In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Method and Mathematics:Peter Ramus's Histories of the SciencesRobert GouldingPeter Ramus (1515–72) was, at first sight, the least likely person to write an influential history of mathematics. For one thing, he was clearly no great mathematician himself. His sympathetic biographer Nicholas Nancel related that Ramus would spend the mornings being coached in mathematics by a team of experts he had assembled, and in the afternoon would lecture on the very (...) same subjects.1 But there can be no doubt that Ramus held mathematics in particular esteem and even played a crucial role in linking philosophical discourse to mathematics and in promoting the use of quadrivial reasoning in the study of the natural world.2The origins for his enthusiasm for mathematics are to be found in his account of the nature of the arts and critique of the curriculum of the universities. From his earliest career, Ramus was a logician and remained one in all his works, whether writing on mathematics or Virgil, and he conceived [End Page 63] of all the arts, especially mathematics, as unchanging structures of necessarily true propositions—not prima facie a position which lends itself to notions of historical change and development.3 His career as a historian of mathematics, I will argue, was directed by problems that arose in his theoretical understanding of mathematics as he began to immerse himself in the sciences of the ancient world.Ramus and the Reform of DialecticRamus set out his fundamental logical positions in his very first printed work, the Dialecticae institutiones (Education in Dialectic) of 1543, a contribution to the ongoing humanist attack on scholastic logic, in which Ramus rehearsed many of the commonplace criticisms of the university dialectic. Humanists complained that logic no longer concerned itself with real human reasoning; instead, it had become a discipline studied for its own sake, using its own incomprehensible jargon, and was of no practical interest. The new humanist dialectics of Lorenzo Valla and Rudolph Agricola attempted to teach the kind of practical reasoning useful for composing a speech or letter, and they borrowed extensively from rhetorical works of Cicero and Quintilian to develop a highly rhetoricized logic. Questions about the formal validity of arguments were of little interest; what mattered was whether the arguments were persuasive.4In his Dialecticae institutiones, Ramus took this humanist reformulation of dialectic a step further. Dialectic—or, in fact, any art or science—consisted of nature, doctrine, and exercise. The natural workings of the mind formed the most significant element. Doctrine was nothing more than a record of natural reasoning; in importance it paled next to nature and practice.5 The logic of the universities bore no resemblance to the true, natural dialectic, as he argued at length in the companion volume to the Institutiones, the innocuously titled but exuberantly offensive Aristotelicae animadversiones [End Page 64] (Observations on Aristotle).6 The question, then, remained: how can we gain access to this "natural reasoning"?Ramus's answer was surprising. He asks us to find a group of men—not scholars, but completely uneducated vineyard workers. Question them about the coming year: the fertility of the soil, the quality and quantity of the crop. "And then," he writes "from their minds as from a mirror an image of nature will be reflected."7 In the reasoned replies of these uneducated men, says Ramus, we discover every part of logic needed for any purpose, whether everyday discourse or composition of poetry: the invention of arguments, the assessment of their truth and their proper and orderly presentation. Other humanists had praised man's natural logical faculties, elevating them over artificial technique, but Ramus was the first to look beyond the walls of the university and the writings of the ancients to find natural dialectic at work.If even the uneducated have some possession of the arts, then the arts taught at the university should do no more than clear away the misleading junk in the mind, and allow its natural clarity to shine through.8 Logic should be easy to learn—not because this is a pedagogic ideal, but from the very nature of the art. And if logic as it is... (shrink)

