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Home , Alexander Monro (primus), Christopher Smout, Creativity, Scottish Enlightenment

Charting the Causes of Intellectual Creativity: The Case of the

Periods of intellectual creativity and change are of obvious intrinsic interest to scholars and commentators, and it is no surprise that these periods tend to attract much attention and discussion. The challenge for commentators, however, is to avoid either of two forms of . In the first form of reductionism, periods of intellectual creativity are reduced to the (or ) who are taken to be the largely unpredictable figures with whom such periods become identified, and their philosophical and intellectual works are in turn seen to transcend nearly everything but the intellectual influences of other geniuses. With such geniuses, it is believed to be largely futile to search for causes. This form of reductionism avoids historical analysis and generalization in two ways: 1) it reduces historical factors to the inexplicable specificity and singularity of the intellectual him/herself (i.e., their genius); and 2) the significance of the intellectual’s work is taken to transcend the historical setting in which it was produced, and hence one can avoid studying historical circumstances altogether.1 The second form of reductionism reduces the intellectual’s works to being merely the epiphenomenal consequence of socio- economic conditions, or to a of abstract principles so abstract they lose touch with the concrete uniqueness and specificity of the period under study. Marx and Hegel can be seen as two of the more prominent examples of this form of reductionism.

Most intellectual historians have shied away from the more egregious forms of either reductionism, and yet perhaps because of this one finds a relative absence of interpretive work directed towards formulating general principles that might help one to understand the conditions for the possibility of intellectual creativity and change. One does not find this absence in other disciplines within the ; e.g., economic history, world- systems history, and each has their own prominent theoreticians who have set forth various principles to account for various types of change.2 The this has not been widely adopted in intellectual history, I argue, has to do with the continuing effects of the two forms of reductionism – i.e., it is believed that one cannot adequately account for intellectual creativity by abstract principles, for these principles are taken to be an 2 attempt to make predictable what cannot be predicted – the emergence of genius. Or it is believed that these principles abstract from the concrete flow of history to the point of avoiding history altogether. In other words, attempting to explain periods of intellectual creativity by means of abstract principles would itself be, as is often presupposed, an example of the second reductionism. Efforts to avoid reductionism have resulted in roughly two types of intellectual history: 1) those which focus on the philosophical content of the period, including intellectual influences as well as contemporary debates and quarrels; and 2) those which focus on the economic and social environment in which the figures worked, while keeping this content largely separate from the philosophical content of the intellectual works of the period.

There have been some notable exceptions to this tendency in intellectual history. Quentin Skinner, for example, has argued that intellectual historians need to move beyond focusing simply upon the texts and consider what the author of the text intended to do by writing such a text.3 Doing this, Skinner argued, will both resolve many of the difficulties associated with attempting to “understand” what was said in the text, and it will help to place the work in its historical context.4 Stephen Toulmin and Steven Shapin have argued much along these same lines, taking to heart Wittgenstein’s claim that “only in the stream of and life do words have meaning.”5 These works have been extremely important contributions to intellectual history, and I do not take issue with their arguments. My only criticism of this approach is that it is not abstract enough. In short, the approach set forth here will modify Skinner’s and Shapin’s question: “what are they, the intellectuals, doing with their work?” I’ll grant that political goals are part of what authors intend to achieve in their work,6 but for the sake of developing an abstract principle I feel will be better able to connect the philosophical works and of intellectuals with the historical circumstances in which they worked, I argue that what intellectuals ultimately intend to do is to reduce becoming to being, or they are attempting to think becoming.7

Inspiration for this approach arises from Nietzsche, and from ’s development of Nietzsche’s work. Nietzsche, for example, was quite straightforward in 3 his claim that “the world viewed from inside, the world defined and determined according to its ‘intelligible character’ – it would be ‘will to power’ and nothing else”8; and in his later elaboration Nietzsche argues that “to impose upon becoming the character of being: that is the supreme will to power.”9 All is an effort to reduce becoming to being. In further developing this theme, Deleuze emphasizes the ambiguous, transitional phase in the process whereby something becomes something else (i.e., an identifiable being). Rather than being a simple matter of A becoming B (A Æ B), Deleuze argues that there is an ambiguous phase, AB, wherein what is becoming is no longer A, nor is it yet B: hence Deleuze would formalize it as A Æ AB Æ B. In an example from the book he wrote with Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, they argue that in the process of sedimentation one can indeed say that sand becomes sedimentary rock (A [sand] Æ B [sedimentary rock]), but it is not that simple. Once the sand is deposited downstream, the layers of sedimentary particles are then transformed through a process geologists call cementation. The pores between particles that were previously filled by fluid become replaced, as additional layers increase the gravitational pressure upon lower layers, by agents (e.g., silica and hematite in the case of sandstone) that act as a cement that binds the particles and creates a new entity – sedimentary rock. As a result of this “cementation” process, sand (A) has become sedimentary rock (B), but during this process there is an ambiguous transitional phase during which the sand is neither completely the particulate matter which was carried downstream, nor is it, while undergoing “cementation” (i.e., becoming) completely sedimentary rock.10 One can say, then, that in the transition from A to B there is an ambiguous phase, AB, wherein the identities that are becoming – sand (A) becoming sedimentary rock (B) – are indistinguishable; or, to put it more precisely, they are neither the identities they were nor are they the identities they are becoming. Thus the formalization, A Æ AB Æ B.11

The key to thinking becoming, according to Deleuze, is precisely to understand this transitional state, AB. Deleuze argues, however, that the concepts used to understand this state should neither be too abstract or not abstract enough.12 The conceptualization of AB is too abstract when it neglects the concrete processes themselves in all their uniqueness, specificity, and complexity. In other words, this conceptualization commits what we 4 referred to above as the second form of reductionsim common to intellectual history – e.g., Marx’s economic determinism. The conceptualization is not abstract enough when it is used to understand a single, unique concrete process and fails to generalize so as to be applied to other contexts and processes. This is the first form of reductionism – i.e., the reduction of intellectual history to the unpredictable, chance appearance of geniuses.

How, then, are we to conceptualize the transitional state, AB, and how are we to use it in interpreting intellectual history? To this question, Deleuze’s and Guattari’s work, though promising in its suggestiveness, is often encumbered with difficult neologisms and conceptual apparatus; nor do they utilize the concepts they develop to clarify the relationship between an intellectual’s work and their concrete, historical context. To remedy this situation I propose we adopt some concepts that have been developed within chaos and the study of dynamical systems. The concepts developed here have been utilized to understand and account for concrete, dynamic processes – i.e., they are attempts to think becoming – and they are also abstract enough to be applied to many different contexts.13 Therefore, as an initial approach to conceptualizing the transitional state, AB, I offer that it be interpreted as an increased state of energy. Rather than a simple transition from A through AB to B, the phase AB, at least within dynamical systems theory, raises the number of structural possibilities, possibilities that are no longer present once the transition to B is complete. One can then formalize the process as follows: A Æ↑ABØÆ B.

Ilya Prigogine has referred to this increased level of structural possibilites as “dissipative structures.” Such dissipative structures emerge when a system is far from equilibrium. The beginning state A, as well as the completed state B, are systems at equilibrium, but during the far from equilibrium transitional period, dissipative structures appear with what one can call organized, structured chaos. A famous example of such a dissipative structure occurs in the Berlusov-Zhabotinsky reaction. At a transitional, far from equilibrium state between two stable, equilibrium states, a series of structured waves and concentric circles appears. The point to stress here, and this will be our entryway to intellectual history, is that the increased structural possibilites of AB are not what 5 becomes established once equilibrium returns, but these structures are no less real – there really are concentric circles and waves. Moreover, it is precisely the increased structural possibilities that allows for the possibility of new entities, or in the case of intellectual history, as we shall see, it allows for periods of intellectual creativity.

