Chapter V (1)

Whether or not it be true that the proper study of mankind is man, it is certain that he finds great difficulty in studying anything else. His first impulse, when he thinks about the universe at large, is to consider it in reference to himself, and to explain it in terms of his own actions and desires. In Astronomy, for example, it long seemed quite reasonable that in the peculiarities of men’s bodies should be found the system on which the universe is constructed. The arguments of Galileo’s contemporaries amuse us now, for we have learned modesty, but the tendency to explain all things in purely human terms, as it were, is by no means yet extinct, and is still a hindrance to science. It is even hinted that man’s explanation of himself is not free from bias; psychologists inform us that a man’s account of his own actions is not always to be trusted, that the true springs of his conduct are usually those he would blush to own. But if we are to say that man’s speculations about the universe show an overwhelming sense of his own importance we must allow him also a certain generosity. Until quite recent times he was willing to dower almost anything, animate or inanimate, with his own attributes. He credited stones with life and trees with desire, while the whole animal world were his brothers. He could admire the loving sentiments of the dove and weep for the sorrows of the crab. A pathetic confidence in man as the type and exemplar of the universe informed nearly all the early writings on animal psychology, and Descartes’ theory that animals were automatic roused a sentimental indignation which has not yet subsided. Nevertheless, comparatively recent investigations tend to overthrow the natural assumption that worms and insects are little men inhabiting strange bodies. The modern biologist refuses to be conscience-stricken when referred to the industry of the bee or the conjugal perfections of the dove. It is only recently that he has become so heartless. Darwin, in a celebrated passage, describes with simple reverence the mutual affection existing between snails. The intelligence of these little creatures was also estimated highly by Romanes. Loeb, the great American biologist, did much to upset this naïve anthropomorphism. He took some worms who are “always attracted by light,” and showed that this movement did not testify to a “more light” cry in these little souls, but was a purely automatic proceeding. The worm places itself so that both sides of its body are equally illuminated. It is a mechanical action due to the influence of light on the living matter of its body. If there are two lights the worm passes between them, thus securing equal illumination of its two sides.

The crab which, being held by a claw, sheds that claw and hurries to the nearest rock for shelter, is found to do the same thing after its eyes or brain have been destroyed. Dr. Georges Bohn, who has made many experiments to determine how far the actions of the lower animals are purely mechanical, gives an interesting account of a certain parasitic worm which attaches itself to the fish called the torpedo. He finds (1) that if the amount of salt in the water be varied the reactions of the worm alter; (2) that if light be allowed to play first on one part and then on another part of the worm, its reactions alter; (3) if the animal has already taken up its position, attached to the glass, for instance, and a shadow be passed over the top of the vessel, the whole body of the worm turns itself into the vertical in such a way that if the shadow were caused by a passing torpedo, the worm could attach itself to the fish. If, however, it be already attached to a torpedo, it does not raise itself at a passing shadow. Here, then, is an _association_ between the region of the body excited by light and the part fixed to the fish. It was found, also, that the crab which abandons its claw only does so when held by a certain part. The action appears to be purely automatic. If it were dependent in any way on the crab’s simultaneous visual perceptions, for instance, an associative phenomon would be established. But experimental tests find no such correspondence. As the result of numerous experiments of this kind biologists have become very wary of offering psychical explanations of the actions of the lower animals. Even when genuine associations are established one must be careful not to interpret them in terms of human psychology. In the very description of experiments an unwarrantable turn may be given to the phenomena by the fact that words of ordinary language inevitably call up associations which may be out of place in the discussion. To say that an amœba _learns_ to reject certain foreign particles in a solution, for instance, is a statement that requires careful interpretation. How are we to picture an amœba _learning_ something?

But, indeed, the danger of anthropomorphic interpretations becomes very obvious when we reflect on the purely physical phenomena which accompany man’s own emotions. If the James-Lange theory be correct, it is in terms of these physical phenomena that we must understand man’s emotions. Now consider the example given in Washburn’s book, _The Animal Mind_. An angry man has a quickened heartbeat, altered breathing, a change in muscular tension, and a change in the blood. Consider a wasp. It has no lungs, but breathes through its tracheæ; the circulation of its blood is fundamentally different from that in man; all its muscles are attached internally because its skeleton is everywhere external. What, then, is an “angry” wasp? It seems clear that if a man is to study anything but man he must forget himself as far as possible.

ON LEARNING SCIENCE

It is a well-known fact that a really intelligent child finds great difficulty in believing that the earth is round. Stupid children, on the other hand, believe anything they are told. The difficulty experienced by the first child is due to the fact that, in however elementary a way, it is conscious of the implications of the statement. The stupid child seems to be unaware that the statement has any implications; it seems able to accept almost any statement in some curiously bare, unrelated fashion. Hermann Bahr has an interesting and amusing story of how profoundly his faith in his father was shaken when the latter, _à propos_ of a sunset, told the young boy that in reality it was the earth that turned round and not the sun. Completely overwhelming objections to this statement rose instantly in young Hermann’s mind, and, outraged by this insult to his intelligence, he preserved a hurt and dignified silence that lasted for days.