Some time in the late 1590s, the Welsh amateur mathematician John Bulkeley wrote to Thomas Harriot asking his opinion about the properties of a truly gargantuan (but totally imaginary) plano-spherical convex lens, 48 feet in diameter. While Bulkeley’s original letter is lost, Harriot devoted several pages to the optical properties of “Mr Bulkeley his Glasse” in his optical papers (now in British Library MS Add. 6789), paying particular attention to the place of its burning point. Harriot’s calculational methods in these (...) papers are almost unique in Harriot’s optical remains, in that he uses both the sine law of refraction and interpolation from Witelo’s refraction tables in order to analyze the passage of light through the glass. For this and other reasons, it is very likely that Harriot wrote his papers on Bulkeley’s glass very shortly after his discovery of the law and while still working closely with Witelo’s great Optics; the papers represent, perhaps, his very first application of the law. His and Bulkeley’s interest in this giant glass conform to a long English tradition of curiosity about the optical and burning properties of large glasses, which grew more intense in late sixteenth-century England. In particular, Thomas Digges’s bold and widely known assertions about his father’s glasses that could see things several miles distant and could burn objects a half-mile or further away may have attracted Harriot and Bulkeley’s skeptical attention; for Harriot’s analysis of the burning distance and the intensity of Bulkeley’s fantastic lens, it shows that Digges’s claims could never have been true about any real lens (and this, I propose, was what Bulkeley had asked about in his original letter to Harriot). There was also a deeper, mathematical relevance to the problem that may have caught Harriot’s attention. His most recent source on refraction—Giambattista della Porta’s De refractione of 1593—identified a mathematical flaw in Witelo’s cursory suggestion about the optics of a lens (the only place that lenses appear, however fleetingly, in the writings of the thirteenth-century Perspectivist authors). In his early notes on optics, in a copy of Witelo’s optics, Harriot highlighted Witelo’s remarks on the lens and della Porta’s criticism (which he found unsatisfactory). The most significant problem with Witelo’s theorem would disappear as the radius of curvature of the lens approached infinity. Bulkeley’s gigantic glass, then, may have provided Harriot an opportunity to test out Witelo’s claims about a plano-spherical glass, at a time when he was still intensely concerned with the problems and methods of the Perspectivist school. (shrink)

The gods that guard the poles have been assigned the function of assembling the separate and unifying the manifold members of the whole, while those appointed to the axes keep the circuits in everlasting revolution around and around. And if I may add my own conceit, the centers and poles of all the spheres symbolize the wry-necked gods by imitating the mysterious union and synthesis which they effect; the axes represent the connectors of all the cosmic orders … and the (...) very spheres are likenesses of the perfecting divinities … 1 Proclus’s Commentary on the First Book of Euclid’s Elements contains one of the most important discussions of the nature of mathematical objects and preserves a wealth of historical information about mathematics from antiquity. However, large sections of the text have been neglected by scholars since the text’s first publication in the sixteenth century. Proclus expounds at length on correspondences between mathematical objects and the gods. At times he uses the language of “theurgy,” the ritual practices that later Neoplatonists insisted were necessary for the human soul to ascend to the intelligibles. The contention of this article is that the Commentary, taken as a whole, concerns the practice of “inner theurgy,” mental rituals used by advanced students to raise the soul beyond its assigned bounds. This practice can be traced back to Plotinus and the very beginnings of Neoplatonism; however, the particular methods presented by Proclus are his own development. This interpretation of the Commentary is supported by Proclus’s works Commentary on the Parmenides and Platonic Theology. Parts of the Commentary that have been studied carefully by modern scholars, especially the theory of the mathematical phantasia or imagination, will be shown to be crucial elements in Proclus’s theory and practice of inner theurgy. (shrink)

Kepler’s 1604 Optics proposed among many other things a new way of locating the place of the image under reflection or refraction. He rejected the “perspectivist” method that had been used through antiquity and the Middle Ages, whereby the image was located on the perpendicular between the object and the mirror. Kepler faulted the method for requiring a metaphysical commitment to the action of final causes in optics: the notion that the image was at that place because it was best (...) or appropriate for it to be there, and for no other discernible reason. Kepler’s new theory relied on binocular vision and depth perception to determine the location of the image. No final causes were required, and he showed that the image would in general not be found on the cathetus. According to modern scholarship, Kepler’s theory was part of his revolutionary transformation of the science of optics, and his abandonment of perspectivist optics; as a consequence, the theory of binocular vision is also thought to be original with him. This article demonstrates that the very same theory of binocular image location was set out by Giovanni Battista Benedetti some twenty years earlier, and his writings on this subject may have been Kepler’s unacknowledged source for his own theory. Furthermore, another mathematician, Simon Stevin, developed much the same theory at the same time as Kepler and, it seems, independently of either Benedetti or Kepler. The discovery of these other binocular theories, especially Benedetti’s, requires us to recognize that Kepler’s revolution emerged out of a wider dissatisfaction with the foundations of perspectivist optics, which other lesser-known opticians resolved in much the same way that Kepler did. (shrink)