To turn to an example from intellectual history to clarify what we mean, we can interpret Kuhn’s periods of crisis in terms of our conceptualization of transitional phases. In his extremely influential book, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Kuhn argues that the transition from one to another is not a simple matter of an old paradigm being “falsified” (as Karl Popper might have it) upon which a new paradigm comes along to correct the errors of the old. What happens instead Kuhn claims is a period of crisis. Anomalies that are always present within an existing paradigm become, at certain historical junctures, weighty enough to throw a paradigm into crisis. During these periods of crisis, several competing are put forward in an effort to resolve the crisis and account for the anomaly.14 Sometimes the crisis is eventually resolved by the existing paradigm, but occasionally (and these are the instances that interest Kuhn) the anomaly is resolved by a new paradigm. What is key here is that it was the increased structural possibilities of the crisis period (i.e., the several competing theories) that allows for the possibility of the new paradigm.

Turning to a more recent example, Randall Collins, in his book The of , argues that periods of intellectual creativity arise only when there are competing schools of thought. “The hot periods of intellectual life,” Collins claims, “those tumultuous golden ages of simultaneous , occur when several rival circles intersect at a few metropoles of intellectual attention and debate.”15 Intellectual quarrels among several equally competing schools raises the level of what Collins refers to as “emotional energy,” and this increased energy is what facilitates the innovations characteristic of periods of intellectual creativity. There certainly was such a competitive environment in during the eighteenth century, as we will see below. The Aberdeen Philosophical Society, for example, with members such as , Alexander Gerard, and , devoted many of their meetings to criticizing the 6 works of Hume, and Hume himself, a member of the Select Society and the Philosophical Society in , spent much time defending his work against such criticisms. Collins’ work thus draws our attention to this important aspect of intellectual life, though to understand it in terms of the conceptualization we are attempting to develop here, we prefer to understand the possibility for intellectual creativity in terms of the increased structural possibilities associated with the transitional period, AB. The competitive environment of the Scottish Enlightenment, and other “hot periods,” represents an increase in the structural possibilities of what philosophical positions one might hold, and the active debates and quarrels among the various possibilities ultimately gives rise to the emergence of a new that will be passed on to posterity (e.g., Hume’s Treatise). Thus it is the turbulence and increased structural possibilities of transitional periods, periods that are far from equilibrium, that allows for the emergence of new identities, including intellectual innovations.

Before turning our attention to the Scottish Enlightenment, a final concept is needed. This concept arose to account for an attribute that one often finds with dynamical states that are far from equilibrium: viz. they are extremely sensitive to contingencies. A system that is extremely stable and solidly within its equilibrium state is not as susceptible to transformation, or to becoming something other, as a system that is far from equilibrium. A period of normal , to use Kuhn’s example, is not likely to be transformed by an anomaly that might arise. More likely, such an anomaly will be seen as work to be done within the paradigm. When a paradigm is in crisis, however, or when it is far from equilibrium, it is much more likely to be transformed to a new paradigm by the presence of an anomaly, or old anomalies will now be seen with a greater sense of urgency. The concept dynamical theorists have used to characterize this trait is “basin of attraction.” A stable, equilibrium state is interpreted to be a deep basin which attracts a marble, to use an , and the deeper the basin of attraction the less likely perturbations to the system are going to result in a transformation to a new stable state (i.e., the marble leaves one basin of attraction to another). In the process of reducing becoming to being, therefore, becoming is the marble moving from one basin to another, and this becoming is reduced to being when the marble settles into a basin. More importantly, we can further 7 clarify the two forms of reductionism with which we began this essay. The first reductionism, recall, reduced intellectual history to the unpredictable genius, or to the often solitary figure who transforms the way philosophy is done. Descartes, by this view, single-handedly transformed medieval philosophy (one basin of attraction for intellectual work) into modern philosophy (another basin of attraction for intellectual work).16 The second reductionism reduced intellectual activities to social and economic conditions, or to certain economic laws, and thus by this interpretation the economic cycles and needs of everyday life represent a more profound basin of attraction than intellectual labors, or intellectual labors are seen to occur inevitably within the economic basin of attraction.

With the concept “basin of attraction” in mind, we can now understand that the two forms of reductionism capture part of the process involved in allowing for periods of intellectual creativity, yet they are reductionist, on our view, because their account of intellectual periods reduces historical processes, especially those associated with intellectuals, to one level alone (i.e., genius or socio-economic conditioning), when the historical process ought to be interpreted as multiple processes operating simultaneously, though autonomously, and at different speeds.17 As we turn to a study of the Scottish Enlightenment, we will examine three such processes, though this will by no means exhaust all possible contributing processes. First, we will look at the flow of money and power through political and economic structures. These structures are transformed, but these transformations occur at relatively slow speeds – e.g., Kondratiev’s cycle occurs over 50 years; Immanuel Wallerstein’s concept of the long century refers to periods of time lasting approximately 140 years; and Braudel’s longue durée is nearly an unchanging relationship of beings to their material surroundings (this relationship is of course changing, but at a rate of speed that is so slow it becomes nearly indiscernible). The second level of historical process we will examine is the flow of ideas through the structure of language as both written and printed. This flow is related to the first to a large degree, and yet the transformation of ideas within this process occur more frequently than transformations of political and economic structures, unless the latter prevents such transformations from occurring (which often happens). The third level of historical process we will study is the flow of ideas within the structured network of - 8 to-face affective interactions; and in this context, transformations and adjustments are more frequent still.

With this conceptual and theoretical framework in place, I propose the following hypothesis to explain the emergence of the Scottish Enlightenment: the rogue wave hypothesis. If the first level is in a period of transition – i.e., the political and economic structures are at a far from equilibrium transition state with the increased structural possibilities this entails – and if this transformation does not disallow transformations to occur in the second level; and if the transformations in the second level do not disallow transformations to occur in the third level; and if these transformations are occurring within the three levels simultaneously, then the increased energies of these processes reinforce each other much as a rogue wave is the result of reinforcing wave crests. And it is precisely this conjunction of transformations, this rogue wave, which furnishes the most fertile conditions for the emergence of periods of intellectual creativity.18 the process in this way will also be useful in explaining the relationship between the various levels without reducing them to any particular one, just as a rogue wave is composed of a layering of superimposed waves, with each wave maintaining its own autonomous characteristics before and after the conjunction that gives rise to the rogue wave.19

These conditions for such a conjunctive process were present, as we shall see, in Scotland during the eighteenth century. Not only was there the change of political control in Scotland with the union of Parliaments in 1707, but economically the eighteenth century saw the transformation to a consumerist culture. At the level of the flow of ideas through printed means, the emergence of newspapers, magazines such as Scots Magazine, and novels allowed for greater dissemination of ideas, and for the positive reinforcement such ideas receive when they reach a wider audience. And at the level of face-to-face interactions, the emergence of the philosophical and literary clubs of the eighteenth century represented for intellectuals a profound change in the exposure of their ideas to the affective responses of other intellectuals. These transformations were reinforcing, and 9 the result was the rogue wave we have come to call the Scottish Enlightenment. We now turn our attention to these transformations.