We notice the same essential difference in schoolboys and university students, and, in fact, in men of any age. Perhaps the majority of men, and less certainly of children, have but little sense of the implications of a statement. The sense of implications does not necessarily involve the ability to discover the implications--that is a comparatively rare gift. It acts rather in a negative manner, making the student restless under a subtly illogical presentation of a case, or leaving the schoolboy frankly mutinous at the end of a sermon. It is not a gift which makes a rapid learner, although its absence will prevent a man from ever knowing a subject properly. It is unfortunate that education, as practised in this country, does not sufficiently take into account this very desirable inhibition. The text-book plays a very large part in contemporary education, and most text-books are designed for those who can swallow statements at great speed. That delicate web of doubt, of half-seen alternative explanations, which comes into the mind of the intelligent student when confronted with the highly dogmatic statements and somewhat perfunctory “proofs” of many modern text-books, counts as sheer loss in the examination race. This is especially true of scientific text-books, which are usually conceived on an entirely wrong plan, judged from the standpoint of rational education. Statements which are the final expression of very difficult and slowly acquired abstractions are presented in all their nakedness, and followed by a collection of “examples.” The glib student learns these statements as if he were learning a foreign language, and soon masters the tricks necessary to apply them. I have known such students able to solve very difficult problems and yet entirely unable to meet, in any way, a sceptical attack upon the fundamental theorem they employ. The fact is that this method of teaching science is psychologically unnatural, and the knowledge acquired on this method is largely sham knowledge. While it may not be true that the child passes through “cultural epochs” in its mental growth, it is true that it will feel many of the hesitations and difficulties experienced by the men who first formulated the concepts now presented to it for its instant acceptance. It is for this reason that the best method of teaching a science is probably the historic method. In this way not only are many doubts fairly met instead of being merely repressed, but the exact _portée_ of a statement and possible lines of extension are much more clearly seen. The effect of the modern text-book is to make the intelligent student feel that he is remarkably unintelligent; the text-book writer is so terribly cocksure.

But if the historic method must be rejected as too lengthy one may plead for its partial application. Let the text-book give the broad outlines, and let the student supplement these by reading, wherever possible, the standard memoirs written by the original discoverers. In this way he will gain something much more valuable than a more thorough acquaintance with his subject; he will learn something of the mental gesture of the true man of science, something very different from the glittering efficiency of the text-book writer. Consider, for instance, the following passage from Newton, writing on the theory of light: He discusses a corpuscular theory, and continues:

But they, that like not this, may suppose light any other corporeal emanation, or any impulse or motion of any other medium or æthereal spirit diffused through the main body of æther, or what else they can imagine proper for this purpose. To avoid dispute, and make this hypothesis general, let every man here take his fancy; only whatever light be, I suppose it consists of rays differing from one another in contingent circumstances, as bigness, form, or vigour.

The subject here becomes alive in a way it never does in the text-book. It is of the greatest importance that the student should see, not merely the results, but the avenues of approach. He will gain more confidence in his own powers and more interest in the subject.

For those people also who, without being students, take an interest in science, the reading of original memoirs may be recommended. Much of the science they learn in this way will be wrong, but they will see it as something thoroughly human and, it may be, as something thoroughly sympathetic. The text-book has an air of infallibility which is very repellent, and it is difficult to avoid associating this with the scientific man. But it is merely a manifestation of the same tendency that produces stereotyped restaurants. A reading of the old memoirs shows science as tentative, imaginative, courageous. They show that the man of science is a humanist.

THE ENTENTE CORDIALE

Those who are interested in current “serious” literature, and more particularly that branch of it which deals in a speculative way with those vague but impressive problems which have always haunted men, the existence of God, the “meaning” of the Universe and so on, cannot have failed to notice the unaccustomed prestige now enjoyed by science. The supposed contributions of science to these discussions are now listened to with a gravity and politeness, with a kind of serious hush, which was formerly reserved for quotations from Plato and Aristotle. Compared with the crude materialists of Huxley’s day, it is evident that the modern man of science has greatly improved his social standing; he now frequently talks to the best people, on equal terms, on such subjects as the Good and the Beautiful. The underbred, pushing, clamorous self-assertion of the Victorian scientist is a rare note in these improving conversations between philosophers and men of science. A man like Haeckel is dismissed as a mere vulgarian; no one would trouble to refute him; his loud voice and hob-nailed boots are sufficient condemnation. Even Huxley is felt to be a rather noisy person; the modern expositor of the relations of Science and Religion or Science and Philosophy no longer borrows his technique from the Hyde Park orator; he has adopted rather the insinuating charm of the curate. There are, of course, survivals on both sides; sweetness and light are not yet universal; the general atmosphere of mutual forbearance and respect is still occasionally marred by the harsh note of some exceptionally fanatic or insensitive partisan. One or two grave lapses of this kind may be detected amongst the mass of recent books devoted to cosmical questions. There are still one or two literary men and philosophers who hint at those dreadful early days of science, before it went to Oxford, and there are still one or two provincial men of science, _farouche_, suspicious, who attend a modern cultured salon carrying their obsolete life-preserver in their pocket. But on the whole good manners prevail everywhere. It is realised that there is no reason why anybody should feel awkward at meeting anybody else in a world which is so indulgent of the difference between a man’s private and public capacities.

