Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen


The last time we got romantic on Logarithmic History was back February 14, Valentine’s Day, and also around the time when sexual reproduction evolved on our calendar. Then I posted When you were I tadpole, and I was a fish. But there’s no reason we can’t celebrate romance again.

A huge fraction of music is silly love songs; it’s possible that music evolved among humans, as among songbirds, as a result of sexual selection. (That was Darwin’s theory.) All the major operas of Mozart (1756-1791) are celebrations of love – in its enduring monogamous form – in the face of various threats: a lustful sultan (The Abduction from the Seraglio), libidinous aristocrats (The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovanni), the sexual curiosity that even nice girls feel (Cosi Fan Tutte), and an interfering mother-in-law and a bitter custody battle (The Magic Flute). Here’s an aria from The Magic Flute on this theme, with Lucia Popp as Pamina and Wolfgang Brendel as Papageno

Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen

PAMINA Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen, fehlt auch ein gutes Herze nicht. PAMINA In men who feel love, a good heart, too, is never lacking.
Die süßen Triebe mitzufühlen,
ist dann der Weiber erste Pflicht.
Sharing these sweet urges
is then women’s first duty.
Wir wollen uns der Liebe freu’n,
wir leben durch die Lieb’ allein.
We want to enjoy love;
it is through love alone that we live.
Die Lieb’ versüßet jede Plage,
ihr opfert jede Kreatur.
Love sweetens every sorrow;
every creature pays homage to it.
Sie würzet uns’re Lebenstage,
sie wirkt im Kreise der Natur.
It gives relish to the days of our life,
it acts in the cycle of nature.
Ihr hoher Zweck zeigt deutlich an:
nichts Edler’s sei, als Weib und Mann.
Mann und Weib, und Weib und Mann,
reichen an die Gottheit an.
Its high purpose clearly proclaims:
there is nothing nobler than woman and man.
Man and woman, and woman and man,
reach towards the deity.

We are MacApes, O’Monkeys, and Ben-Reptiles


A couple years back, Jonathan Marx and Jerry Coyne had an online spat on the question “Are humans apes?” (Marx says noCoyne says yes; see also John Hawks, who says no.) I offer my own solution below, after talking about Linnaeus (1707-1778) and biological categorization.

There’s a branch of cultural anthropology that studies “folk biology,” also known as “ethnobiology,” which is (among other things) about how different groups classify living things. Folk biological categories don’t vary randomly across cultures; there are some general principles at work. A quick summary: the basic level of categorization is roughly the genus. American folk genera include oakcrow, and fox (although a lot of Americans today are really bad at folk biology, maybe using that part of the brain for Pokemon.) Many peoples, and most hunter-gatherers, only take categorization down to the genus level. Others (especially horticulturalists) take it down to the species level, often with two part names (red oak, silver fox). Going toward more inclusive groups, genera are lumped together in larger, intermediate-sized, non-overlapping categories (palmhawk), which belong in turn to the more inclusive level of “life forms”: (bird, snake, fish, tree, grass/herb).

From an anthropological perspective, Linnaeus’s famous scheme of classification is an elaboration of these universal principles, with more species and more taxonomic levels (the famous Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species).

A version of Linnaeus’s scheme served evolutionary biologist well for centuries. But starting in the later twentieth century, many biologists turned to another approach that was claimed to be a better fit for evolutionary principles: According to cladists, the classification of living things should be based on clades: groups containing all and only the descendants of an ancestor. This requires overturning or revising many familiar categories. For example, monkeys are not a clade, since Old World monkeys are more closely related to apes (including humans) than to New World monkeys. Reptiles are not a clade, since crocodiles are more closely related to birds than to lizards and snakes. Fish are not a clade, since lungfish are more closely related to amphibians and reptiles than to most other fish.

