Francis Bacon was a major figure in the seventeenth-century movements to reform knowledge and build a new conception of nature different from the largely Aristotelian conceptions that then dominated the universities. In his Novum organum (1620), De augmentis scientiarum (1623), and the Sylva Sylvarum (1626/27), among many other writings, Bacon outlined a program that involved a careful analysis of the ways in which people are prone to error (the “four Idols”), a method for collecting and arranging observations and experiments into natural histories, and using them to build natural philosophies that would enable people to control nature. While Bacon’s place in the Dutch intellectual world has not been studied as carefully as that of Descartes, he was, nevertheless, a significant influence on those interested in natural history and natural philosophy in the Low Countries. While not a major influence on Spinoza, Bacon left his mark in interesting ways. Only one book by Bacon appears in Spinoza’s library at the time of his death (a Latin translation of Bacon’s Essays). However, there are a number of direct citations and allusions to him in Spinoza’s work.

The terms “Natura naturans” and “Natura naturata” have a long history. The terminology goes back to at least the thirteenth century, and is thought to have originated in Latin translations of Averroes. Once introduced, it was found widely in the philosophical literature. Literally “naturans” is the present active participle of “naturare,” the verbal form of the noun “natura,” and “naturata” is the past participle of the same verbal form. “Natura naturans” is literally “naturing nature” while “Natura naturata” is “natured nature.” Since it isn’t evident what exactly the verbal form of “nature” could mean, these terms are admittedly somewhat paradoxical. Neither Lewis and Short’s Latin Dictionary nor the Oxford Latin Dictionary list the verbal form of “natura,” though the Oxford English Dictionary defines the corresponding English verb as “to give (a created thing …) a particular nature.” The verbal form of “nature” in English is currently obsolete, but preserved in the verb “to denature,” as in to denature alcohol. In his Lexicon philosophicum (1613), Rodolphus Goclenius explains the verb “naturare” as follows: “To nature [naturare] is a barbarism for to give, impart, conserve and preserve nature.

The concept of superstition (superstitio) goes back to the ancients and extends to today. It encompasses a multitude of beliefs and behaviors, from demons and witches, sorcerers and the evil eye, to avoiding black cats and knocking on wood. One conception is particularly important when considering the notion in Spinoza’s texts. On this conception, superstition is connected with false religion. This conception is reflected in a number of seventeenth-century definitions of superstition. Johannes Micraelius, in Lexicon philosophicum (1653), wrote: “A superstition is a vicious obligation of worship” (s.v. superstition). In his Dictionaire universel (1690), Antoine Furetiere wrote that superstition is “a disordered devotion or belief in God.” An example of superstition he gave is that of the pagans, who were led by superstition to adore “false gods, and idols.” He continued: “Plutarch tried to show that superstition is worse than atheism” (s.v. superstition).

In its most general sense, Spinoza defines obedience (obedientia) as “someone’s carrying out a command solely on the authority of the person who commands it” (TTP5.25). As such it has a very clear role to play in political life for Spinoza. In the case of obedience in the political context, there are a number of reasons why people obey the commands of another. For some, hope of reward and fear of punishment is what motivates them to obey.

Characteristic of the early modern period was the idea of a new start for philosophy and the sciences. In the period, those who advocated for such a program were collectively called the novatores or “innovators.” This chapter traces the emergence and the complex posterity of this term. Though now considered positive, it was much contested in the period, and the novatores were involved in numerous polemical disputes. Tracing the origins, history, and use of the term gives us precious insights into the dynamics of the great transformation of philosophy usually designated by another polemical label—the Scientific Revolution.

The full title of Spinoza's Tractatus Theologico-Politicus (TTP) reads as follows:

Freedom of thought is quite central to Spinoza's politics in the TTP. In fact, since thought is outside the ability of the sovereign authorities to control, control is not possible. And where control is not possible, there is no right to control. But Spinoza takes this one step further, and argues that from freedom of thought follows the freedom to express publicly that which is thought. Even so, Spinoza recognizes certain limits on the freedom of expression. Expressing one's thoughts is an act, an act that can have effects in the society as a whole. Criticisms of individuals and institutions, even if well-reasoned and true, can lead to consequences which undermine the stability of the state. Criticizing the divinity of the Bible, or the divine authority of the clergy, or the necessity for performing certain ceremonies or keeping to certain divinely ordained laws can lead to the general decline of religion. And insofar as religion can contribute to the stability of the state by inducing people to behave well toward one another, the complete and unrestrained freedom of expression could well have bad consequences for the stability of the state.

In our times, the domain of the physical sciences is reasonably well defined. Although, at its edges, the less empirically grounded parts of the physical sciences may merge into philosophical speculation, it is no compliment to a scientist to characterize his or her work as “philosophical.” In this respect, we have moved a considerable distance from the early modern period. For many European thinkers in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, an account of the world around them was radically incomplete without a larger background picture in which to embed it, a picture that often included elements such as the basic categories of existence and the relation of the natural world to God. Many shared the sense of the interconnectedness of knowledge and felt the need for what might be called a foundation for the science that treats the natural world.

The project did not have precise boundaries, nor is it easy to characterize what it is that we are talking about when we are talking about the foundations of our understanding of the physical world. In many ways, the enterprise of providing foundations for a view of the physical sciences was shaped by two traditions, the Aristotelian tradition in philosophy and the Christian tradition in theology. As I shall argue in more detail, the Aristotelian tradition was a common element in the intellectual background of every serious thinker of the period and provided a model for what a properly grounded science should look like. Even for many of those who would reject the Aristotelian tradition in favor of other ancient traditions (such as atomism or Hermeticism) or other views of the world not obviously connected with ancient philosophical traditions, the Aristotelian tradition was hard to escape.

In the last number of years, there has been a remarkable interest in Leibniz's account of the physical world, and, in particular, his account of corporeal substance. Much of the discussion has focused around the question of Leibniz's idealism. In particular, the question has been whether even in the so-called middle period, the 1680s and 1690s, when discussions of corporeal substance seem to be most visible, Leibniz's position included the same kind of idealism with respect to the physical world that occupied him in his later, more obviously monadological, writings, or whether he understood the physical world in a more realistic way. In this essay I suggest that this may not be the right question to be asking about Leibniz's philosophy during this period. I arrive at this reorientation of our thinking about the texts of this period by looking at one text of particular clarity and interest.

The text I intend to examine was written in March of 1690, while Leibniz was in Italy. It seems to be notes connected with a conversation Leibniz had with the Italian philosopher Michelangelo Fardella. Written shortly after the main bulk of his correspondence with Antoine Arnauld and in the same month as his very last letter to Arnauld, the notes state with stark clarity some of the themes that were suggested somewhat more obliquely in those other letters.