To be on amiable terms with everybody is worth a sacrifice, and in our relief at escaping from the ferocious savagery of the Victorian controversialists we may well endure the minor discomforts of a reconciliation between science, philosophy and religion so effective as to render indistinguishable the separate persons of this trinity. The particular advantage of this amalgamation that concerns us here is the fact that it has brought a new branch of literature into existence. As is usual in an amalgamation, each member profits by the custom brought by the others, until finally a composite article is evolved which is, as it were, simultaneously buff and blue. That is how we get these very curious and interesting modern works on cosmical questions--works which seem to result from a close collaboration between, say, a professor of physics, an archdeacon and a Bond Street crystal-gazer. A very comprehensive _Weltanschauung_ is thereby afforded, and doubtless a truly “balanced” mind must result from the perusal of such works, but we may doubt whether each component, as it were, is presented in its purity. The advantages of association are only obtained by a certain loss of individuality. We cannot speak for the philosophy and religion of these works, but we are impelled to these reflections by detecting a certain quality which pervades the scientific part of the expositions. It is, as we have admitted, a good thing for science that it has been taken up in this way. It moves in an atmosphere of culture; it finds itself being described in chapters headed with Greek quotations; it is complimented on its strong vein of poetry; its peculiarities are explained, inaccurately but sympathetically, in columns of literary causerie, and the unexpected but gratifying discovery is made that it by no means lacks the bump of reverence and proper respect for constituted authority.

Yet, kindly as are the surrounding faces, and pleasant as is the consciousness that one’s clothes and accent excite no comment, there is, on the part of many scientific men, a persistent uneasy feeling that one has gained this position on false pretences. It is these remarkable modern books to which we have referred which render the feeling acute. At the same time, it is very difficult to state precisely the elements of this feeling. We understand, however, that there are young poets and novelists who experience very much the same emotion when one of the great “official” men of letters talks about literature. It appears that such people often get everything subtly wrong, that their criticism never pierces to the real heart of the matter, that they make literature at once more pompous and more tame than it really is. These new cultured expositors of science affect one very much like that. Their indisputable intelligence and their wide knowledge do not save them; they lack something--it may be a mere familiar way of talking--which marks the practitioner; we feel they touch their subject with padded fingers. We attribute no occult influence to laboratories, but we think the expositor of science who is not also a creator is something like that curiously unconvincing creature--the theoretical sailor who has never been to sea. For that reason we are uneasy in the presence of these numerous modern expositions. Such work of the kind as was done in the old days was done by real men of science in their spare time. They had the competence, if also something of the crudity, of the workman in the factory who explains to you how his machine works. The modern writers are so much more like those frock-coated “attendants” at Exhibitions. One is oppressed with the same suavity, the same incredible readiness, the same secret doubt whether he has ever handled a tool in his life....

Such being our estimate of our modern teachers, we may be permitted to be sceptical concerning the complete satisfactoriness of their account of the present disposition and relations of science. When they vouch for the complete respectability and harmlessness of science we wonder if they are not a little too kind. We have an absurd nervousness, as in the presence of a reformed burglar. He looks well-dressed enough and his hands are not impossibly horny; moreover, we are told that the two very respectable gentlemen with him find him a most charming companion. We are prejudiced, we suppose; but to our thinking there is a coarseness about the jaw, an occasional hard glint in the eye, which would make us reluctant to accept him as, at any rate, a sleeping companion. We wonder if those two gentlemen, the one reverend and the other nearly so, ever feel a little apprehensive during the night?

POPULAR SCIENCE

The Victorian Age was unquestionably the great age of physical science. It was not only the number and quality of the scientific men whose working lives were covered by this period that were responsible for this--although no period in history makes a braver show--but it was due also to the fact that the scientific discoveries of that age were often of the kind that rouses a vast amount of public attention. The attention of a cultured minority was no new thing in the history of science. Newton’s discoveries, largely through the influence of his indefatigable populariser Voltaire, speedily became, in a more or less adequate form, the common property of the cultured part of Europe. But from the time of Newton to that of Davy there was no such general attention paid to science; England and the Continent largely lost touch, even technical students working in comparative isolation, so that the great French advances in Newtonian philosophy were not appreciated for several years in England, and the cultured public in England itself no longer considered the intelligent observation of scientific progress to be one of its chief duties. It never did regain this outlook; science, becoming increasingly technical, became more and more completely the affair of a small and specialised class, until, by the middle of the nineteenth century, it was the most dissociated of intellectual activities. The great recrudescence of general interest in science was brought about by the discovery that this dissociation was merely a consequence of lack of attention, and that, in fact, scientific discovery was not unconnected with the major interests of mankind.