After some bitter disputes. cladists seems to have won the battle among scientists. But cladism has made less headway among non-scientists. In Naming Nature: The Clash Between Instinct and Science, Carol Yoon argues that cladistics is just too much at variance with the way the human mind understands biological categories. Most people are never going to take to cladistics any more than they’re going to take to twelve-tone music, or Loglan. So different answers to the question “Are humans apes?” reflect disagreement about how far we can or should bring folk categories in line with the austere logic of cladism. Apes, including humans, are a clade. Apes, not including humans, are not (since chimpanzees are more closely related – but not really more similar – to humans than to gorillas).

I suggest a compromise. Folk categories like ape, monkey, reptile, and fish, defined by shared ancestral traits, are useful, even if they aren’t clades, defined by shared derived traits. But the concept of a clade is also important one for biologists. So maybe when we want to talk about the clades associated with folk categories, why don’t we use a prefix – the Scottish Mac, Irish O’, or Hebrew/Arabic ben/bin. (Any of these will serve.) So human beings are not apes, monkeys, reptiles, or fish. But we are MacApes, O’Monkeys, Ben Reptiles, and/or Bin Fish.

(For other We Are posts see We Are Upside Down Bugs and We are Stardust.)

Debt and democracy


General rule: one can raise higher taxes, in proportion to the liberty of the subjects; and one is forced to moderate them to the degree that servitude increases. This has always been, and will always remain so. It is a rule drawn from nature, which does not vary at all; one finds it in all countries, in England, in Holland, and in all states in which liberty becomes degraded, right down to Turkey.


The Seven Years War (1756-1763) was a bunch of major powers (Austria, France, Russia) ganging up to cut Prussia down to size. The English joined in on the Prussian side, on the theory that an enemy of France was a friend of theirs. The war was also a world war, long before World War One, involving fighting as far afield as North America and India. On the international side, it was a win for England, and a loss for France, with the French losing Quebec and India.

The war brought home an important advantage of a constitutional state over an absolutist one. England was able to raise higher taxes per capita on its subjects because they were voting for the taxes themselves, through Parliament. And England was able to borrow money for the war on easier terms than France, because English lenders were more confident that Parliament wouldn’t default on its debts: many of those who bought English war bonds either stood in Parliament, or voted for those who did. In spite of the “absolutist” label, French kings had a harder time squeezing money out of their subjects, and resorted to a lot of dubious expedients. For example, the government raised money by selling life annuities to investors: pay a lump sum for the annuity, and the government would pay back a fixed amount for every year the beneficiary was alive (sort of reverse life insurance). This led, among other things, to a syndicate of investors buying annuities on behalf of groups of young girls (such as The Thirty Geneva Maidens), judged the best bet, actuarially, for long life expectancies.

Generally they had to have reached the age of seven so as to be beyond the risk of smallpox. These maidens received the finest medical care, and Geneva’s wealthy bourgeoisie followed their health in the newspapers – not surprising given the huge investments that rested on their shoulders.

But the government was in such financial straits that it eventually started paying only a fraction of the promised annuities. The military weakness of the French state, stemming from its fiscal weakness, was the major cause of the French Revolution.

It would be nice to follow Montesquieu, and draw an improving moral lesson from this: constitutional liberty beats absolutism. But things played out differently in Eastern Europe, where there was less of a commercial sector to tap, and governments depended more on coercion – serfs serving their lords, lords serving the state – to keep up as great powers. There, the great constitutional state – the elective monarchy of Poland – was reduced to a second rank power, and eventually eliminated entirely. The most impressive military power, relative to its size, was Prussia, “not a country with an army, but an army with a country.” This was not the last time that military exigencies would push social evolution in very different directions in Western and Eastern Europe.

See A Free Nation Deep in Debt: The Financial Roots of Democracy


Steam engine time


The steam engine was a child of seventeenth century science; the Scientific Revolution gave birth to the Industrial Revolution. That’s not at all the conventional story, but David Wooton’s recent book The Invention of Science: A New History of the Scientific Revolution makes the case.

