When a criminal judge has a right crafty knave before him, one well versed in the arts of prevarication, his main object is to wring a confession from the culprit by a few skilful questions. In almost a similar position the natural philosopher seems to be placed with respect to nature. True, his functions here are more those of the spy than the judge; but his object remains pretty much the same. Her hidden motives and laws of action is what nature must be made to confess. Whether a confession will be extracted depends upon the shrewdness of the inquirer. Not without reason, therefore, did Lord Bacon call the experimental method a questioning of nature. The art consists in so putting our questions that they may not remain unanswered without a breach of etiquette.
Look, too, at the countless tools, engines, and instruments of torture with which man conducts his inquisitions of nature, and which mock the poet's words:
"Mysterious even in open day,
Nature retains her veil, despite our clamors;
That which she doth not willingly display
Cannot be wrenched from her with levers, screws, and hammers."
Look at these instruments and you will see that the comparison with torture also is admissible.[11]
This view of nature, as of something designedly concealed from man, that can be unveiled only by force or dishonesty, chimed in better with the conceptions of the ancients than with modern notions. A Grecian philosopher once said, in offering his opinion of the natural science of his time, that it could only be displeasing to the gods to see men endeavoring to spy out what the gods were not minded to reveal to them.[12] Of course all the contemporaries of the speaker were not of his opinion.
Traces of this view may still be found to-day, but upon the whole we are now not so narrow-minded. We believe no longer that nature designedly hides herself. We know now from the history of science that our questions are sometimes meaningless, and that, therefore, no answer can be forthcoming. Soon we shall see how man, with all his thoughts and quests, is only a fragment of nature's life.
Picture, then, as your fancy dictates, the tools of the physicist as instruments of torture or as engines of endearment, at all events a chapter from the history of those implements will be of interest to you, and it will not be unpleasant to learn what were the peculiar difficulties that led to the invention of such strange apparatus.
Galileo (born at Pisa in 1564, died at Arcetri in 1642) was the first who asked what was the velocity of light, that is, what time it would take for a light struck at one place to become visible at another, a certain distance away.[13]
The method which Galileo devised was as simple as it was natural. Two practised observers, with muffled lanterns, were to take up positions in a dark night at a considerable distance from each other, one at A and one at B. At a moment previously fixed upon, A was instructed to unmask his lantern; while as soon as B saw the light of A's lantern he was to unmask his. Now it is clear that the time which A counted from the uncovering of his lantern until he caught sight of the light of B's would be the time which it would take light to travel from A to B and from B back to A.
The experiment was not executed, nor could it, in the nature of the case, have been a success. As we now know, light travels too rapidly to be thus noted. The time elapsing between the arrival of the light at B and its perception by the observer, with that between the decision to uncover and the uncovering of the lantern, is, as we now know, incomparably greater than the time which it takes light to travel the greatest earthly distances. The great velocity of light will be made apparent, if we reflect that a flash of lightning in the night illuminates instantaneously a very extensive region, whilst the single reflected claps of thunder arrive at the observer's ear very gradually and in appreciable succession.
During his life, then, the efforts of Galileo to determine the velocity of light remained uncrowned with success. But the subsequent history of the measurement of the velocity of light is intimately associated with his name, for with the telescope which he constructed he discovered the four satellites of Jupiter, and these furnished the next occasion for the determination of the velocity of light.
The terrestrial spaces were too small for Galileo's experiment. The measurement was first executed when the spaces of the planetary system were employed. Olaf Römer, (born at Aarhuus in 1644, died at Copenhagen in 1710) accomplished the feat (1675–1676), while watching with Cassini at the observatory of Paris the revolutions of Jupiter's moons.
Let AB (Fig. 14) be Jupiter's orbit. Let S stand for the sun, E for the earth, J for Jupiter, and T for Jupiter's first satellite. When the earth is at E1 we see the satellite enter regularly into Jupiter's shadow, and by watching the time between two successive eclipses, can calculate its time of revolution. The time which Römer noted was forty-two hours, twenty-eight minutes, and thirty-five seconds. Now, as the earth passes along in its orbit towards E2, the revolutions of the satellite grow apparently longer and longer: the eclipses take place later and later. The greatest retardation of the eclipse, which occurs when the earth is at E2, amounts to sixteen minutes and twenty-six seconds. As the earth passes back again to E1, the revolutions grow apparently shorter, and they occur in exactly the time that they first did when the earth arrives at E1. It is to be remarked that Jupiter changes only very slightly its position during one revolution of the earth. Römer guessed at once that these periodical changes of the time of revolution of Jupiter's satellite were not actual, but apparent changes, which were in some way connected with the velocity of light.
Let us make this matter clear to ourselves by a simile. We receive regularly by the post, news of the political status at our capital. However far away we may be from the capital, we hear the news of every event, later it is true, but of all equally late. The events reach us in the same succession of time as that in which they took place. But if we are travelling away from the capital, every successive post will have a greater distance to pass over, and the events will reach us more slowly than they took place. The reverse will be the case if we are approaching the capital.
At rest, we hear a piece of music played in the same tempo at all distances. But the tempo will be seemingly accelerated if we are carried rapidly towards the band, or retarded if we are carried rapidly away from it.[14]
Picture to yourself a cross, say the sails of a wind-mill (Fig. 15), in uniform rotation about its centre. Clearly, the rotation of the cross will appear to you more slowly executed if you are carried very rapidly away from it. For the post which in this case conveys to you the light and brings to you the news of the successive positions of the cross will have to travel in each successive instant over a longer path.
Now this must also be the case with the rotation (the revolution) of the satellite of Jupiter. The greatest retardation of the eclipse (16–½ minutes), due to the passage of the earth from E1 to E2, or to its removal from Jupiter by a distance equal to the diameter of the orbit of the earth, plainly corresponds to the time which it takes light to traverse a distance equal to the diameter of the earth's orbit. The velocity of light, that is, the distance described by light in a second, as determined by this calculation, is 311,000 kilometres,[15] or 193,000 miles. A subsequent correction of the diameter of the earth's orbit, gives, by the same method, the velocity of light as approximately 186,000 miles a second.
The method is exactly that of Galileo; only better conditions are selected. Instead of a short terrestrial distance we have the diameter of the earth's orbit, three hundred and seven