The publication in 1859 of Darwin’s _Origin of Species_ persuaded the men of that time, rightly or wrongly, that science and religion were very intimately connected, and science, at one blow, obtained a degree of public attention without precedent in its history. The interest thus evoked was not always very intelligent, but it was intense and widely diffused; it extended to other branches of science, influenced the educational system of the country and gave rise to an enormous extension of “popular” science lectures and articles. This popular interest was of a different kind from the leisurely interest previously shown by the cultured classes. The latter was, indeed, much more genuinely an interest in science for its own sake; the former had a different emotional basis and was merely the diversion of an interest in religious or social questions. There is a controversial air about nearly all the popular scientific writings of that time; the scientific man, like his audience, was fully aware that he was talking about a good deal more than the ostensible subject of discussion. Science, the creature of the least popular of man’s activities, patient and unprejudiced ratiocination, became associated with violent emotions. With Biology and Geology this association was inevitable and immediate; their subject-matter happened to be that of the first few chapters of Genesis. But the more exact sciences, when public attention turned their way, could offer no such excitements. They seem to have compromised by specialising on “marvels.” The “Marvels of Science” became a familiar heading, and the unsophisticated public were stunned by figures: the distances of the stars, the number of molecules in a cubic centimetre of water, the weight, in tons, of the earth, the incredible minuteness of light-waves, and so on, the whole object of such discourses being, as Maxwell unkindly put it, to prevent the audience realising that intellectual exhaustion had set in until the hour had elapsed.

We readily admit that popular science of a very different kind was also provided. Faraday, Kelvin, Huxley, Tyndall, Maxwell himself, did their best to make the lay public acquainted with scientific methods as well as results, to present their results as part of a coherent theory instead of as items in catalogue of marvels. But it is the marvel-mongers who have proved most tenacious of life, so that “popular” science has now become a term of contempt, and any statement whatever, provided it has the right marvellous flavour, may be printed in our newspapers as scientific information. In America such marvellous statements, not only inaccurate but meaningless, occupy pages of the Sunday supplements, so that that meritorious organ, _The Scientific American_, has to announce, in self-defence, that it publishes, not “popular” science, but merely non-technical science. In our own country that sober periodical _Nature_ used to print extracts from the more marvellous scientific items provided by the daily press, thus furnishing a little light relief from its own austere pages. The fact that this quackery exists is not unimportant. If it does no more, it often leads to a waste of time, for there has been more than one worthy gentleman who has imagined himself to be attacking the pernicious doctrines of science, when, as his argument makes clear, it is this kind of quackery he has in mind. The cure for this kind of thing would seem to be the development of a conscience in newspaper editors, unless we prefer to wait patiently until a tincture of science forms part of the education of an English adult.

But, turning to the popular but accurate scientific article, we may ask what purpose it serves. Should its object be to supply the deficiencies of a defective general education, to provide an easy introduction to science? Doubtless such articles or lectures have served such a purpose; Faraday himself, as we know, was won over to science by the blandishments of Mrs. Somerville, and there is more than one case where the current of a man’s life has been definitely changed by a lantern lecture. It is, nevertheless, a mistake to suppose that the attentive perusal of a number of popular science articles is equivalent to a scientific education, a mistake which is unfortunately very common. The fact is that the scientific treatise and the popular science article, so far from being rivals, serve entirely different ends, and may be read with profit by the same man. Broadly speaking, the function of the popular science article is to present science in its humanistic aspect. It should, while dealing with as definite a scientific problem as the author chooses, hint at the relations between this problem and the other interests of mankind. Very often these relations are implicit in the subject; such subjects are, in fact, usually chosen, and for that reason. But there is another type of article which has for its object the exposition of relations which are not obvious, and this exposition may be the result of a genuine and valuable intellectual effort on the part of the writer. Such articles are really essays in criticism and are not essentially different from the best type of literary criticism. Some of the best articles of this kind--some of those by W. K. Clifford, for example--are as truly “research” work as is the technical paper. A third type of article may, either by way of history or by way of logic, show the position occupied by a given theory or fact in a scheme of knowledge. This type is usually of more interest to the scientific student than to the general reader, since a general acquaintance with the whole subject is presupposed, and in this connection it is interesting to note that a powerful plea has recently been made for the more effective endowment of the teaching of the history of science.

If a popular science article serves none of these three purposes, it must inevitably be nothing but the description of a “marvel.” In competent hands this may be agreeable enough; the appetite for marvels is vigorous and universal, and its indulgence cannot be condemned as a vice. To look at a marvel for the pleasure of gaping is not, however, a very intelligent occupation, and, to judge from the number and kind of phenomena unhesitatingly ascribed to “the electricity in the air,” merely increases credulity. Regarded as a marvel, wireless telegraphy is, of course, merely a miracle, a fact extensively exploited by spiritualists. The human tendency to seize on the merely marvellous should, in fact, be carefully allowed for by the writer of popular science articles; he should, if anything, be even more reserved and pedantically precise than when addressing a scientific audience; an incautiously flamboyant remark is very likely to be seized upon to support some preposterous philosophy or religion. Usually, however, the popular science writer yields to the temptation, to _épater_ his audience, to make himself more readable, as readability is now understood, and so he may, while speaking the truth, have all the effect of telling a lie.