According to the conventional story, the steam engine resulted from the work of generations of inspired tinkerers, ingenious craftsmen with no particular scientific training and no great scientific knowledge. Indeed, according to one historian, “Science owes more to the stream engines than the steam engine owes to science.” (After all, the steam engine did inspire Carnot’s thermodynamic theory.)

But Wooton traces a path from scientific theory to practical application, beginning with the seventeenth century science of vacuum, air and steam pressure. The pioneering scientists here were not just theorists. They built (or at least designed) a number of devices for making use of differences in gas pressures, including an air gun (Boyle), a steam pressure pump (della Porta), and a vacuum-powered piston (von Guericke). Huygens took up the last idea, using an explosion to empty air from a cylinder, through a valve, and then using the partial vacuum to move a piston. This in turn was taken up by Denis Papin, a French Protestant medical doctor and mathematician, who worked as an assistant to Huygens, and then to Boyle. Papin combined scientific knowledge and engineering experience to design several steam engines. None of these was very practical – sadly Papin ended his life in failure and poverty. But the first of them was very similar to the first commercially viable steam engine, produced by Newcomen in 1712 – so similar that many historians have been convinced that Newcomen must have been familiar with Papin’s design.

Up to recently there’s been no convincing account of how Newcomen could have learned of Papin. But now Wooton has discovered the likeliest link, a book by Papin with the unpromising title A Continuation of the New Digester of Bones. The book has been neglected by historians, not surprisingly, but sold well in its own day. It gives plans for a pressure cooker (hence the title). But it also contains detailed descriptions both of vacuum powered piston, and of the use of steam condensation to produce a vacuum: just what Newcomen needed to put together to build his first engine. Wooton writes:

Newcomen’s steam engine is a bit like a locked-room plot in a detective story. Here is a dead body in a locked room: How did the murderer get in and out, and what did he use as a weapon? … We cannot exclude the possibility that Newcomen went to London and met Papin in 1687 … But we do not need to imagine such a meeting. With a copy of the Continuation in his hands, Newcomen would have known almost everything that Papin knew about how to harness atmospheric pressure to build an engine. … From this unintended encounter, I believe, the steam engine was born.

He concludes:

Historians have long debated the extent to which science contributed to the Industrial Revolution. The answer is: far more than they have been prepared to acknowledge. Papin had worked with two of the greatest scientists of the day, Huygens and Boyle. He was a Fellow of the Royal Society and a professor of mathematics. … Newcomen picked up … where Papin began. In doing so he inherited some of the most advanced theories and some of the most sophisticated technology produced in the seventeenth century. … First came the science, then came the technology.

After Blenheim

With the death of Charles II the throne of Spain was up for grabs, and the French attempt to install a Bourbon (Louis XIV’s grandson) led to the War of the Spanish Succession (1701-1714). The “famous victory” of the English and Bavarians over the French at the Battle of Blenheim (1704) would later (1796) be the subject of a famous anti-war poem by Robert Southey

It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And, with a natural sigh,
”Tis some poor fellow’s skull,’ said he,
‘Who fell in the great victory.

‘I find them in the garden,
For there’s many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men,’ said he,
‘Were slain in that great victory.’

‘Now tell us what ’twas all about,’
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
‘Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.’

‘It was the English,’ Kaspar cried,
‘Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,’ quoth he,
‘That ’twas a famous victory.

‘My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

‘With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

‘They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

‘Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.’
‘Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!’
Said little Wilhelmine.
‘Nay… nay… my little girl,’ quoth he,
‘It was a famous victory.

‘And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.’
‘But what good came of it at last?’
Quoth little Peterkin.
‘Why that I cannot tell,’ said he,
‘But ’twas a famous victory.’

Inbreeding depression


“Let others wage war. Thou, happy Austria, marry” (a description of Habsburg marriage policy).

And here’s what “30 Rock” (TV show) had to say about the Habsburgs, marriage and inbreeding.