The Case of the Scottish Enlightenment It is common for anyone with but a cursory knowledge of history that the seventeenth century and early eighteenth century was a period of profound political transformation in and Scotland. To list only the most significant of such changes, there was first the Union of the crowns in 1603 when James VI (a Scot) acceded to the throne of England. Then there was the English revolution and the overthrow and eventual execution of James VI’s successor, Charles I in 1649. The of the Stuart monarchy with Charles II was in turn overthrown by the Glorious Revolution and the accession to the throne of Protestants William and Mary. Then when princess Anne’s daughter, and eventual successor to the throne, died, the throne was finally resolved upon the children of Sophia, a protestant descendant of James VI and wife to the Elector of Hanover. This Hanoverian succession would become a much debated issue, and one’s social and cultural status in Edinburgh would often hinge upon whether one supported the succession. And finally, though most significantly to Scotland, the Union of Parliaments in 1707 meant that the political movers and shakers were now in rather than in Edinburgh. It is the Union of Parliaments which many have seen as the proximate cause of the Scottish Enlightenment. Nicholas Phillipson, for example, argues that with the Union of Parliaments Scots were forced to abandon the language of civil morality – that is, the view that their energies ought to be directed toward civic action. Phillipson claims that the Scots “abandoned the classical republican ideal of participation in parliamant or para-parliamentary institutions as a means of releasing their virtue. Rather, they had begun to think of the virtuous citizen as the expert whose skills could be put to public use in an effort to help it towards improvement and happiness.”20 The loss of Parliament for the Scots opened a multiplicity of structural possibilities for directing energies that had once been injected into civic action, and the redirection of this energy toward the societies of improvement is precisely, according to Phillipson, what made the Scottish Enlightenment possible. T. Christopher Smout makes largely the same argument in his account of the Scottish Enlightenment.21 10

Other commentators stress the continuity between the Scotland before the Union of Parliaments and the Scotland after, and they argue that it is precisely what stayed the same that best explains the emergence of the Scottish Enlightnement (though some are willing to accept the Union of Parliaments as a possible motivating factor). T.M. Devine and others have stressed the 1706 Act of Security which allowed Scotland to maintain the and their presbyterian system of government.22 This coupled with the already established system of , something again many people credit the Calvinist era of Scotland for initiating (i.e., the act of the Privy Council in 1616, and later in 1646, requiring each parish to have a school), meant that Scotland already had a fertile environment in which the Enlightenment might take root.23

The institutions of , however, were themselves undergoing significant transformations in the early eighteenth century. In fact, Anand Chitnis and others have stressed the key role the abandonment of regenting played in allowing for greater flexibility (i.e., increased structural possibilities), and for the experimentation that gave rise to the new disciplines often associated with the Scottish Enlightenment (e.g., with , geology with , and sociology with to name but a few). As Chitnis puts it, the abolition of regenting “freed teachers from expounding of set books, [and] left them free to speculate and facilitated the original writing of the Scottish Enlightenment.”24

Accompanying many of the changes to the institutional structures we have cited, there flowed an ongoing debate and battle over the proper role, if any, of episcopacy and patronage. This debate was ultimately a competition between various elements of Scottish society over the right to make certain decisions, especially the right to select a new minister. With episcopacy not only were such decisions made from the top down, they were made by people who, on the presbyterian view, fundamentally misread the scriptures. Charles I and Charles II’s failure to recognize the sensitivity of the Scots over the issue of episcopacy alienated them from many Scots. Yet even under a presbyterian form of government, their own patronage system was often viewed as equally 11 problematic in that it in gave wealthy land owners the right to sponsor and choose ministers. But in 1712, just five years after the Union of Parliaments, Scotland passed the Patronage Act, overturning the Act of Security which had abolished patronage in 1706. Political divisions were soon drawn on precisely the issue of patronage, with the emerging moderate party (a key party which was instrumentally involved with many of the important players of the Scottish Enlightenment25) supporting the patronage act and what was often referred to as the Popular party opposing it.26 This sudden turn around on the issue of patronage might seem puzzling at first, especially considering the long- standing attitude against both episcopacy and patronage. The key to understanding this change of policy, however, hinges upon looking at the profound economic changes which were occurring.

On the surface, Scotland’s economy between 1660 and 1760 appears to be growing, but only slightly, and it is not until the 1760s and beyond when we see the dramatic upturn in economic activity and growth.27 Under the surface, however, profound changes and transformations were afoot. Immanuel Wallerstein, for example, has argued that: Politically and culturally, the seventeenth century represented a search for stability in form and structure that was concomitant with the moment of slowdown in the rate of development of the world-economy. Without such a period, the next qualitative leap forward would not have been possible.28

Expressed in terms of the concepts we have been utilizing here, rather than being a period of little economic change as measured statistically, the period between 1660 and 1760 marked a period of transformation which includes the structural possibilities we have come to find with such transitional states (i.e., AB states). As Wallerstein put it, this was a period involved in a “search for stability,” or it was a period that was in many ways searching for a new equilibrium state that would “consolidate” (to use Wallerstein’s term) the structural possibilities into a new basin of attraction. And the new state which emerges is a full-blown, capitalist system and its mutually reinforcing consumer culture. It is precisely this latter transformation, the emergence of a consumer culture, that Neil McKendrick claims arises in the eighteenth century, and most notably in England (hence Scotland by association). McKendrick argues that prior to the eighteenth century, spending money on non-essentials was largely viewed to be a privilege of the elites, and 12 sumptuary laws often saw to it that it remained this way. Moreover, the of many at the time, he argues, was that luxuries were equated with foreign ‘exotiques,’ and that importing such luxuries would ultimately impoverish the economy by disrupting the balance of trade, thus the demand for such items was discouraged. In the 1690s, however, when the East India Company began to import cheap colorful fabrics, McKendrick argues that many began increasingly to see the advantages of what he calls the “elasticity of demand.”29 In other words, encouraging a new consumer base to satisfy their needs for luxuries and other products that would raise their social status would not break the economy, but set it growing at a feverish pitch. And this is just what McKendrick claims happened by the end of the eighteenth century: the consumer society had been born.

For this birth not to miscarry, however, the potential consumer had to have money to spend, and in fact Wallerstein has pointed out that real wages began to rise in 1700 after more than two centuries of steady declines.30 The enclosure of fields sent many now landless tenants off to the city, leaving increasingly larger, more productive, and wealthier landowners behind, many of whom would in turn migrate to the cities (e.g., Edinburgh) during the winter months.31 Increased grain yield on the increasingly productive enclosed fields also allowed for the increased population in the cities without provoking inflation. Lower labor costs in Scotland also encouraged English investment in Scotland (e.g., Richard Arkwright’s coal business), and contributing to these lower costs was a decline in incorporations, which was important, as R.A. Houston notes, because “artisans were no longer protected against certain types of competition originating both outside and within their ranks. Their lives had become more atomized, more subject to the dictates of impersonal market forces.”32 This competition forced labor costs down. Nor was this competition forced only upon the lowly artisan. The Royal unsuccessfully attempted to squash the emergence of smaller private banks, especially in , and now had to compete with many smaller sources of .33 And most important of all, at least as this relates to the cultural achievements of the Scottish Enlightenment, the eighteenth century saw the explosion of what T.M. Devine has referred to as “competitive display,” whereby “social status was increasingly defined by material status.”34 It is this competitive display, along with many of these other factors 13 that have been cited, which ultimately led to what McKendrick calls the birth of a consumer society, or to a new economic basin of attraction:

These characteristics – the closely stratified nature of English society, the striving for vertical social mobility, the emulative spending bred by social emulation, the compulsive power of fashion begotten by social competition – combined with the widespread ability to spend (offered by novel levels of prosperity) to produce an unprecedented propensity to consume.35

Therefore, although the economic changes might not have been as dramatic or as obvious as they would become after 1760, it is the transitional phase, or this period of consolidation between 1660 and 1760 with the structural possibilities which were present and actively competing with one another (e.g., social competition, competition between banks, competition between artisans, etc.), that allowed for the creativity and explosive growth Devine and many others recognize as occurring from the 1760s. As Jane Jacobs has argued, it is only when the diversity of competing elements becomes institutionalized or routine that the conditions for creativity dries up, and this was far from occurring in eighteenth century Edinburgh or Glasgow.36 This environment of competition, especially the social competition for status, helps to illuminate why the moderate party would support the patronage act. With the loss of Parliament, the wealthy nobles were, as we have seen Smout and Phillipson argue, opened to the possibility of redirecting their financial and emotional resources towards new goals. One such goal was the material luxuries associated with “having arrived,” and accompanying this pursuit of status there were influential religious figures – e.g., as leader of the moderate party – whose sermons equated high social status with the attainment of learning and culture. It is no wonder then that the moderate party supported the patronage act, an act which made their relationship with the wealthy landowners possible, and also why they simultaneously shied away from the earlier anti-intellectualist rhetoric of the Kirk leaders.37 But there were further transformations occurring in Scotland at this time, transformations that further undermined the traditional religious zeal of Calvinist Scotland: these were the changes underway within the structure of printed and spoken language. 14

The most significant of such changes with respect to printed language was with the emergence and spread of newspapers, magazines, and novels. Benedict Anderson, in his book Imagined Communities, traces the emergence of itself to the novel and the newspaper, for with them, he argues, we have “the technical means for ‘re-presenting’ the kind of imagined community that is the nation.”38 In particular, newspapers brought to mind people that were well beyond those with whom one comes into face-to-face contact, and in recounting the stories of these individuals, the technical format of the newspaper (and novel) “assures them [the reader] that somewhere out there the ‘character’ … moves along quietly, awaiting its next reappearance in the plot.”39 Furthermore, the fact that these newspapers were printed in the vernacular, coupled with the presence of foreign language newspapers in cosmopolitan cities like London, results, Anderson argues, in “the elevation of these vernaculars to the status of languages-of- power, where, in one sense, they were competitors with (French in Paris, [Early] English in London),” and ultimately these vernacular languages led “to the decline of the imagined community of Christendom.”40 The net result of this transformation is that emotional energies once directed towards the “imagined community of Christendom” were now directed towards the “imagined community of the nation-state.”41 Scotland’s case is somewhat unique in that though the “imagined community of Christendom” had certainly declined in Scotland, as we have seen, the loss of Parliament meant many had to find another focus rather than the nation-state upon which to redirect their emotional energies. This focus became, as we have been arguing, the culture of learning and improvement.

Whatever one makes of Anderson’s arguments, it certainly was the case that the eighteenth century saw a tremendous growth of newspapers and literary magazines. With the lapsing of the Printing Act in 1695, the press became much freer with respect to what they could print.42 Even the 1712 Stamp Act did not discourage the growth of newspapers as the government had hoped. In fact, since the Stamp Act did not apply to six page publications, many newspapers began simply to offer an expanded six-page paper, and hence had to find stories and items sufficient to fill such a paper.43 By 1750, Edinburgh had three periodicals, Edinburgh Evening Courant (a tri-weekly newspaper), the 15

Caledonian Mercury (a weekly newspaper), and the Scots Magazine (a monthly literary and news magazine).44 Trying to determine precisely who read these newspapers regularly, or how many people read them is difficult for they were widely available in coffee-houses and ale-houses, where they were often read aloud to all who were present. A to Lloyd’s Evening Post in 1780 remarked that “Without newspapers our Coffee-houses, Ale-houses, and Barber shops would undergo a change next to depopulation.”45 Whatever the actual statistic, however, it was clear that as the demand for newspapers steadily rose throughout the eighteenth century, and they continued to reach an ever wider audience, especially in the cities. Furthermore, with the appearance of the Daily Advertiser in 1730 (the Edinburgh Advertiser would appear in 1764), the newspapers began to use advertising to defer costs of publication, and the advertising itself would in turn feed into the spirit of competitive display and consumerism. The advertising also allowed newspapers to be sold more cheaply, which simply increased the number of potential readers and hence the number of potential consumers. At the literary and cultural level, too, T.M. Devine has argued that with the wide reach of publications such as Scots Magazine, it “ensured the social acceptance of basic ideas that might otherwise have remained arcane, remote and abstract.”46 Intellectuals such as , an occasional contributor to Scots Magazine, could therefore gain a wide audience and receive, in return, the increased emotional boost that accompanies greater recognition. The Edinburgh Advertiser even sought out the contributions of authors such as Hume, recognizing no doubt the Scots concern with culture and learning and the competitive, emulative atmosphere which encouraged such learning. The Edinburgh Advertiser clearly sought to tap into this desire to acquire culture and learning, for in its very first issue of January 3, 1764, the editors sent an appeal to potential contributors: If our learned and ingenious countrymen, who now make a distinguishing figure in every species of polite writing, will but generously contribute their assistance, even in short essays, the editors flatter themselves that the Edinburgh Advertiser will not only be a useful newspaper, but serve all the purposes of a magazine of instruction and .47

Another consequence of the increasing presence of newspapers was the greater consciousness of the language one spoke. This certainly happened, and in the case of the Scots this greater awareness entailed a sense of inferiority over their own Scots tongue. 16

One of David Hume’s contributions to Scots Magazine was a list of , or divergence of English usage between the English and Scots, with the hope of “improving the language of North Britain.”48 James Beattie, a member of the Aberdeen Philosophical Society and vocal critic of Hume, agreed with Hume on this key point and even published a book titled, Scotticisms. And , another key figure in the Enlightenment complained in his autobiography that “to every man bred in Scotland the English language was in some respects a foreign tongue.”49 In their competitive pursuit of social and cultural status, therefore, the differences between the Scottish and English tongue appeared to many of the major intellectual players of the time to be an impediment and instilled a sense of inferiority among them.

The consequences of a greater consciousness of language were not all negative, however, for another important result, as Anderson argues, was the emergence of English as the language-of-power rather than Latin. This change in Scotland is best exemplified by Francis Hutcheson who, while at the in 1729, was the first to lecture in the vernacular rather than in Latin. The fact that Hutcheson was the first to do this is in itself significant, for many commentators will often cite him as being the father of the Scottish Enlightenment, though not perhaps for this reason. is most explicit in making this claim: “The Scottish Enlightenment can be said to have begun in Glasgow with the publication of Francis Hutcheson’s Inquiry into the Originals of our Ideas of and Virtue.”50 The greater consciousness of their own tongue also motivated societies such as the Scottish Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge (SSPCK) which, despite its name, was involved most in teaching the Gaels of the Highlands English. In short, language became a focus of redirected energies, with the goal being an improved, “enlightened” Scotland. As a symbol of this redirection of energies, therefore, it is certainly fair to claim that the Scottish Enlightenment began with Francis Hutcheson.