Thus the division between the genuine and the quack science article is not, in practice, clearly defined. The difference between the writers is definite enough; but it is writer and public together which make the popular science article. Lack of education is just as great a hindrance to perception as is lack of sensitiveness. The poet may be subtly and completely misunderstood because his audience lacks sensitiveness, and, to compare small things with great, the conscientious retailer of scientific information may be in a like case for a different reason. So that if it is true that the best type of poetry is that written by the poet “for himself,” it is perhaps true that the best type of popular science article is written for a similar reason--because the writer is genuinely interested in working out certain speculations or treating certain facts in a certain way. Some of the very best popular articles--those by Helmholtz, for example--are of this kind, and have achieved a relative immortality, although, like the poetry which is read chiefly by poets, they are probably read chiefly by scientific men.

PATIENT PLODDERS

It is a melancholy fact that the estimable qualities of patience and industry do not, by themselves, enable their possessor to attain eminence in the arts. There is very good reason to suppose that character, particularly a certain simple type of integrity and sincerity, is necessary to great artistic achievement, but it is certain that such gifts are not sufficient; they must be allied with very unusual mental qualities. In the sciences, however, we often find work of very great importance being performed by men of quite average intelligence, but of exceptional tenacity. A pure heart seems to be all that is necessary. This is not true, of course, of the mathematical sciences--mathematicians, like musicians, are “born”--but it is very obviously true of what are called the “observational” sciences. A history of Astronomy, in particular, is interesting from this point of view. The fact that the whole of our knowledge of the heavens comes through the sense of sight, and that we cannot experiment, in the ordinary way, upon the heavenly bodies, means that the patient observer, by merely accumulating observations, is performing an absolutely essential function. There is no other subject which yields such rich rewards to mere patience. There is no other subject which has so long a record of valuable discoveries achieved by purely average ability. It is interesting to notice how often a telescope and a capacity for sitting still have made their owners immortal. In the region of stellar astronomy the minuteness of the phenomena which may be observed has narrowed possible competitors to those possessing large instruments, and that usually means public institutions and professional astronomers. But the history of our knowledge of the nearer heavenly bodies, the sun, the planets and the moon, owes much to the industrious amateur. No history of planetary and lunar discoveries would be complete without mention of Schröter, the “Oberamtmann” of Lilienthal, who watched the moon and planets incessantly for thirty-four years with a patience only equalled by his enthusiasm. He died of a “broken heart,” the result of a French atrocity, for after firing, on the night of April 20, 1813, the Vale of Lilies and thereby destroying, amongst other things, the whole of Schröter’s books and writings, the French army under Vandamme broke into and pillaged his observatory. The old man, then sixty-eight years of age, had not the means to repair the catastrophe, and, deprived of his one great interest, he died three years later, leaving, amongst his published works, some of the most long-winded and entertaining observations in the history of astronomy.

But although Schröter is undoubtedly the most amusing of all amateur observers, he has had his prototypes in all countries. Francis Baily, the “philosopher of Newbury,” is a good example of our more sober English product. We may have doubts as to what sort of chief magistrate old Schröter was, but we know that Baily took his profession of stockbroking with the utmost seriousness. He did not allow astronomy to interfere with business. Beginning in 1799, he remained on the Stock Exchange in London for twenty-four years, devoting his leisure largely to solar observations, particularly those connected with eclipses. It is with two of these phenomena, the first annular, a ring of the sun being visible round the moon, and the second total, that Baily’s name is particularly associated, in each case for the vivid and accurate account he gave of what he witnessed. The first phenomenon, a ring of bright points extending round that part of the moon’s circumference which has just entered on the solar disc, is merely a consequence of the lunar edge being serrated with mountains. These “Baily’s beads,” as they were called, were successful, however, in stimulating interest in the physical aspect of eclipses, with the result that the next total eclipse, that of 1842, was looked for with an unprecedented degree of enthusiasm. Astronomers like Airy, Otto Struve and Arago travelled to Central or Southern Europe to observe the eclipse, and the indefatigable Mr. Baily accompanied them. He fitted up his telescope in an upper room of the University of Pavia. The result was magnificent. At the instant of totality the sun appeared decorated with a glorious _auréole_, the famous corona. It was not, of course, an unknown phenomenon, but it had never before excited so much attention. Mr. Baily, in particular, was moved to write a most eloquent description of this flaming object. He calls it splendid and astonishing, but continues: “Yet I must confess that there was at the same time something in its singular and wonderful appearance that was appalling; and I can readily imagine that uncivilised nations may occasionally have become alarmed and terrified at such an object....” Besides being a specialist on eclipses, Baily was an untiring editor of star-catalogues, and he also made no fewer than 2,153 laborious experiments, on Cavendish’s method, to determine the density of the earth. He was indeed a zealous worker in what Sir John Herschel called the “archæology of astronomy.” He was noted for his unvarying health, undisturbed equanimity and methodical habits.

