IX RELATIVITY1 I have ventured to take as the title of the present discourse the word "relativity"; but I do not intend to encroach on the domain of the American Philosophical Society by discussing the merits or demerits of the theory associated with the name of Einstein. My purpose is altogether different. I use the word "relativity" to denote the great principle of estimation by which human transactions are to be judged. This principle is, that all things are relative, in the sense that they are to be considered not as isolated facts but as facts having relation to other facts, past as well as present. This is not a mere play of words or of fancy. The principle is fundamental, and not less practical than profound. If suspended or hampered in its operation, the world quickly deteriorates; its restoration to activity carries the assurance of safety and growth. In its effects it is both conservative and constructive. It is conservative, in that it preserves what ages of struggle have painfully won; it is constructive, in that it intelligently guides progressive effort. Its roots strike deep into the past. Even from the remotest antiquity it derives sustentation; but the vital essence it draws from ancient sources serves but to enrich its efflorescence and to increase the abundance of its fruits. Nevertheless, there are and always have been those, and their name is legion, by whom this great principle 1 Address delivered at the University of Pennsylvania on "University Day," February 22, 1924. is little understood; and its proponents are constantly forced to defend it. The conflict between those who would study the past for its lessons, and those who assume that the sights and sounds of the present suffice, is not confined to any age. Nearly two hundred years ago Sir William Temple, surveying the controversy then going on in England as to the relative excellence of the ancient and the modern learning, inveighed against those who would discourage scholars, in all degrees, from reading the ancient authors. This protest, so he declared, he was induced to make not only by the common interest of learning, particularly in the universities, but also by a just indignation at the insolence of the modern advocates in defaming heroes whose memory had been sacred and admired for so many ages. But, wholly apart from the tendency, which re-writers of history still so often exhibit, to defame those whose work they would undermine, there is a common propensity to regard with complacent superiority the things with which one is familiar. At one of the meetings held twenty-three years ago to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the assumption by John Marshall of the office of Chief Justice of the United States, a speaker took occasion to comment upon the physical changes that had taken place since Marshall's time in the conditions of everyday life. Whether this was intended by way of praise or of disparagement of what was accomplished by Marshall and his contemporaries, the speaker did not make clear, but the note of disparagement seemed rather to prevail. What the speaker was apparently most desirous to do was to convey a caution against the inadvertent overestimation of the value and importance of what was done in earlier times; and in order to impress this thought upon his hearers, he remarked upon the fact that Marshall had never seen electric light, except as nature's flashes had illuminated his Virginian hills; had never used the telegraph or the telephone, and had never even traveled on a steam railway. The inference thus was obviously to be drawn that, tried by the higher, more diversified, more exacting standards of the centennial year, 1901, Marshall would be rather out of date. This is a very prevalent point of view. One may indeed say that it reflects the popular attitude, and when I say "popular" I do not intend to exclude all those who make a profession of learning and intelligence. But it is easy to show that, tried by the test set up by the speaker in 1901, those who have survived to the present day are very much in advance of those who lived only as late as twenty-three years ago. If proof of this fact were required, probably we should unanimously agree on one single and sufficient demonstration, and that is the recent development and use of radio. Its efficiency in the transmission of sound for purposes of instruction and amusement is evident; but if, applying the test of relativity, we undertake to estimate its value in imparting useful knowledge, in raising ideals, in stimulating and elevating the conception of public service, and in otherwise ministering to man's spiritual needs, it is by no means clear that the quick broadcasting of sound is necessarily to have an advantage over earlier and less speedy methods. I will give a practical illustration of my meaning. Not long ago I happened to be at a place where there was a radio apparatus actively employed for the entertainment of those who were present. In the first instance connection was successively made with two broadcasting stations in the City of New York, and in each case the result was the same. The sound that floated through the room was that of jazz and a comic song. It was then suggested that a connection be made with Pittsburgh and, after some preliminary confusion, reverberations were heard from that more distant place. Again it was jazz and a comic song. It was then proposed that a connection be made with Philadelphia. Perhaps it was expected that we should hear from that quarter, if not the thunders of the law, yet a grave and quiet discussion of the mooted question as to the precise spot on which William Penn signed the treaty with the Indians. But this did not prove to be the case. After the usual preliminary convulsion a dominant note asserted itself, and, in the language of Byron, "there was heard a sound of revelry by night"; and yet again-it was jazz and a comic song. Far be it from me to reflect, even in the smallest measure, on the menu of radio. The particular occasion to which I have adverted happened to be the hour when men and women dance and dine and dine and dance. As the newspaper displays with type, so radio displays with sound, all forms of human activity, grave as well as gay; the solemn but diffident admonitions of the university oration as well as the flaunting enchantments of the sentimental ditty. Nor would I be understood to intimate that dance and song did not occupy a place, even a large and hilarious place, in the life of earlier and indeed of all previous generations. All I intend to convey is the thought that the development and accumulation of scientific discoveries, and of inventions that quicken locomotion and the dissemination of sound, bear no intrinsic relation to the progress of mankind in spiritual things, and that, so far as they minister to mistaken assumptions of moral or intellectual superiority, their effect may even be harmful. The intense preoccupation of the present generation with the physical sciences has exerted a profound influence both on instruction and on the selection of subjects of instruction in our schools, and this influence has been no less visible and pronounced in our colleges and universities than elsewhere. This was natural and in a mea sure inevitable. None of us can be insensible to the human activities by which we are daily encompassed; nor is a mere bovine imperviousness to their effects to be commended. But it is, on the other hand, of the utmost importance to be on our guard against the impulsive, headlong rush after passing fancies, the extreme pursuit of which may, like the over-hasty movement of an army, result in the loss of essential equipment and supplies. Some years ago, in the bazaars of the Orient, I watched the caravans as they arrived and departed; and I observed that the camels were always preceded by a donkey. My curiosity being excited by this singular form of leadership, I later investigated its origin, and found in a learned source this explanation: "An unladen ass precedes the file, for luck, some say, for guidance, say others." We thus see that the tendency to follow some kind of leadership, and to trust to it rather blindly, is more or less characteristic of all animate nature. But human beings possess in this regard a manifest advantage. Palgrave, in his narative of a journey in Arabia, tells us that the camel, though "never tame," is "not wide-awake enough to be exactly wild." This is not true of human beings. Without regard to the question how far they can be tamed, they are wide-awake enough for every purpose; but, while thus fully alert, they also fortunately possess, as a check on impulse, the power of discrimination. . The need to exercise this power is ever present; but the effort may be futile and even disastrous, if it be not informed and guided by a comprehensive acquaintance with the records of human experience. The conscious recognition of this truth is one of the reasons of the present demand for the reëxamination of recent tendencies in our colleges and universities, and particularly of the permissive substitution of modern for ancient languages, including Latin as well as Greek, and the consequent |