By referring to the novelty of Hutcheson lecturing in English, we have now entered upon the terrain of the everyday face-to-face interactions in which the figures of the Scottish Enlightenment were engaged. Charles Camic is one of the few commentators on the 17

Scottish Enlightenment who has sought to explain the conditions which made the Enlightenment possible in terms of what he calls the “microlevel socialization” of the key intellectuals of the period.51 By “microlevel socialization,” Camic is referring to such things as whether one had an authoritarian father or not, the type of education one received, the competitive atmosphere for employment, etc., as key to understanding what befitted the intellectuals to being as creative as they were. What Camic argues is that most of the intellectuals did not have an authoritarian father. They also went to the university at a time when the regenting system was abandoned (at least in Edinburgh by 1708), and this lack of authoritarian control helped to develop in most of the intellectuals a respect for independence and freedom of thought. In addition, the had a class-fee system rather than the salary system present throughout most of England. Much of a professor’s salary was thus dependent upon drawing students to one’s class. This did lead to what many viewed as excessive showmanship rather than intellectually demanding lectures, but it also forced the professors to engage and interest students in their work and . A sufficient number of students were clearly captivated. Camic’s argument is interesting, and he is certainly right to point out that we should not ignore the microsocial face-to-face , though he does not, as we have been doing, emphasize many of the other key factors that were also at work during this time.

In addition to the home life and education the intellectuals of the Scottish Enlightenment were exposed to, these intellectuals were also exposed to one another in face-to-face, affective interactions. David Hume, for example, in a letter to Hugh Blair, says of Jean- Jacques Rousseau that he “could fill a Volume with curious Anecdotes regarding him, as I live in the same Society which he frequented while in Paris.”52 In a later letter to Rousseau himself, while embroiled in their famous quarrel,53 Hume attempts to set the record straight by recounting their visit together in England: “At last, you rose up, and took a Turn or two about the Room; when, all of a sudden and to my great Surprize, you claped yourself on my Knee, threw your Arms about my neck, kissed me with seeming Ardour, and bedewed my Face with Tears.”54 Although such encounters were no doubt exaggerations of the more typical encounter (unless, apparently, the encounter happened 18 to be with Rousseau), it illustrates both the fact that face-to-face encounters between significant intellectuals were routine, and that these encounters were affective in nature.

The most popular form of setting for the face-to-face interaction between intellectuals in Scotland were the philosophical and literary clubs. The first important club was the Philosophical Society which was founded by , professor at the University of Edinburgh. Maclaurin, fearing that the illness of famed medical professor might spell the end of Edinburgh’s intellectual achievements, established the Philosophical Society in 1737 to “preserve the university’s scientific society from total dissolution.”55 This began a trend, and by 1754 when the most prestigious of the societies during the Enlightenment was founded, the Select Society, becoming a member of this society became such a mark of social distinction that Hume, in a letter to (painter and co-founder of the Select Society with Hume, Adam Smith, and others) observed that “Young and old, noble and ignoble, witty and dull, all the world are ambitious of a place amongst us, and on each occasion (of election) we are as much solicited by candidates as if we were to choose a Member of Parliament.”56 Not only did being a member of the Select Society raise the social status of those involved, but it would also, following Randall Collins’ argument, raise the emotional energy of those involved.57 This emotional energy, in turn, was focused on the ideas being discussed at the meetings and thus the ideas themselves “become loaded with emotional overtones.”58 This added energy facilitates creative work, much as a contemporary 21st century intellectual might be re-energized upon attending an academic conference and return home with new-found to work.

Another fact of intellectual life during eighteenth century Scotland was the intensity of discussion and debate. The most famous debate or quarrel occurred between David Hume and the Select Society of Edinburgh and Thomas Reid and the Aberdeen Philosophical Society. The Aberdeen Philosophical Society spent many of its meetings disputing and criticizing Hume’s positions: e.g., his , his denial , and his claim that reason ought to be a slave to the passions. The debate regarding the latter point has a long history, even in Scotland, as Neil MacCormick argues: “A central question in the 19

Scottish moral philosophy of the eighteenth century is none other than one raised by Stair [in the seventeenth century].” This question, MacCormick claims, is whether it is “really the case that ‘reason’ reveals or contains principles of right conduct?”59 Stair answers this question in the affirmative while Hutcheson will be an early critic of Stair’s position. Hume’s philosophy extends Hutcheson’s critique and when Reid and his circle in Aberdeen criticize Hume and argue that reason can reveal principles of right conduct, they have, as MacCormick summarizes it, “in effect made out a case in favour of the philosophical position inherent in Stair’s legal theory.”60

MacCormick is correct to point out that the intellectual issues and debates which were hotly contested in the latter half of the eighteenth century had roots that extended well before this time. The point MacCormick sought to make with this claim, however, was that those who argue that a major change occurred in the eighteenth century, a change we have come to call the Scottish Enlightenment, were wrong. This is where we disagree. There was a significant difference, and though it might not have to do with the issues being debated per se, there certainly was a change in the manner in which they were debated. This change was precisely the rise of literary and philosophical societies that became the redirected focus of the emotional energies of those seeking social status in a competitive, consumerist culture. Belonging to such a society not only raised the level of emotional energy for those who were members, it also increased the intensity of debate between the network of intellectuals and societies and further facilitated the creative energies as the debates were refined and pursued. Since MacCormick does not take into account the changes that allowed for the possibility of the creativity of the Scottish Enlightenment, it is no wonder he finds suspect those who believe the period was one of marked change.

As we draw this essay to a close, it is worth noting that the very question we have been investigating –i.e., can one use abstract principles with which to understand the cause(s) of periods of intellectual creativity – was a topic of discussion by the philosophical societies of the Scottish Enlightenment. One of the questions posed for discussion by Alexander Gerard of the Aberdeen Philosophical Society, was the following: “Whether 20 any account can be given of the causes, why great Geniuses have arisen at the periods which have been most remarkable for them, and why they have frequently arisen in clusters?”61 David Hume of the Select Society was equally interested in the same question and in his essay, “Of the Rise and of the and ,” he inquires whether the emergence of arts and sciences among a few of the cultural elites is a matter of chance or if it is one for which causes can be discerned. Hume argues that though ordinarily the actions of a few can be “ascribed to chance,” whereas those actions that arise “from a great number may often be accounted for by determinate and known causes,”62 he concludes that

The question … concerning the rise and progress of and sciences is not altogether a question concerning , genius, and spirit of a few, but concerning those of a whole people, and may therefore be accounted for, in some measure, by general causes and principles.63

Hume nonetheless recognizes that periods of intellectual creativity are very susceptible to chance events, and that “the taste and judgment” of those involved is “delicate and easily perverted; and their application disturbed with the smallest accident.”64 Expressed in terms used earlier, periods of intellectual creativity are shallow basins of attraction and perturbations may easily disrupt and transform them. Or again, following through on our working of the rogue wave hypothesis, since periods of intellectual creativity are, as we have been arguing, dependent upon the conjunction of multiple crests of transformative energy (i.e., multiple transitional AB states), the resulting rogue wave of intellectual creativity is intrinsically unstable, just as real rogue waves are.65 Despite the precarious state of such periods, however, Hume proceeds to list what he are the most significant causes of periods of intellectual creativity.

