MURCHISON AND BABBAGE.
The curious contrast of character presented by these two eminent men, and the very different course of their lives, conveys a striking lesson to all those superficial thinkers and unthinking talkers who make sweeping generalizations concerning human character; who assume as a matter of course that any man who writes poetry must be merely a dreamer of day-dreams, incapable of transacting any practical daily business, and not at all reliable in money matters; whose eyes are always “in a fine frenzy rolling”; that he is, in short, a sort of amiable, harmless lunatic. All actors, according to such people, are dissipated spendthrifts; and if Sims Reeves, or any other public performer, is prevented by delicate larynx or other indisposition from appearing, they look knowing, shrug their shoulders, wink wisely, and assume, without the faintest shadow of evidence, that he is drunk.
In like manner they set up a typical philosopher of their own manufacture, and attribute his imaginary character to all who devote themselves to science. Their philosopher is a musty, dried-up, absent-minded pedant, whose ordinary conversation is conducted in words of seven syllables, who is always lost in profound abstractions; takes no interest in common things; regards music, dancing, play-acting, poetry, and every cheerful pursuit as frivolous and contemptible—a creature who never makes a joke, seldom laughs, and who in matters of business is even more incapable than the poet.
The singular contrast of character presented by Babbage and Murchison affords at once a most complete refutation of such generalizations. Here were two men, both philosophers, one the very type of amiability, suavity, and all conceivable polish, the very perfection of a courtier, but differing from the vulgar courtier of the Court in this respect, that his high-toned courtesy was not bestowed upon kings only, but also upon all his human brethren, and with especial gracefulness upon those whose rank was below his own.
I doubt whether there is any man now living, or has lived during this generation, that could equal Sir Roderick Murchison in the art of distributing showers of compliments upon a large number of different people in succession, and making each recipient delightfully satisfied with himself. In his position as Chairman to the Geological Section of the British Association, he did this with marvelous tact, without the least fulsomeness or repetition, or any display of patronizing. Every man who read a paper before that section was better than ever satisfied with the great merits and vast importance of his communication, after hearing the Chairman’s comments upon it. None but a most detestably strong-minded and logical brute could resist the insinuating flattery of Sir Roderick.
How different was poor Babbage! Who that attends any sort of scientific gatherings has not seen Sir Roderick? but who in the world, excepting the organ-grinders and the police magistrate has ever seen Babbage, or even his portrait? What a contrast between the seclusion and the public existence; between the hedgehog bristles and the velvet softness, of the one and the other!
Those who were on intimate terms with Babbage (I have never met or heard of such a person) could probably tell us that all his irritability and roughness were outside, and that, in the absence of organ-grinders, he was a kind and amiable gentleman; but, even admitting this, the contrast between the two philosophers is as great as could well be found between any two men following the most widely divergent studies or professions.
Those who would reply that mathematics and geology are such different studies have only to go a little further back on the death-roll, and they will find the name of De Morgan, a pure mathematician, like Babbage. He was a man of exuberant fun and humor, and so far from hating music of either a humble or pretentious character, was a highly accomplished musician, both theoretical and practical, and if we are to believe confidential communications, one of his favorite instruments was the penny whistle, on which he was a most original and peculiar performer.
I had not intended to reprint the above, which was written just after the death of Murchison and Babbage, but the comments that have recently followed the death of Darwin induce me to do so.
Many have expressed their surprise at the unanimous expressions of Darwin’s friends concerning the geniality of his disposition, his gentleness, cheerfulness; his genuine humility and simplicity of character.
A third type of character is here presented, and that which corresponds most correctly with the true ideal of a modern philosopher, also represented by that great master of experimental science, Faraday. In both of these there was the full measure of Murchison’s amiability, but without the courtly polish of the ex-soldier. Philosophic meditation and close application to original research may, and often does, induce a certain degree of shyness due to a consciousness of the social disqualification which arises from that inability to fulfil all the demands for small attentions which constitute conventional politeness; a disability due to habits of consecutive thought and mental abstraction.
A sensitive and amiable man would suffer much pain on finding that he had neglected to supply the small wants of the lady sitting next to him at a dinner party, and would withdraw himself from the risk of repeating such unwitting rudeness. This holding back from ordinary society, though really due to a conscientious sense of social duty and tender regard for the feelings of others, is too often referred to a churlish unsociality or arrogant assumption of superiority.
If Newton really did mistake the lady’s finger for a tobacco-stopper, depend upon it the pain he suffered was far more acute than that which he inflicted, and was suffered over and over again whenever the incident was recollected.