Another testimonial to the importance of such qualities in astronomical discovery is furnished by the career of Heinrich Schwabe, of Dessau. In the hope of escaping his fate as an apothecary he bought a small telescope in 1826, and began to observe the sun, being advised to do so by a friend. He continued to observe the sun daily (weather and health permitting) for forty-three years. Every day he counted the number of spots visible on the surface of the sun. It was a simple occupation, but it led to important consequences. His immense record of sun-spot statistics showed that the increase and decrease in the number of sun-spots did not occur in a random manner, but fell into periods, maxima alternating with minima, a complete period occupying about ten years. This figure has been modified since, but the fact of sun-spot periodicity is established and is at the present time one of the most suggestive and probably far-reaching of solar phenomena. Schwabe displayed no striking quality of mind or character beyond an almost incomprehensible patience. He was buoyed up in his spot-counting, however, by the hope of discovering a planet between Mercury and the sun, and in order to distinguish between the tiny disc of the planet crossing the face of the sun and a sun-spot, he found it necessary, in virtue of his instrumental equipment, to count the spots. When he found that, as a consequence of this pastime, he was world-famous, he likened himself to Saul who, going forth to seek his father’s asses, discovered a kingdom. His magnificent serenity of body and mind enabled him to attain the age of eighty-six.

Part of his mantle fell on Richard Carrington (born 1826), who built an observatory at Redhill with the intention of devoting himself to a study of sun-spots throughout a complete cycle. He failed to finish the cycle completely, as the death of his father made it necessary for him to divert his energies to controlling a brewery. He achieved results of great importance, however. His observations were concerned with the positions and movements of the spots, and from a series of 5,290 such observations he was enabled, amongst other things, to clear up the uncertainties attending the period of rotation of the sun. Galileo, apparently not appreciating the importance of the matter, had said that the sun rotated in “about a lunar month,” and a number of other observers gave figures varying from 27 to 25 days. Carrington illuminated this darkness by remarking that there is no single period of rotation for the sun. The polar regions rotate more slowly than those in the neighbourhood of the equator; the equator rotates in a little less than twenty-five days, while in latitude 50° the period is twenty-seven and a-half days. Thus the mystery was cleared up and a fresh direction given to solar investigation.

It is difficult to say whether Astronomy still offers such rewards to industry. It is probable, however, that it still yields more to character, as distinguished from ability, than any other science, and incomparably more, alas! than the arts.

THE AMATEUR ASTRONOMER

The indifference of the Englishman is, considered pragmatically, the same thing as tolerance. It bestows freedom and leaves every man, within fairly wide limits, at ease to pursue his bent. There is doubtless a relation between this English characteristic and the fact that England, above any other country, is the home of the amateur. In England, compared with the Continent, there are comparatively few men whose dominant activity is their exclusive activity. There are many fair specialists, but there are few specialised men. There are countries such as France, where the _Gemeinplatz_ of intelligent men is probably larger and more richly furnished than it is in England, but it is comparatively difficult to meet the type of man who is an eminent lawyer, an authority on Eastern poisons, and a really good judge of horseflesh. Such manifestations of a national quality may sometimes appear almost grotesque, but we believe that the quality of which they are partial manifestations is the most splendid and individual characteristic of the English intellect. It is not a quality which produces many thrice-armed specialists, but it is a quality which produces a great number of amateurs. The English amateur in the arts belongs to a family well worth consideration, but our more immediate concern is with the amateur in science.

There was a time when the scientific amateur abounded in England. In the time of Huxley and his contemporaries, as we see from their letters, amateur zoologists, botanists, and, more rarely, amateur mathematicians and physicists, were scattered all over England and occasionally had something of interest, or even of value, to report. In the days when R. A. Proctor edited _Knowledge_ the country seemed to be full of reverend gentlemen who owned small observatories and home-made telescopes. This large and interesting family seems now to be making towards extinction. The increasing complexity of the various sciences, to say nothing of the variety and cost of modern apparatus, has made anything but trifling discoveries difficult to the verge of impossibility for an amateur equipment. Perhaps the amateur who has suffered least from these changes is the amateur astronomer. There is good reason for supposing that his numbers have increased. In this branch of science the English amateur has always been particularly strong, and this cannot be attributed to the official encouragement accorded astronomy in this country. There are many more amateur astronomers in England than in France, although astronomy counts for more in France than in England, and although, since Newton, France has played the leading rôle in the history of astronomy.