Human inbreeding has both a genetic side (which favors outbreeding, at least within the species) and a political side which may favor a balance between outmarriage (to make new alliances), and in-marriage (to conserve old alliances, and keep land and honor within the family). The Habsburgs played the political game adroitly, putting together an enormous empire, partly by war, but partly by astute dynastic marriages. The Habsburg domains were so unwieldy that after the death of Charles V in 1558, they were divided between two branches of the family. Both sections were huge. The map below doesn’t even show the Habsburg possessions outside Europe, in Spanish America and the Far East.


By 1700, however, genetics caught up with the Habsburgs. The Spanish Habsburg line ended with Charles II, who was grossly disabled, physically and mentally. He was also impotent, and left no heirs. A recent calculation shows that, as a result of generation of in-marriage, Charles II had a coefficient of inbreeding of .254. For comparison, a child of full sibling incest will have a coefficient of inbreeding of .25!

Here’s a recent journal article, and discussions by Ed Yong and Razib Khan.

The last of the magicians


If I have seen further than others, it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants.

I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.

These familiar quotations from Newton are sometimes presented as expressions of his humility (a quality not otherwise much in evidence). In fact, though, it became clear in the course of the twentieth century that they are really an expression of Newton being not just a great scientist – the greatest ever – but also a great kook. Here’s a less familiar quotation from Newton about the intellectual origins of heliocentrism

It was the opinion of not a few, in the earliest ages of philosophy … that under the fixed stars the planets were carried about the sun; that the earth, as one of the planets, described an annual course about the sun, while by a diurnal motion it was in time revolved about its own axis. … This was the philosophy taught of old by Philolaus, Aristarchus of Samos, Plato, … and of that wise king of the Romans, Numa Pompilius, who, as a symbol of the figure of the world, erected a round temple … and ordained perpetual fire to be kept in the middle of it.

The Egyptians were early observers of the heavens; and from them, probably, this philosophy was spread abroad among other nations … It was their way to deliver their mysteries, that is, their philosophy of things above the common way of thinking, under the veil of religious rites and hieroglyphic symbols.

The Renaissance was committed to recovering the ancient past. This led not only to the recovery of ancient art, literature and science, but also to the recovery of a whole body of ancient magic and pseudoscience. For example, many Renaissance thinkers, and Newton, were fascinated by the mystical writings of Hermes Trismegistus (Thrice Great Hermes, hence “hermeticism”), an alleged Egyptian sage. By Newton’s time it had already been demonstrated that these writings were “pseudepigraphia,” a nice scholarly term for “fakes”; Hermes Trismegistus never existed. Nevertheless, Newton was convinced that there was an esoteric tradition preserved by the ancient Egyptians, passed on to Moses, Pythagoras, and Plato, and hidden away in the Bible. Read the Bible or stories of Pythagoras closely enough and you could recover the inverse square law of gravitation. Newton spent huge amounts of time throughout his life trying to recover further scientific secrets from the Bible.

John Maynard Keynes, who got hold of some of Newton’s papers wrote

In the eighteenth century and since, Newton came to be thought of as the first and greatest of the modern age of scientists, a rationalist, one who taught us to think on the lines of cold and untinctured reason.

I do not see him in this light. I do not think that any one who has pored over the contents of that box which he packed up when he finally left Cambridge in 1696 and which, though partly dispersed, have come down to us, can see him like that. Newton was not the first of the age of reason. He was the last of the magicians, the last of the Babylonians and Sumerians, the last great mind which looked out on the visible and intellectual world with the same eyes as those who began to build our intellectual inheritance rather less than 10,000 years ago.

After Newton, it became clear that modern science had surpassed anything achieved by the ancient world, and natural science and the humanities went their separate ways. Reverence for the secret wisdom of the ancients would survive in the novels of Dan Brown and in the weird Masonic pyramid on the back of the US one dollar bill.dollar-bill-eye