The first cause he lists is that the society must be one of Law, for “From law arises security; from security curiosity; from curiosity knowledge.”66 Following law, Hume claims that “emulation, too, in every accomplishment, must there be more animated and enlivened; and genius and capacity have a fuller scope and career.”67 As we have seen, the spread and intensity of competitive display associated with the emerging consumer society was one based on emulation; and the abolition of regenting also gave academics 21

“fuller scope” in following the path curiosity led them. Next Hume lists the presence of a number of small, competing states as a necessary condition, for “where a number of neighboring states have a great intercourse of arts and commerce, their mutual jealousy keeps them from receiving too lightly the law from each other, in matters of taste and of reasoning, and makes them examine every work of with the greatest care and accuracy.”68 As we have shown in a number of circumstances, a competitive environment between various structural possibilities, whether between banks, small states,69 or philosophical societies, results in a greater degree of intensity with which one works, and the products which are developed in such an environment are more apt to be creative and innovative. In recognizing the fact that Hume himself was a member of such a intellectual period, he observes, in reference to an earlier period of flourishing, that “Europe is at present a copy, at large, of what Greece was formerly a pattern in miniature.”70 In other words, intellectuals in Greece were in competition with one another, and an intellectual unwelcomed in one place could go elsewhere (e.g., as did Pythagoras, Aristotle, and Anaxagoras). This in itself gives intellectuals “fuller scope” to pursue their work. In contrast to this environment, Hume cites the intellectual stagnation in and chalks it up to the fact that “China is one vast empire, speaking one language, governed by one law, and sympathizing in the same manners.”71 In other words, China lacked the increased structural possibilities associated with a diverse, competitive environment. And finally Hume argues that once a culture has had a period of intellectual flourishing this creativity will “seldom or never revive in that nation where [it] formerly flourished,”72 and argues that this is so because

A man’s genius is always, in the beginning of life, as much unknown to himself as to others; and it is only after frequent trials, attended with success, that he dares think himself equal to those undertakings, in which those who have succeeded have fixed the admiration of mankind. If his own nation be already possessed of many models of eloquence, he naturally compares his own juvenile exercises with these; and, being sensible of the great disproportion, is discouraged from any further attempts, and never aims at rivalship with those authors whom he so much admires.73

This final point returns us to our earlier theme concerning the actualization of the structural possibilities associated with periods of transition, or what we formalized as, 22

A Æ↑ABØÆ B. These transitional periods embody an increased level of energy that we have seen as the dynamics of competing structural possibilities. Once the period of transition has become something other, i.e., A has become B, then this actualization lowers the energy level, and hence the number of structural possibilities. Hume implicitly recognized much the same point. When a culture or nation has certain models that represent the actualization of philosophical and artistic excellence, young aspirants are quickly and easily discouraged to attempt to compete with such models. However, in a place without such models, the structural possibilities are open and the intellectual will pursue their work without even realizing that they are in the process of actualizing the succeeding generations will aspire to. This is certainly true in Hume’s own case. It was not until late in Hume’s life that recognition for his masterpiece, A Treatise of Human Nature, began to build. Soon after it was published in 1739, Hume himself admitted that “It fell dead-born from the press.”7475 By the time Hume and this work began to be seen as the high water mark of the Scottish Enlightenment, the Enlightenment was over; nevertheless, during the transitional, yet to be actualized period in the middle decades of eighteenth century Scotland, conditions were ripe for the type of creative work that is now so admired.

More significantly, we have seen this same condition for creativity operating simultaneously on several levels in Scottish culture in the eighteenth century. The political transition with the Union of Parliaments opened possibilities for the nobles and elite to redirect their emotional and economic activities. There was a significant transition economically toward a consumer society, and to the intense competitive display and emulation that both fed and was reinforced by the newly emergent market mechanisms. One such mechanism was the use of advertising in newspapers. We must also not forget the explosive growth of newspapers themselves during this century and all the profound changes this brought. One such change was the emergence of English as a language-of- power. This had many consequences: it further undermined the power of Latin and thus what Benedict Anderson refers to as the “imagined community of Christendom,” and it led intellectuals such as Francis Hutcheson to abandon Latin as the language in the classroom. And finally we have seen that the emergence of the philosophical and literary societies in Scotland, and the intense competitive atmosphere both between the various clubs as well as the competition to become a member, increased the emotional energy of those involved and further contributed to the conditions which allowed for the Scottish Enlightenment to emerge. The cumulative, conjunctive effect of these factors in Scotland allowed for the actualization of the rogue wave we have come to identify as the Scottish Enlightenment. 23

This understanding of the processes associated with intellectual life could have important consequences. By conceptualizing periods of intellectual creativity as the conjunction of multiple transition states, I feel that I have provided some tools that could be used to chart through the social and cultural facts of other intellectual periods. In Classical Greece, to take Hume’s example, we have several competing city states which gave to intellectuals greater freedom to relocate if necessary (e.g., Pythagoras, Anaxagoras, and Aristotle among others); there was the transition to greater and social advancement which resulted from the use of the hoplite phalanx method of warfare; and there was the increased use of writing both for economic matters and then later for the recording of one’s . In Warring States China we also have several competing states and the greater intellectual freedom this allowed for; the competition among states also gave new opportunities for certain segments of the society (in particular the Shih) that were unavailable before; and the frequent travels of intellectuals as advisors and/or diplomats from state to state increased the dissemination of ideas, and this fueled the competitive quarrels between the various schools which in turn further enhanced the creative energies of the intellectuals involved. The cumulative effect of these transitions both in Classical Greece and Warring States China was a burst of intellectual creativity. Further study of these periods may thus benefit from using the concepts developed here, or at the very least a possible framework for investigating these periods has been provided. And finally, not only does the approach set forth here give us a way to approach intellectual history, it also allows intellectual history to be used as a tool for historians in general. One can use periods of intellectual flourishing as a guide in discerning important historical and cultural transitions. We have already seen, for example, that eighteenth century England was undergoing significant economic transition, despite what some other historians have argued. In short, intellectual history need not be relegated to being simply a sub-discipline of history, but rather should be seen as part of a more integrated and complete approach to doing history. 24

1 This form of intellectual history is quite common. To cite only the most significant example, Frederick

Copleston’s multi-volume work A History of Philosophy (New York: Image Books, 1963) focuses almost exclusively on the philosophical arguments and the intellectual influences which contributed to them.

Biographical and historical details are included, but they are offered as part of this historical narrative, but a narrative that is largely distinct from the philosophical disputes themselves. Copelston would deny, no doubt, that his work is an example of the first form of reductionism, and might accept in principle that historical circumstances could be related to the philosophies themselves, but as we will see his interpretive strategy reflects a continued adherence to reductionism.

2 , John Kenneth Galbraith, and others have developed various principles to account for economic change. Immanuel Wallerstein has developed principles to account for the changes which occur within what he refers to as the world-system; and Giovanni Arrighi, Randall Collins, and others have extended this work. William Labov has set forth a multi-volume work titled, The Principles of Linguistic

Change, in which he puts forth a set of principles he feels accounts for linguistic change.

3 Skinner is following the argument John Austin put forward in his book, How To Do Things With Words

(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1975). In particular, he is adopting the concept of

“performatives” as Austin put it forward. Language, Austin argued, does not simply describe things (e.g., states of affairs, concepts, etc.), but it does things. Many others have adopted this distinction as well (see, for example, Ian Hacking’s Book, Representing and Intervening (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

1983), where he applies this same distinction to understanding the philosophy and history of science.