The popularity of amateur astronomy in England certainly needs explanation, for it is a pursuit attended by many disappointments in so capricious a climate, and Englishmen have few opportunities of seeing a really impressive display of stars. Perhaps the Englishman is sufficient of a Northerner to be profoundly attracted by the sheer vastness and the mystery of stellar phenomena. Then the actual telescope and its accessories probably appeal to the English love of mechanism. There are few instruments more delightful in themselves than a properly mounted telescope of moderate aperture. Its adjustment affords a pleasure as refined as that given by operating a small hand printing-press, and superior to that of mending a bicycle. Every telescope has its distinctive “performance,” and one can grow as enthusiastically partisan about makes of telescopes as one can about makes of motor-cars or pianos. Whether or not these be the reasons it is certain that astronomy is the science which most attracts the English amateur. The existence of the British Astronomical Association, an amateur society with some hundreds of members, is sufficient proof of this. It would perhaps be difficult to justify by the results the amount of time and money spent in amateur stargazing, if one estimated results from the severe standpoint of the professional astronomer. But if one adopts a broader outlook and estimates the results in rather more human terms, then there is probably no pursuit which affords more innocent pleasure and provides, in itself, a more liberal education. It is said that the vast photographic telescopes of the present day have rendered the small instrument valueless. Even Mr. Hinks, in his excellent volume _Astronomy_ in the Home University Library, says that the would-be amateur would do well to hesitate before buying a small telescope, and that a measuring machine, to measure photographs taken by big instruments, would be a far better investment. This is the severely professional point of view; it is to mistake the psychology of the amateur observer. The amateur likes to think that he might some day make a discovery, but that is only by the way. His real joy is in doing precisely what the professional cannot do, and that is to enjoy the _spectacle_ of the heavens. The ordinary run of work in a big observatory is not much more exciting than work in an ordinary business office. To sit up half the night measuring photographs would conceivably add to scientific knowledge, and there are doubtless stern men who are willing to do it. These, like computers, are the martyrs of science. The average amateur will continue to prefer his present pleasant, if ineffectual, method of adding to scientific knowledge. It is to be feared that, as one result of the war, this amiable occupation will decline. A little before the war the amateur could purchase a modest but thoroughly good, instrument at a reasonable price. The same instrument to-day would cost at least twice as much, and there would probably be an interval of several months between the order and the delivery. One large firm of optical instrument makers announces that it is not now making astronomical telescopes at all. At the present time, when astronomy is entering on perhaps the most pregnant phase in its history, and when men are more than ever attracted by anything which promises escape from the fret of daily life, this lessening of the opportunities for acquaintance with the most serene of the sciences is a minor calamity. The decline in amateur astronomy will probably have no appreciable reaction on the progress of science, but it will lead to a real, if small decrease in the intellectual pleasures and spiritual wealth of the nation.

SCIENTIFIC CITIZENS

It would be an entertaining pursuit to compile the characteristics of the man of science--usually a Professor--as he is depicted in popular fiction, on the stage, and in the writings of exasperated conservatives in religious and social matters. It would be found that these characteristics combine to give one dominant and entirely untruthful impression: the man of science is represented as being scientific on all occasions. We may ignore the inferior school that portrays him as being constantly obsessed by his work--like Dickens’ learned gentleman who mistook the nature of a dark lantern--and confine our attention to the Professor who is represented, not as imbecile, but merely as homogeneous. This imaginary individual is never to be diverted from his passion for precise statement and strictly logical inference. Whether the subject be politics or the state of the weather, he brings the same preliminary scepticism, the same demands for verification, that he carries into his scientific researches. As we have said, this picture is untruthful; we think, however, that this is an unfortunate fact, and that it is highly desirable that men of science should begin to live up to the story-teller’s conception of them.

We think that, at the present stage of man’s evolution, science is the one activity in which he displays himself as a truly rational creature. The reason is, of course, that success is granted on no other terms; in everything else, philosophy, theology, politics, reason is usually the handmaid to prejudice. The penalties that visit error in these fields are not so swift nor so unambiguous. The ideal of truthfulness is probably more rigorous with the scientist, _qua_ scientist, than with any other kind of man. But it would appear that this dispassionate rationality is hardly won and precariously maintained. Outside his laboratory the scientist may, and usually does, show himself as simple, as kindly, as credulous, as irrational as any other man. On Bolshevism, Disestablishment, the Morality of the Public Parks, his opinions will be indistinguishable from those of any other comfortable member of the lower middle class; that is to say that opinions on all such matters are “distributed” amongst scientific men according to the same statistical rules as they are distributed amongst ordinary citizens. Outside their views on purely scientific matters there is nothing _characteristic_ of men of science. The Royal Society may conceivably issue a unanimous report on some scientific matter; it would issue a unanimous report on nothing else whatever. Now on the assumption that men of science are truly rational beings this is a very strange state of affairs. Dispassionate attempts to sift evidence, to argue correctly and to base judgments solely on the outcome of these processes could hardly result in so remarkable a multiplicity of opinions. We must assume that, for scientific men as a body, their “scientific” methods of thought function only within very narrow limits. As a distinct community they are far less coherent than, for instance, the community of artists--musicians, poets, painters. The community of artists, with the exception of a few prosperous members, exhibits a really remarkable homogeneity in matters outside art. Doubtless this homogeneity is based on feeling--unless we are prepared to admit that artists, as a whole, are more rational than are men of science--and it is probable that the scientist’s difference from his fellow-citizens is more an intellectual than an emotional difference. But it is surprising that greater emotional sensitiveness should prove so much more pervasive and dominating a peculiarity than greater intellectual subtlety.

