. Svatoˇs, Michal, ‘Praˇzská univerzitn´ı autonomie za Karla IV’, in Svatoˇs (ed.), Sciencia nobilitat, 57–69 [Prague Academic Autonomy During the Reign of Charles IV].

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ˇ Zilynska, Blanka and Petr Svobodný (eds.), Vˇeda v Ceskoslovensku v letech 1945–1953: sborn´ık z konference, Prague, Karolinum, 1999 [Science in Czechoslovakia in 1945–1953: Conference Proceedings].

France Amougou, E., Etudiants d’Afrique noire en France. Une jeunesse sacrifiée?, Paris, L’Harmattan, 1998. Breton, Gilles and Michel Lambert (eds.), Globalisation et universités: nouvel espace, nouveaux acteurs, Paris, Québec, 2003. Denis, Marie-Noële, ‘Les statues de l’Université impériale de Strasbourg et la pédagogie du pangermanisme’, Revue des sciences sociales de la France de l’Est, 34, 2005.

Germany Publications 2008 Berg, Matthias, ‘ ‘‘Können Juden an deutschen Universitäten promovieren?’’ Der ‘‘Judenforscher’’ Wilhelm Grau, die Berliner Universität und das Promotionsrecht für Juden im Nationalsozialismus’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 213–227. Bertram, Sabine, ‘Frauen promovieren: Doktorandinnen der Nationalökonomie an der Berliner Universität 1906–1936’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 111–133. Borgolte, Michael, ‘Universität und Intellektueller. Erfindungen des Mittelalters unter dem Einfluß des Islam?’ Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 91–109. Braun, Karl and Claus-Marco Dieterich, ‘Die Kleinstädte und das Geistesleben. Zur ethnografischen Erkundung der Universitäts-Stadt’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 243–250. Day, Barbara, ‘International aspects of the ‘‘underground university’’ in Czechoslovakia, 1948–1989’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 199–212. Hürten, Heinz, ‘Geschichte als Bedingungsstruktur. Die Entwicklung der Katholischen Universität Eichstätt’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 85–90. Korthaase, Werner, ‘Paul Kleinerts Rektoratsrede 1885 u¨ ber die Idee einer ‘‘Universitas Brandenburgica’’ und Johann Amos Comenius’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 229–242. Maaser, Michael, ‘Das Archiv der Universität Frankfurt am Main. Gedächtnis und Schatzkammer der Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 251–254.

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Naab, Erich, ‘Beobachtungen zur Theologie in Eichstätt auf dem Weg vom Collegium Willibaldinum zur Katholischen Universität’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 41–51. Rothland, Martin, ‘Wider die ‘‘Gleichschaltung von Fachdidaktikern und Fachwissenschaftlern . . .’’ Der universitäre Widerstand gegen die Integration der Pädagogischen Hochschulen und die Realisierung der Zusammenführung am Beispiel der Universität Münster’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 135–154. Schreiber, Waltraud, ‘Zur Geschichte der Lehrerbildung in Eichstätt’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 53–84. Sizova, Anastasija Ju., ‘Probleme der Hochschulbildung in Russland am Vorabend der Februarrevolution 1917’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 183–198. Viˇslenkova, Elena A. and Svetlana Ju. Malyˇseva, ‘Universität als Wissenschaftseinrichtung und als Form der Gedächtnisorganisation’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 155–182. Wimmer, Ruprecht, ‘Die Rolle der katholischen Universitäten im künftigen Europa’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 13–15. Zschaler, Frank E. W. (ed.), ‘Katholische Universitäten’, special issue of Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008. Zschaler, Frank E. W., ‘Katholische Universitäten in Kirche und Welt. Vielfalt eines universellen Konzepts’, Jahrbuch für Universitätsgeschichte, 11, 2008: 17–39.