4 See Quentin Skinner, “Meaning and Understanding in the History of Ideas.” History and Theory 8 (1969):

3-53.

5 Ludwig Wittgenstein, Zettel, 173. See also, Stephen Toulmin, Cosmopolis (Chicago: University of

Chicago Press, 1990) as well as his book with Allan Janik, Wittgenstein’s Vienna; and Steven Shapin’s A

Social History of Truth (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). I should also mention David Bloor’s work, especially his first book on Wittgenstein, Wittgenstein: A Social Theory of Knowledge (London:

MacMillan Press, 1983). Bloor argues that knowledge needs to be understood in its social context, arguing 25

that Wittgenstein, if properly understood, was claiming that claims are true because they are socially accepted rather than being accepted because they are true.

6 Shapin, for example, argues that Newton’s attack upon Leibniz was politically motivated: “When it became likely that Leibniz would be ‘translated’, along with the Hanoverian court, to London, newton set in motion a sustained effort to discredit the worth, religious significance, and of the

German’s science.” “Social Uses of Science.” Ferment of Knowledge. Edited by G.S. Rousseau and Roy

Porter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980): 97.

7 For more on a more elaborate argument and discussion of the view that philosophical works can be interpreted in terms of the effort to think becoming, see my book, The Problem of Difference:

Phenomenology and Poststructuralism (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998).

8 Nietzsche, Beyond (New York: Vintage Books, 1966), 48.

9 Nietzsche, Will to Power (New York: Vintage Books, 1967), no. 617, 330.

10 See Thousand Plateaus. Translated by Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,

1987): 40-1.

11 See Deleuze’s book, The Logic of Sense (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990). Deleuze begins this work with recognition of the simultaneous AB nature of becoming: “When I say ‘Alice [from Through the Looking-Glass] becomes larger,’ I mean that she becomes larger than she was. By the same token, however, she becomes smaller than she is now. Certainly, she is not bigger and smaller at the same time.

She is larger now; she was smaller before. But it is at the same moment that one becomes larger than one was and smaller than one becomes,” 1.

12 I am extending Deleuze and Guattari’s critique of what they refer to as the “transcendentalization” of language: “All methods for the transcendentalization of language, all methods for endowing language with universals, from Russell’s logic to Chomsky’s grammar, have fallen into the worst kind of , in the sense that they validate a level that is both too abstract and not abstract enough.” Thousand Plateaus,

148. Russell’s and Chomsky’s transcendentalization of language is too abstract because it fails adequately to address social contexts and concrete processes of economics, politics, desire, etc.; and it is not abstract 26

enough in that that Russell’s logic and Chomsky’s grammar, as concepts, cannot be applied to contexts other than language.

13 The concepts of chaos theory and dynamical systems theory have been applied to areas as diverse as child development (see Esther Thelen’s book A Dynamic Systems Approach to the Development of

Cognition and Action [Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 1996]), biology (see Stuart Kauffman’s book At

Home in the Universe [New York: , 1995]), economics (see Edgar Peters’ book

Fractal Market Analysis: Applying Chaos Theory to Investment and Economics [New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1994]), literary theory (see N. Katherine Hayles’ book Chaos Bound [Ithaca: Cornell University

Press, 1990], and history to a slight degree (see the debate between George Reisch and Paul Roth and

Thomas Ryckman [History and Theory 30, 1991] on the role, if any, chaos theory ought to within historiography)

14 See The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), 156-9.

15 Randall Collins. The Sociology of Philosophies (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998),

379-80.

16 Kant is also interpreted to be another example of such a transformation. Kant’s Copernican revolution, so the argument goes, has transformed philosophy such that post-Kantian philosophy must inevitably confront

Kant’s method of transcendental critique. In other words, Kant’s work represents the current basin of attraction for the majority of philosophical labors.

17 This argument is not new to historiography. Fernand Braudel, for example, argues that there are three levels of time to be considered when doing history: there is the slow to change time of human relations with their material surroundings, what Braudel calls the longue durée; then there is the time of social, political, and economic structures which change more quickly; and then there is the time of the history of events which focus on the sudden, rapid shifts and changes. Proper history, Braudel argues, needs to interpret the latter in terms of the former two. See Braudel, On History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 3-

4. The sociologist, Michael Mann, in his work The Sources of Social Power (Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press, 1986) also argues that “Societies are constituted of multiple overlapping and intersecting sociospatial networks of power,” and this view, he claims, is counter to “most sociological orthodoxies – 27

such as systems theory, Marxism, structuralism, structural functionalism, normative functionalism, multidimensional theory, evolutionism, diffusionism, and action theory – [for they] mar their by conceiving ‘society’ as an unproblematic, unitary totality.” See 1-2. Where our work differs is in applying these same insights to intellectual history, and our conceptual use of insights from chaos and dynamical systems theory also further illuminates the processes at work (i.e., it helps us to think becoming).

18 This conjuctive approach has been used in history more generally. Immanuel Wallerstein, for example, argues that emerged only as a result of the conjunction of key historical changes. See The

Modern World-System, Vol. 1 (New York: Academic Press, 1974), 24. This approach has not been used, however, to explain intellectual creativity and change.

19 Philosophical debates and theories do arise, as we will argue, in historical and material contexts that allow for them to flourish, and many of these debates may in fact respond to or comment upon historical circumstances and events of their time, or even find motivation in such events (e.g., this is Toulmin’s argument in Cosmopolis). Nevertheless, the conceptual resources and problems which occupy philosophers develop with their own dynamic and for the most part independently of other factors (i.e., other waves).

20 See Nicholas Phillipson, “The Scottish Enlightenment.” The Enlightenment in National Context. Roy

Porter and N. Teich, editors (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 38.

21 Smout emphasizes the economic changes which occurred in Scotland, but sees it primarily, as did

Phillipson, as a redirection of energies. The “’Calvinist’ qualities” of seventeenth-century Scotland, in particular the sense that “life was a serious pilgrimage from the wicked ignorance in which they had been born to the perfect knowledge of God in which they ought to die”; this “could now [in the eighteenth century] be switched to a purely materialistic end,” including the improvement societies, and the philosophical and literary societies which took very seriously the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of improving one’s self. See Smout, History of the : 1580-1830 (London: Collins, 1969), 97-9.

22 See T.M.Devine, The Scottish Nation: A History (New York: Viking, 1999), 12. See also Neil

MacCormick, “Law and Enlightenment,” The Origins and Nature of the Scottish Enlightenment. R.H.

Campbell, et. al., editors (Edinburgh: John Donald Publishers, 1982). MacCormick argues that the roots of 28

the Enlightenment can be found well into the seventeenth century in the historical and legal writings of the period, in particular the work of Lord Stair. We will discuss his argument further below.

23 For more on the important role educational institutions played in the Scottish Enlightenment, see Ronald

Cant, “Origins of the Enlightenment in Scotland: the Universities.” The Origins and Nature of the Scottish

Enlightenment. See also Richard Sher, The Church and University in the Scottish Enlightenment

(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985).

24 Anand Chitnis. The Scottish Enlightenment: A Social History (London: Rowman and Littlefield, 1976),

132.

25 See Sher’s book, The Church and University in the Scottish Enlightenment, for an excellent and detailed discussion of the moderate party and their relationship to the figures of the Scottish Enlightenment.

26 Ian Whyte, in Scotland’s Society and Economy in Transition, c. 1500-c.1700, argues that the Popular party opposed the patronage act as well as many of the other changes which were occurring because they believed they were threatened economically by these changes. See 64-7.

