of science would vividly remind us of that classical rendezvous, so often immortalised by painters and poets. A high garden wall. At the right a youth, at the left a maiden. The youth sighs, the maiden sighs! Both wait. Neither dreams how near the other is.
I like this simile. Truth suffers herself to be courted, but she has evidently no desire to be won. She flirts at times disgracefully. Above all, she is determined to be merited, and has naught but contempt for the man who will win her too quickly. And if, forsooth, one breaks his head in his efforts of conquest, what matter is it, another will come, and truth is always young. At times, indeed, it really seems as if she were well disposed towards her admirer, but that admitted—never! Only when Truth is in exceptionally good spirits does she bestow upon her wooer a glance of encouragement. For, thinks Truth, if I do not do something, in the end the fellow will not seek me at all.
This one fragment of truth, then, we have, and it shall never escape us. But when I reflect what it has cost in labor and in the lives of thinking men, how it painfully groped its way through centuries, a half-matured thought, before it became complete; when I reflect that it is the toil of more than two thousand years that speaks out of this unobtrusive model of mine, then, without dissimulation, I almost repent me of the jest I have made.
And think of how much we still lack! When, several thousand years hence, boots, top-hats, hoops, pianos, and bass-viols are dug out of the earth, out of the newest alluvium as fossils of the nineteenth century; when the scientists of that time shall pursue their studies both upon these wonderful structures and upon our modern Broadways, as we to-day make studies of the implements of the stone age and of the prehistoric lake-dwellings—then, too, perhaps, people will be unable to comprehend how we could come so near to many great truths without grasping them. And thus it is for all time the unsolved dissonance, for all time the troublesome seventh, that everywhere resounds in our ears; we feel, perhaps, that it will find its solution, but we shall never live to see the day of the pure triple accord, nor shall our remotest descendants.
Ladies, if it is the sweet purpose of your life to sow confusion, it is the purpose of mine to be clear; and so I must confess to you a slight transgression that I have been guilty of. On one point I have told you an untruth. But you will pardon me this falsehood, if in full repentance I make it good. The model represented in Fig. 12 does not tell the whole truth, for it is based upon the so-called "even temperament" system of tuning. The overtones, however, of musical sounds are not tempered, but purely tuned. By means of this slight inexactness the model is made considerably simpler. In this form it is fully adequate for ordinary purposes, and no one who makes use of it in his studies need be in fear of appreciable error.
If you should demand of me, however, the full truth, I could give you that only by the help of a mathematical formula. I should have to take the chalk into my hands and—think of it!—reckon in your presence. This you might take amiss. Nor shall it happen. I have resolved to do no more reckoning for to-day. I shall reckon now only upon your forbearance, and this you will surely not gainsay me when you reflect that I have made only a limited use of my privilege to weary you. I could have taken up much more of your time, and may, therefore, justly close with Lessing's epigram:
"If thou hast found in all these pages naught that's worth the thanks,
At least have gratitude for what I've spared thee."
THE VELOCITY OF LIGHT.
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