ATMOSPHERE versus ETHER.
One of the most remarkable meteors of which we have a reliable record appeared on February 6, 1818. Several accounts of it were published, the fullest being that in The Gentleman’s Magazine of the time. (I may here add, parenthetically, that one reason why I have especial pleasure in writing these notes is that they contribute something towards the restoration of the ancient status of this magazine, which was at one time the only English serial that ventured upon any notable degree of exposition of popular science.)
Upon the data supplied by this account, Mr. Joule has calculated the height of the meteor to have been 61 miles above the surface of the earth, and he states that “this meteor is one of the few that have been seen in the daytime, and is also interesting as having been one of the first whose observation afforded materials for the estimation of its altitude.” It was seen in the neighborhood of Cambridge at 2 P.M., also at Swaffham in Norfolk, and at Middleton Cheney near Banbury. The distance between this and Cambridge is sufficient to afford a measurement of its height, provided its position above the horizon at both places was determined with tolerable accuracy.
According to the orthodox text-books, the atmosphere of this earth terminates at a height of about 45 or 50 miles, or, if not absolutely ended there, it ceases to be of appreciable density anywhere above this elevation.
But here we have a fact which flatly contradicts the calculation. At 61 miles above the earth’s surface there must be atmospheric matter of sufficient density to offer to the passage of this meteor through it an amount of resistance which produced an intense white heat, visible by its luminosity in broad daylight.
In the above-quoted paper, read by Mr. Joule before the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society on December 1, 1863, he refers to subsequent observations and estimates 116 miles as “the elevation at which meteors in general are first observed”—i.e., where our atmosphere is sufficiently dense to generate a white-heat by the resistance it offers to the rapidly flying meteor.
It is curious to observe how, in dealing with actual physical facts, a mathematician of the solid practical character of Joule becomes compelled to practically throw overboard the orthodox theory of limited atmospheric extension. Here, in making his calculations of the resistance of atmospheric matter at this elevation, he bases them on the assumption of a decrease of density at the rate of “one quarter for every seven miles,” and indicates no limit at which this rate shall vary. Very simple arithmetic is sufficient to show that this leads us to the unlimited atmospheric extension, for which I have contended we may go on for ever taking off a quarter at every seven miles, and there will still remain the three quarters of the quantity upon which we last operated, or, more practically stated, we shall thus go on seven after seven until we reach the boundaries of the atmospheric grasp of the gravitation of some other sphere.
Surely the time has arrived for the full reconsideration of this fundamental question of whether the universe is filled with atmospheric matter or is the vacuum of the molecular mathematicians plus the imaginary “ether,” which has been invented by its mathematical creators only to extricate them from the absurd dilemma into which they are plunged when they attempt to explain the transmission of light and heat by undulations traveling through space containing nothing to undulate.
They have filled it with immaterial matter evolved entirely from their own consciousness, which they have gratuitously endowed with whatever properties are required for the fitting of their theories—properties that are self-contradictory and without any counterpart in anything seen or known outside of the fertile imagination of these reckless theorists.
We know of nothing that can penetrate every form of matter without adding either to its weight or its bulk; we know of nothing that can communicate motion to ponderable matter without itself being ponderable—i.e., having the primary property of matter, viz., mass, or weight, and consequent vis viva when moving; we know of nothing that can set bodies in motion without proportionally resisting the motion of bodies through it; and if the waving of the ether is (as Tyndall describes it) “as real and as truly mechanical as the breaking of sea-waves upon the shore,” the material of the breakers must be like the “jelly” to which he compares it, and have some viscosity, or resistance to penetration, or pushing aside.
We have not a shadow of direct evidence of the existence of the “interatomic” spaces occupied by the other, and in the midst of which the atoms are made to theoretically swing, nor even of the existence of the atoms themselves.
The “ether” of to-day, with its imaginary penetration and its material action without material properties, has merely taken the place of the equally imaginary phlogiston, caloric, electric, and magnetic fluids, the “imponderables” of the past. I have little doubt that ere long the modern modification of these physical superstitions will share their fate, and we shall all adopt the simple conception that heat, light, end electricity are, like sound, merely transmissible states or affections of matter itself regarded bodily, as it is seen and felt to exist.
This may possibly throw a good many mathematicians out of work—or into more useful work; but, however that may be, it will certainly aid the general diffusion of science as the intellectual inheritance of every human being. At present the explanations of the simple phenomena of light and heat are incomparably more difficult to understand and to account for than the facts which they attempt to elucidate.