In 1626, René Descartes and Claude Mydorge worked closely together on the problem of refraction, apparently discovering what is now known as the sine law of refraction. They constructed a plano-hyperbolic lens in order to test out the truth of this mathematical relationship. In 1637, Descartes finally published the sine method of determining refractions in his Dioptrique, which also demonstrated, on the basis of this relationship, that the hyperbola and ellipse were anaclastic lines (that is, that a lens with their (...) profile would refract rays perfectly to a single point) without mentioning Mydorge. Mydorge himself wrote a short manuscript on the subject of refraction and lenses, which is found in a copy among Mersenne’s papers. Scholars have usually assumed that this treatise was written as Mydorge and Descartes worked together in 1626. However, other evidence shows that only the first part of the treatise records the two men’s early collaboration. Subsequently, Mydorge and Descartes completed their arguments separately, Descartes with the help of Isaac Beeckman. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Histories of Science in Early Modern Europe:IntroductionRobert GouldingIn 1713, Pierre Rémond de Montmort wrote to the mathematician Nicolas Bernoulli:It would be desirable if someone wanted to take the trouble to instruct how and in what order the discoveries in mathematics have come about.... The histories of painting, of music, of medicine have been written. A good history of mathematics, especially of geometry, would be a much more interesting and (...) useful work.... Such a work, if done well, could be regarded to some extent as a history of the human mind, since it is in this science, more than in anything else, that man makes known that gift of intelligence that God has given him to rise above all other creatures.1Such a history of mathematics was attempted by Jean-Etienne Montucla in his Histoire des mathématiques (first printed in 1758, and reissued in a [End Page 33] greatly expanded form in 1799).2 Montucla's great work is generally acknowledged as the first genuine history of mathematics. According to some modern historians, previous attempts at such a history had amounted to little more than collections of anecdotes, biographies or exhaustive bibliographies: "jumbles of names, dates and titles," as one writer in the Dictionary of Scientific Biography characterized them.3 Montucla, on the other hand, was thoroughly animated by the Enlightenment project expressed in Rémond's letter, and his Histoire was a philosophical history of the "development of the human mind," as he himself described it.4 It was precisely Montucla's vision of what mathematics meant and his conviction that mathematics itself must change in order to reflect the historical elevation of the human intellect, that allowed him to transform the scattered dates and anecdotes of his predecessors into a genuine history. All subsequent histories of mathematics—until the most recent social histories5 —have been in a sense "footnotes to Montucla."The papers here argue that there were indeed histories of mathematics before Montucla which are worthy of scholarly attention, and that the dismissal of Renaissance histories of science as nothing more than a "cloud of fine adjectives and metaphors" is unfair (although it contains a germ of truth). Anthony Grafton has argued in an article on the historical writings of Cardano, Rheticus, and Kepler, that the purpose of such texts was not so much to trace what actually happened, as to justify the study of a subject often derided—by both humanist and scholastic writers—as obscure, useless and undignified.6 The following four papers go further in arguing that writings in this genre (or, at least, some writings in this genre) were not limited to this characteristically humanist objective. Authors did not just use their histories to persuade others. They themselves relied on historical narratives in order to think about their discipline, define its parts, distinguish among its acceptable and unacceptable forms and prescribe its content [End Page 34] and method of teaching. By placing their discipline into a historical context shared by other, more mainstream humanistic arts, moreover, they could draw upon the large, narrative structures which Renaissance humanists had adapted to understand human intellectual and cultural development, origins, progress and decline.James Byrne's article highlights a disparity of vision between those humanists who treated the origin of the arts as just another subject for humanistic display; and those (like Regiomontanus) who were invested in the arts and wrote their histories from an insider's perspective. Alongside Regiomontanus, one could include several other authors treated in this collection, such as Thomas Vaughan, Peter Ramus, and Henry Savile. In each case, history provided a means for working through problems of the legitimacy and nature of their disciplines. While their writings are not "histories of the human mind," their interests went beyond mere rehearsal of anecdotes. Ramus's histories, for instance, written 200 years before Montucla's Histoire, had the kind of unifying vision which de Montmort demanded, and shared Montucla's concern to find a meaning in the development of mathematics. Ramus, and the supporters and detractors he spawned, were convinced that constructing the history of this science was crucial to understanding how and why human beings have... (shrink)

This long-awaited volume completes Alan Shapiro’s project of publishing Newton’s papers on optics (including the Opticks itself in its various forms). Like the first volume, this second and final v...