Philosophy in the 'Athens of the North'

By Stella Baer | Monday, December 3, 2001

A few weeks ago my fellow Dartmouth philosophers and I strolled through the cobblestone streets of Edinburgh on a David Hume tour led by our own dear Professor James Moor. As we stood in a little courtyard Hume himself might have once looked out upon from a flat above, Professor Moor noted that when this great philosopher rejected the notion that we could be certain the sun would rise tomorrow morning—just because it had risen every other morning—Hume had Edinburgh in mind. Indeed, with the sun rising at half past 8 o'clock in the morning, setting into the horizon at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, and skies of clouds being more common than not, it is easy to see how one might come to question such things. In the words of Robert Louis Stevenson, 'Edinburgh pays cruelly for her high seat in one of the vilest climates under heaven. She is liable to be beaten upon by all the winds that blow, to be drenched with rain, to be buried in cold sea fogs out of the east, and powdered with the snow as it comes flying southward from the Highland hills.'

But her weather aside, the 'Athens of the North' is truly a beautiful city, with its steep, narrow, staircase alleyways—or 'closes,' as they are called on their plaques—winding round buildings from one street to another; the looming castle perched up above the city's streets upon a craggy, steep cliff; little shops selling tweeds, shortbread, and tartan by the yard; the bagpipers whose music wafts into the streets along with the smell of the yeast from all the breweries; the blue waters of the Firth of Forth gleaming beyond the city's edge as one walks the Royal Mile. Scotland's capital city brims with heritage and tradition, and though I find myself at times missing the dear little New England town of Hanover, it is good to be a world apart for a short spell of time.

Life as an Edinburgh University student is not without complications. The students on the whole seem to be an odd bunch, difficult to gauge in many regards. Many of those I have gotten to know or observed in class seem completely appalled by (and humorously ignorant of) things like, say, affirmative action or the American multiculturalism movement in academia, and yet I've repeatedly come across students—and even one professor—who look down upon capitalism as though it were some infectious Western disease. Their liberalism, in other words, while rampant, is of a different, more confusing, and perhaps even more disturbing sort.

Edinburgh University students actually go even crazier with chalk than Dartmouth students do, announcing not just peace demonstrations or war protests along the sidewalks, but advertising parties or theatre productions by writing on the walls of academic buildings in enormous pink letters. The students, primarily from the United Kingdom, seem both drawn to and repelled by things American—they love the dirty, crass movies and hip-hop but loathe our fuel consumption. They envy our cheap cigarette and alcohol prices but look down on our 'super-sizing' syndrome (as most Europeans seem to—it actually takes my Belgian flatmate almost a week to eat an entire bar of chocolate).

The professors, however, while still leaning quite to the left, are not quite as forward about their liberalism as those at Dartmouth. Perhaps I've just been fortunate with my teachers, but even when issues of 'objectification' arose in my Ethics class the matter was dealt with in a way that didn't leave every male in the room feeling guilty and attacked. Students certainly do go on the usual tirades about every hackneyed liberal issue, but the professors are more critical, forcing them to examine what they say even if they agree. Particularly refreshing is New College, the divinity college at Edinburgh. It is wonderful, to say the least, to be taught religion by professors who don't think a belief in God is amusing and ridiculous and who consider religious traditions to be more than interesting in an entertaining sort of way (I've been auditing religion classes in addition to my philosophy ones). Granted, New College trains young ministers. Its library is located in what was once a church, and a tremendous statue of John Knox dominates the main courtyard, so comparing such an institution to Dartmouth is perhaps not appropriate, but it has been a wonderful change to see religion in general, and the Christian tradition in particular, treated with respect. Students at New College actually seem to still believe that there is a Truth out there worth searching for.

Being in Edinburgh also accentuates just how overbearing our administration really is. The difference is perhaps made most clear by the fact that I haven't heard anyone speak of the Edinburgh University administration since I've been here. In general, their attitude seems to be the exact opposite to that of Dartmouth's administration: they permitted the student center to hand out free coupons and passes into bars and clubs during orientation ('Freshers week,' they call it) and on the whole stay out of students lives. Alcohol in general is seen in an entirely different light; alcohol is sold in the student convenience stores, there is a bar in one student dining hall, and alcohol is served at student-faculty functions without anyone even taking particular note (save us Americans). Being encouraged to drink by a professor was indeed a new experience, as was watching fellow students down several glasses of wine as they chatted about their career aspirations with the philosophy professors at a little party thrown for us Dartmouth students. Free alcohol at various gatherings isn't quite as ubiquitous as free food at Dartmouth, but it is certainly common and, as an American, quite unbelievable. And while students do still imbibe ridiculous amounts at times (especially the 'freshers,' as one would expect), on the whole young people seem much more content with just going into a pub and having a pint or a 'wee dram' or two instead of downing absurd amounts behind closed doors.

On the whole I would recommend such a trip to anyone—being away, things always seems to bring academic concerns more clearly into focus, and such is certainly true for a trip to the other side of the Atlantic. The Scottish people are a rugged, friendly, jovial people, filled with a pride and love for their country that is free not from critical self-examination, but from guilt and shame. This is indeed a valuable lesson to be learned from the Scots. When people ask where I hail from in this foreign land—though so much always comes to mind that I wish were back in the States. I realize just how blessed I am to be able to respond, 'I am an American.'

Philosophy in the 'Athens of the North'

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