Hungary Additions to Earlier Lists For 2006 Bozzay, Réka, ‘Leiden, a gondoskodó egyetem. Magyarországi diákoknak nyújtott juttatások e´ s kiváltságok a leideni egyetemen a 17–18. században’, Századok, 2006.4, 2006: 985–1007 [Leiden, the ‘regardful university’. Benefits and privileges of the hungarian students at Leiden University in the 17–18th centuries]. Khavanova, Olga, ‘Hazafiság a lojalitás jegyében. A Theresianum magyar növendékei e´ s a bécsi udvar’, Századok, 2006.6, 2006: 1503–1518 [The hungarian students of the Theresianum in Vienna and the Royal Court]. Publications 2007 Bognár, Krisztina, ‘Ungarländische Studenten in Wiener Bildungsanstalten 1526–1789’, in Cornel Sigmirean (ed.), Intelectualii s¸i societatea moderna. ˘

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Italy Additions to Earlier Lists For 1997 Medri, Sante, ‘Silvestro Gherardi’, in Storia di Lugo. L’età moderna e contemporanea, Faenza, EDT, 1997, 2, 237–242. For 1998 Alessandro Serpieri scienziato riminese, Rimini, Raffaelli e Luisè Editori, 1998, 157 p. For 1999 Carolis, Stefano De and Angelo Turchini, Giovanni Bianchi. Medico primario di Rimini ed archiatra pontificio, Verrucchio, Pazzini, 1999, 103 p. Pasi, Romano, ‘Medici e cultura medica a Ravenna nel XVI secolo: Tommaso Rangoni detto il filologo’, Bollettino dell’ordine dei medici della Romagna, 1, 1999: 23–27. Tra scienza e politica: Carlo Matteucci, special issue of Nuova civiltà delle macchine, 4, 1999. For 2000 Rotzoll, Maike, Pierleone da Spoleto. Vita e opere di un medico del Rinascimento (Accademia Toscana di scienze e lettere ‘La Colombaria’, Studi, 187), Florence, Leo S. Olschki, 2000, 127 p. [Padua]. Scalva, Giuse, ‘Un medico alla corte di Carlo Emanuele III: Vitaliano Donati e il suo viaggio in Levante (1759–1762)’, Nuncius. Annali di storia della scienza, 15, 2000: 365–397 [Turin]. Tazzioli, Rossana, ‘Gregorio Ricci Curbastro e la matematica per Einstein’, Nuova civiltà delle macchine, 2000: 134–140. For 2001 Favaretto, Irene, ‘In ricordo di Giulia Fogolari (1 gennaio 1916–12 gennaio 2001)’, Archivio veneto, 157, 2001: 209–212 [Padua]. Guidi, Serio De, ‘Mons. Giuseppe Zamboni: una personalità ‘‘integrale’’ ’, Atti e memorie dell’Accademia di agricoltura, scienze e lettere di Verona, 177, 2000–2001: 213–225. Maiocchi, Roberto, ‘Carlo Matteucci nel Risorgimento italiano’, Risorgimento, 3, 2001: 71–89. Margreth, Alfredo, ‘Ricordo di Massimo Aloisi’, Atti dell’Istituto Veneto di scienze, lettere ed arti, 159.1, 2000–2001: 130–153. Montanari, Antonio, ‘Tra erudizione e nuova scienza. I Lincei riminesi di Giovanni Bianchi’, Studi romagnoli, 52, 2001: 401–492.

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Lithuania Staliunas, Darius, Visuomene be universiteto? Aukˇstosios mokyklos atkurimo problema Lietuvoje: XIXa. vidurys—XXa. pradˇzia, Vilnius, 2000.

Poland Additions to Earlier Lists For 1997 ´ Mo˙zd˙zeń, Stefan (ed.), Historia wychowania: wybór z´ródeł. Cz. 2, Sredniowiecze, Kielce, 1997 [A history of education: a selection of sources. Part 2. Middle Ages].