27 R.A. Houston expresses this consensus view in stating: “…for much of the period 1660-1760 slow and marked short-term fluctuations in demand for goods and services meant that free markets in labour and capital, and changes in organization and within Edinburgh were restricted.” Social Change in the Age of the Enlightenment (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1994),

349.

28 The Modern World-System, Vol. II (New York: Academic Press, 1980), 33.

29 Neil McKendrick, et. al. The Birth of a Consumer Society (London: Europa Publishers, 1982), 15.

30 The Modern World-System, Vol. I.., 62. The wages are computed in terms of kilograms of wheat paid to an English carpenter daily. From a peak of 155.1 in 1450 to a low of 74.1 in 1700, by 1750 the rate was back up to 94.6, a nearly 30% increase.

31 T.M. Devine has shown the dramatic increase in urban growth in Scotland beginning in 1700. In 1700, only 5.3% of the population lived in towns with a population of 10,000 or more. By 1750 this had grown to

9.2%, then 17.3% by 1800, and finally a tremendous 32% by 1850. See The Scottish Nation: A History, p.

145. Steven Shapin has noted the fact that many of the Scottish landed classes spent their winters in 29

Edinburgh, with the result being that while 5.4% of Edinburgh’s population in 1773-4 were “noble and gentry,” only 1.0% of Glasgow’s population was. This in turn would help feed the Scottish Enlightenment, as we will see. See Shapin, “Property, Patronage, and the Politics of Science,” 4.

32 Social Change in the Enlightenment, 103.

33 See Bruce Lenman, Integration, Enlightenment, and Industrialization: Scotland 1746-1832 (Toronto:

University of Toronto, 1981), 22.

34 The Scottish Nation, 143.

35 The Birth of a Consumer Society, 11.

36 Jane Jacobs. The Economy of Cities (New York: Random House, 1969), 62-3.

37 David Daiches refers to this as one of the paradoxes of the Scottish Enlightenment period: i.e., the enlightened thinkers such as Blair, Carlyle, and others of the moderate party would align themselves with traditional and conservative segments of the society. See The Scottish Enlightenment: A Hotbed of Genius

(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1986), 14. Our account resolves the paradox.

38 Benedict Anderson. Imagined Communities (New York: Verso, 1991), 25.

39 Ibid., 33.

40 Ibid., 42.

41 Anderson states in his preface that what originally interested him in the topic of nationalism was wondering what it was about the “nation-state” as an or ideal that would inspire people to lay down their lives for it. See ibid., 7. It is therefore not reading into Anderson’s argument when we claim the change was a change in where emotional energies were being directed.

42 Hannah Barker and many others cite this 1695 event as key to the rapid rise of newspapers, though we would add the rise of conumerism and advertising as an even more important factor. See Barker,

Newspapers, Politics, and English Society, 1695-1855 (New York: Longman, 2000).

43 See Stanley Morison. The English Newspaper, 1622-1932 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

1932), 88. 30

44 Mary Elizabeth Craig. The Scottish Periodical Press, 1750-1789 (Edinburgh: Tweeddale Court, 1931), 7-

8. This book is still the standard reference for studying the Scottish press during the latter half of the eighteenth century.

45 Quoted by Barker, Newspapers, Politics, 58.

46 The Scottish Nation, 67.

47 Edinburgh Advertiser, No. 1, p. 1 (January 3, 1764). There are numerous examples in subsequent issues of the Edinburgh Advertiser where intellectual figures were set forth as the example of learning and culture, an example their readers would no doubt want to emulate. In advertising the book Dialouge on the uses of foreign travel, the advertisement points out that the acquainting oneself with the dialogue between Locke and Lord Shaftesbury should be “considered as part of an englishman’s education” (No. 10, p. 3, January

31-February 3, 1764). In another issue, Locke’s name will be used in the advertisement for a book on geography (No. 21, p. 3). The paper will also frequently include letters by , Rousseau, and others.

48 Scots Magazine, Vol. XXIII (April, 1764), 187.

49 Quoted by Sher, Church and University in the Scottish Enlightenment, 108. Deleuze has often referred to the use of one’s language as if it were a foreign tongue as a form of what he calls “minor .” Kafka, for example, because he lived in Prague but wrote in German rather than Czech was in many ways writing a language that was not completely Gernman nor was it completely something other than German. It was a use of language that was in that transitional, ambiguous AB phase, and it is just this use of language which deterritorializes (Deleuze’s term) normal uses of language. Making the same point as we have been expressing it, speaking one’s own language in a way that is at the transitional AB phase allows for a greater possibility of being creative with this language. Alexander Carlyle’s comment shows that the Scots were in just such a circumstance with respect to the language they used, and thus they were in a situation which favored creative use of language, a situation that they obviously made the most of. For Deleuze’s argument, see Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986).

50 The Scottish Enlightenment: A Hotbed of Genius, 1.

51 Charles Camic, Experience and Enlightenment: Socialization for Cultural Change (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983). 31

52 The Letters of David Hume, Vol. I. Edited by J.Y.T. Greig. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1932),

531.

53 See E.C. Mossner, The Life of David Hume (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980), 160-64 for details of the dispute.

54 The Letters of David Hume, Vol. II, 67.

55 Shapin, “Property, Patronage, and the Politics of Science,” 7.

56 Letters of David Hume, Vol. I, 219-21.

57 See “Stratification, emotional energy, and the transient .”

58 Ibid., 33.

59 “Law and Enlightenment,” 155.

60 Ibid., 159.

61 The Minutes of the Aberdeen Philosophical Society. H. Lewis Ulman, editor (Aberdeen: Aberdeen

University Press, 1990), 197. This topic addressed repeatedly by Gerard at the meetings of the Aberdeen

Philosophical Society. In a discourse he gave before the society on august 10, 1758, Gerard argued that “It

[genius] is confessed to be a subject of capital importance, without the knowledge of which a regular art of can never be established, and useful discoveries must continue to be made, as they have generally been made hertherto, merely by chance. But it is deemed a subject which can be reduced to general First principles.” Aberdeen University Library, MS 3107/1/3. Gerard’s subsequent discourses set out to develop such principles, and these discoursed ultimately became published as An Essay on Genius (W. Strahan; T.

Cadell in the Strand; and W. Creech: Edinburgh, 1774).

62 David Hume, Selected Essays. Edited by Stephen Copley and Andrew Edgar (Oxford: Oxford University

Press, 1993), 57.

63 Ibid., 59.

64 Ibid., 58

65 In discussing rogue waves, Willard Bascom argues that “Thus a sea is the result of superimposing a number of sinusoidal wave trains one on top of another … The real sea is made up of all these layers added together. Where a number of crests coincide, there will be a high mound of water [i.e., a rogue wave] – but 32

it will not last long for the component waves soon go their own way.” Waves and Beaches: the dynamics of the ocean surface (New York: Anchor Books, 1964), 47.

66 Selected Essays, 62.

67 Ibid., 62-3.

68 Ibid., 64

69 I have in mind here not only the competitive environment between Scotland and England, but perhaps more significantly that between Scotland and the of France. We have already referred to

Hume’s interaction with Rousseau and his society, but this society also included figures such as Voltaire,

D’Alembert, and many others.

70 Ibid., 65.

71 Ibid.

72 Ibid., 75.

73 Ibid., 75-6.

75 Letters of David Hume, Vol. I, 2.