[INTRODUCTION]
THE Universe is limited by the properties of light. Until half a century ago it was strictly true that we depended upon our eyes for all our knowledge of the universe, which extended no further than we could see. Even the invention of the telescope did not disturb this proposition, but it is otherwise with the invention of the photographic plate. It is now conceivable that a blind man, by taking photographs and rendering their records in some way decipherable by his fingers, could investigate the universe; but still it would remain true, that all his knowledge of anything outside the earth would be derived from the use of light and would therefore be limited by its properties. On this little earth there is, indeed, a tiny corner of the universe accessible to other senses: but feeling and taste act only at those minute distances which separate particles of matter when "in contact:" smell ranges over, at the utmost, a mile or two; and the greatest distance which sound is ever known to have travelled (when Krakatoa exploded in 1883) is but a few thousand miles—a mere fraction of the earth's girdle. The scale of phenomena manifested through agencies other than light is so small that we are unlikely to reach any noteworthy precision by their study.
Few people who are not astronomers have spent much thought on the limitations introduced by the news agency to which we are so profoundly indebted. Light comes speedily but has far to travel, and some of the news is thousands of years old before we get it. Hence our universe is not co-existent: the part close around us belongs to the peaceful present, but the nearest star is still in the midst of the late War, for our news of him is three years old; other stars are Elizabethan, others belong to the time of the Pharaohs; and we have alongside our modern civilization yet others of prehistoric date. The electric telegraph has accustomed us to a world in which the news is approximately of even date: but our forefathers must have been better able, from their daily experience of getting news many months old, to realize the unequal age of the universe we know. Nowadays the inequality is almost entirely the concern of the astronomer, and even he often neglects or forgets it. But when fundamental issues are at stake, the time taken by the messenger is an essential part of the discussion, and we must be careful to take account of it, with the utmost precision.
Our knowledge that light had a finite velocity followed on the invention of the telescope and the discovery of Jupiter's satellites: the news of their eclipses came late at times and these times were identified as those when Jupiter was unusually far away from us. But the full consequences of the discovery were not realized at first. One such consequence is that the stars are not seen in their true places, that is in the places which they truly held when the light left them (for what may have happened to them since we do not know at all—they may have gone out or exploded). Our earth is only moving slowly compared with the great haste of light: but still she is moving, and consequently there is "aberration"—a displacement due to the ratio of the two velocities, easy enough to recognize now, but so difficult to apprehend for the first time that Bradley spent two years in worrying over the conundrum presented by his observations before he thought of the solution. It came to him unexpectedly, as often happens in such cases. In his own words—"at last when he despaired of being able to account for the phenomena which he had observed, a satisfactory explanation of them occurred to him all at once when he was not in search of it." He accompanied a pleasure party in a sail upon the river Thames. The boat in which they were was provided with a mast which had a vane at the top of it. It blew a moderate wind, and the party sailed up and down the river for a considerable time. Dr. Bradley remarked that every time the boat put about, the vane at the top of the boat's mast shifted a little, as if there had been a slight change in the direction of the wind. The sailors told him that this was due to the change in the boat, not the wind: and at once the solution of his problem was suggested. The earth running hither and thither round the sun resembles the boat sailing up and down the river: and the apparent changes of wind correspond to the apparent changes in direction of the light of a star. But now comes a point of detail—does the vane itself affect the wind just round it? And, similarly, does the earth itself by its movement affect the ether just round it, or the apparent direction of the light waves? This question suggested the famous Michelson and Morley experiment (Phil. Mag., Dec. 1887). It is curious to think that in the little corner of the universe represented by the space available in a laboratory an experiment should be possible which alters our whole conceptions of what happens in the profoundest depths of space known to us, but so it is. The laboratory experiment of Michelson and Morley was the first step in the great advance recently made. It discredited the existence of the virtual stream of ether which is the natural antithesis to the earth's actual motion. It was, indeed, open to question whether restrictions of a laboratory might not be responsible for the result: for the ether stream might exist, but the laboratory in which it was hoped to detect it might be in a sheltered eddy. When bodies move through the air, they encounter an apparent stream of opposing air, as all motorists know: but by using a glass screen shelter from the stream can be found. And even without such special screening, there may be shelter. When a pendulum is set swinging in ordinary air, it is found from experiments on clocks that it carries a certain amount of air along with it in its movement, although the portion carried probably clings closely to the surface of the pendulum. A very small insect placed in the region might be unable to detect the streaming of the air further out. In a similar way it seemed possible that as the earth moved through the ether such tiny insects as the physicists in their laboratories might be in a part of the ether carried along with the earth, in which they could not detect the streaming outside. But another laboratory experiment, this time by Sir Oliver Lodge, discredited this explanation, and it was then suggested as an alternative that distances were automatically altered by movement.
It may be well to explain briefly the significance of this alternative. The Michelson-Morley experiment depended on the difference between travelling up and down stream, and across it. To use a few figures may be the quickest way of making the point clear. Suppose a very wide, perfectly smooth stream running at 3 miles an hour, and that oarsmen are to start from a fixed point
in midstream, row out in any direction to a distance of 4 miles from
, and back again to the starting-point