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Romania Nastasa, Lucian, Itinerarii spre lumea savanta. Tineri din spatiul romanesc la studii in strainatate (1864–1944), Cluj-Napoca, Editura Limes, 2006, 326 p.

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Scandinavia Additions to Earlier Lists For 1980 Heininen, Simo, Die finnischen Studenten in Wittenberg 1531–1552 (Schriften der Luther-Agricola-Gesellschaft, A. 19), Helsinki, Luther-AgricolaGesellschaft, 1980 [Finland, Germany, Wittenberg]. For 1981 Autio, Veli-Matti, Yliopiston virkanimitykset. Hallinto- ja oppihistoriallinen tutkimus Turun Akatemian ja Keisarillisen Aleksanterin-yliopiston opettajien nimityksistä Venäjän vallan alkupuolella 1809–1852 (Historiallisia tutkimuk˚ sia, 115), Helsinki, 1981 [Finland, Abo/Turku, Helsinki]. For 1983 Copeland, William (ed.), Finnish-American academic and professional exchanges. Analyses and reminiscences, Helsinki, Foundation for Research in Higher Education and Science Policy, 1983, 105 p. [Finland, United States]. Klinge, Matti, University of Helsinki. A short history, Helsinki, 1983 [Finland, ˚ Abo/Turku, Helsinki]. Klinge, Matti, Ylioppilaslehti, Helsinki, 1983 [Finland, Helsinki]. For 1984 Bagge, Sverre, ‘Nordic Students at Foreign Universities until 1660’, Scandinavian Journal of History, 9, 1984: 1–29. Frängsmyr, Tore, History of science in Sweden. The growth of a discipline, 1932–1982 (Uppsala studies in history of science, 2), Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1984 [Sweden]. Klinge, Matti, Professoreita 35 professoria kuninkaallisen Turun, sittemmin Suomen keisarillisen Aleksanterin-, nyttemmin Helsingin yliopiston 35 vuosikym˚ meneltä, Helsinki, Otava, 1984 [Finland, Abo/Turku, Helsinki]. For 1985 Heininen, Simo, ‘Die finnischen Studenten in Deutschland bis 1640’, Wissenschaftliche Beiträge der Ernst-Moritz-Arndt-Universität Greifswald zur Nordeuropa-Forschung, 1985: 33–40 [Finland, Germany].

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The United States Additions to Earlier Lists For 2005 Fujioka, Maki, ‘Masachusettsu koka daigaku ni okeru jinbun shakai kagakubu no secchi koso’, Amerikashi Hyoron, 23, 2005: 19–39 (In Japanese) [Establishing departments of humanities and social sciences at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology]. Hessinger, Rodney, Seduced, Abandoned, and Reborn. Visions of Youth in Middle-Class America, 1780–1850, Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005. Nash, Margaret A., Women’s Education in the United States, 1780–1840, New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Walton, Andrea (ed.), Women and Philanthropy in Education, Bloomington, IN, Indiana University press, 2005. For 2006 Al-Bargi, Abdullah Ali, The Modernization and Democratization of American Higher Education, 1850–1900: A Political and Social Perspective, s.l., Ann Arbor, 2006 (Thesis, Ph.D., Arizona State University, UMI # DA3210092). Altenbaugh, Richard J., ‘Where Are the Disabled in the History of Education? The Impact of Polio on Sites of Learning’, History of Education, 35, 2006: 705–730. Altman, Julie B., Higher Education for Women in an Age of Rising Standards: The Association of Collegiate Alumnae, 1881–1916, s.l., 2006 (Thesis, Ph.D., Columbia University, UMI. #DA3213472). Asato, Noriko, Teaching Mikadoism: The Attack on Japanese Language Schools in Hawaii, California, and Washington, 1919–1927, Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 2006.

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History of Universities: Volume XXIII 1

History of Universities: Volume XXIII 1

History of Universities: Volume XXII 1

History of Universities: Volume XXI 1

History of Universities: Volume XXII 2