It is time that men of science assumed a greater position in the general community. If a scientific training has a tithe of the _general_ educational value that is claimed for it, it is time we had some evidence of that fact. Men of science must adopt a higher ideal of personal honour. At present the man who will conduct a laboratory experiment with meticulous precision and describe his results in an agony of honesty will be content to be a prejudiced observer and a slovenly and inaccurate thinker in all other matters. This is the chief reason, we are convinced, why men of science count for so little in public affairs. If the Royal Society elected its own member of Parliament, who would bother about the political opinion so expressed? What greater weight would it have than the political opinion of an equal number of moderately prosperous ordinary citizens? Does not the scientific man waggle his head just as solemnly over his morning newspaper as does any unsophisticated voter?

We plead for the development of a class consciousness on the part of the man of science. We want scientific men to regard their ideal of evidence, their conception of proof, their really admirable scientific detachment, not merely as rules making for success in their particular game, but as principles applicable to every subject that concerns a citizen. Why should a man of science be merely a Liberal or a Conservative in politics? The alternative belongs to the stage of mental development that explained the material universe by saying that its moving principle was fire, or, alternatively, water. We expect a more sober contribution to political questions from, say, a distinguished physicist, than the panacea “Shoot the miners.” All the questions on which scientific men now adopt “sides” as uncritically as any simple dupe of the daily press are amenable to scientific investigation. They can reach a solution only by the application of scientific methods, and the modern world badly needs deliverance from the method of charms and incantations by which these questions are at present treated. How long are these vital matters to remain in the hands of the witch-doctors? With scientific men content to sit in the circle and help beat the tom-toms what hope is there of real advance founded on real knowledge? The artists cannot help us; they are useful indicators of the value of the product, as it were; they look pleased or they look disgusted, and that is very helpful in showing us where we are. It is the scientific man who must show us how to go somewhere else. So we plead for the conscious formation of a community of men of science, for scientific men who are at least as pervasively and constantly scientific as a good Jesuit is Roman Catholic.

THE SCEPTIC AND THE SPIRITS

It is only youth that has the energy to be bothered with everything. There comes a time when one’s mind is “made up” on all sorts of things that were once matters of inquiry; we have profited by experience; we know that some things are not worth investigating. It is one of the marvellous laws of growth that this increase in wisdom should accompany physical decay. As our teeth and hair start to fall out our judgment grows riper. The law of growth is not really as simple as this, for there are many silly old men and there are one or two wise youths. The rich, mellow, balanced period is never reached by some people: Solomon, on the other hand, was noted for his wisdom while still a young man. There is, it must be admitted, something mechanical about old men’s wisdom. Truth is one, of course, so that we should expect a certain unanimity. The answers of the old can usually be predicted. Wisdom can be simulated; all that one lacks is the conviction, the spirit that animates the letter.

Deep conviction is a very impressive quality, especially to youth, which secretly doubts everything. The man of strong convictions is a cause of optimism in others, for life would appear a sad cheat if the payment for sixty years of it did not include one certainty. Youth’s certainties make as much noise, but everybody detects the bluff. A fearful man shouts to hearten himself, as all the world knows. Between the certainties of youth and age there is scepticism, a _fine fleur_ of brief life, an exquisite tempering of the soul, neither too soft nor too hard, an infinite flexibility. It is a state of intense activity; life lived at this pace cannot long endure; the tired spirit relaxes and one finds rest either in credulity or in dogmatism, accident determining which attitude affords the soundest slumber. It is not always easy to detect the true sceptic; that honourable title has often been wrongly bestowed--Voltaire, for instance, was a dogmatist. Sceptics exist in all ages, but they are more clearly revealed at those periods that see the birth of some new inquiry. It is essential to their indubitable manifestation that the inquiry should be attended by the passionate interest of a large number of people. At the present day a very good test inquiry is spiritualism. It is a very much better test than Free Trade and Tariff Reform, for, owing to its comparative remoteness, the true sceptic of that alternative might live and die in obscurity. But spiritualism is a subject on which no one is genuinely indifferent and towards which hardly anyone is genuinely sceptical. Dispassionate inquiry on this, as on all matters where human interests are strongly engaged, is usually a pretence. We need not suppose that the great ones of the Psychical Research Society are less credulous than the majority of believers or less intolerant than their louder opponents; it is merely that, their traditions being scientific, they have better manners.

Psychical literature, as a whole, is as wearisome as theological literature, as incredible but less amusing than the lives of the saints. We lack the quality, be it faith, hope or charity, which would enable us to share these strange excitements. The “exposers,” on the other hand, are too sturdy in their common sense. We hear the mallet fall, but we are not always sure that the eggshell is broken. It is a situation for the sceptic. In the late Lord Rayleigh’s presidential address to the Psychical Research Society we find that the sceptic has at last appeared. It is merely a record of his own experiences, very plain, very simple, and, like the experiences themselves, singularly elusive. Many years ago, in a friend’s rooms at Cambridge, he witnessed an exhibition of the powers of Madame Card, the hypnotist. When she had completed her passes over the closed eyes of those present she asked them to open their eyes. “I and some others experienced no difficulty; and naturally she discarded us and developed her powers over those--about half the sitters--who had failed or found difficulty.” From hypnotism he passed to spiritualism, his interest aroused by Sir William Crookes’ experiences. He induced the medium, Mrs. Jencken, and her husband, to visit his country house as guests. He describes the results as disappointing: