The ether does not in any way affect our sense of touch (i.e. of force); it does not resist motion in the slightest degree. Not only can our bodies move through it, but much larger bodies, planets and comets, can rush through it at what we are pleased to call a prodigious speed (being far greater than that of an athlete) without showing the least sign of friction. I myself, indeed, have designed and carried out a series of delicate experiments to see whether a whirling mass of iron could to the smallest extent grip the ether and carry it round, with so much as a thousandth part of its own velocity. These shall be described further on, but meanwhile the result arrived at is distinct. The answer is, no; I cannot find a trace of mechanical connection between matter and ether, of the kind known as viscosity or friction.
Why, then, if it is so impalpable, should we assert its existence? May it not be a mere fanciful speculation, to be extruded from physics as soon as possible? If we were limited for our knowledge of matter to our sense of touch, the question would never even have presented itself; we should have been simply ignorant of the ether, as ignorant as we are of any life or mind in the universe not associated with some kind of material body. But our senses have attained a higher stage of development than that. We are conscious of matter by means other than its resisting force. Matter acts on one small portion of our body in a totally different way, and we are said to taste it. Even from a distance it is able to fling off small particles of itself sufficient to affect another delicate sense. Or again, if it is vibrating with an appropriate frequency, another part of our body responds; and the universe is discovered to be not silent but eloquent to those who have ears to hear. Are there any more discoveries to be made? Yes; and already some have been made. All the senses hitherto mentioned speak to us of the presence of ordinary matter,—gross matter, as it is sometimes called,—though when appealing to our sense of smell, and more especially to a dog's sense of smell, it is not very gross; still, with the senses hitherto enumerated we should never have become aware of the ether. A stroke of lightning might have smitten our bodies back into their inorganic constituents, or a torpedo-fish might have inflicted on us a strange kind of torment; but from these violent tutors we should have learnt little more than a schoolboy learns from the once ever-ready cane.
But it so happens that the whole surface of our skin is sensitive in yet another way, and a small portion of it is astoundingly and beautifully sensitive, to an impression of an altogether different character—one not necessarily associated with any form of ordinary matter—one that will occur equally well through space from which all solid, liquid, or gaseous matter has been removed. Hold your hand near a fire, put your face in the sunshine, and what is it you feel? You are now conscious of something not arriving by ordinary matter at all. You are now as directly conscious as you can be of the etherial medium. True the process is not very direct. You cannot apprehend the ether as you can matter, by touching or tasting or even smelling it; but the process is analogous to the kind of perception we might get of ordinary matter if we had the sense of hearing alone. It is something akin to vibrations in the ether that our skin and our eyes feel.
It may be rightly asserted that it is not the etherial disturbances themselves, but other disturbances excited by them in our tissues, that our heat nerves feel; and the same assertion can be made for our more highly-developed and specialised sight nerves. All nerves must feel what is occurring next door to them, and can directly feel nothing else; but the "radiation," the cause which excited these disturbances, travelled through the ether,—not through any otherwise known material substance.
It should be a commonplace to rehearse how we know this. Briefly, thus: Radiation conspicuously comes to us from the sun. If any free or ordinary matter exists in the intervening space, it must be an exceedingly rare gas. In other words, it must consist of scattered particles of matter, some big enough to be called lumps, some so small as to be merely atoms, but each with a considerable gap between it and its neighbour. Such isolated particles are absolutely incompetent to transmit light. And, parenthetically, I may say that no form of ordinary matter, solid, liquid, or gaseous, is competent to transmit a thing travelling with the speed and subject to the known laws of light. For the conveyance of radiation or light all ordinary matter is not only incompetent, but hopelessly and absurdly incompetent. If this radiation is a thing transmitted by anything at all, it must be by something sui generis.
But it is transmitted,—for it takes time on the journey, travelling at a well-known and definite speed; and it is a quivering or periodic disturbance, falling under the general category of wave-motion. Nothing is more certain than that. No physicist disputes it. Newton himself, who is commonly and truly asserted to have promulgated a rival theory, felt the necessity of an etherial medium, and knew that light consisted essentially of waves.
Sight.
A small digression here, to avoid any possible confusion due to the fact that I have purposely associated together temperature nerves and sight nerves. They are admittedly not the same, but they are alike in this, that they both afford evidence of radiation; and, were we blind, we might still know a good deal about the sun, and if our temperature nerves were immensely increased in delicacy (not all over, for that would be merely painful, but in some protected region), we might even learn about the moon, planets, and stars. In fact, an eye, consisting of a pupil (preferably a lens) and a sunken cavity lined with a surface sensitive to heat, could readily be imagined, and might be somewhat singularly effective. It would be more than a light recorder, it could detect all the etherial quiverings caused by surrounding objects, and hence would see perfectly well in what we call "the dark." But it would probably see far too much for convenience, since it would necessarily be affected by every kind of radiation in simple proportion to its energy; unless, indeed, it were provided with a supply of screens with suitably selected absorbing powers. But whatever might be the advantage or disadvantage of such a sense-organ, we as yet do not possess one. Our eye does not act by detecting heat; in other words, it is not affected by the whole range of etherial quiverings, but only by a very minute and apparently insignificant portion. It wholly ignores the ether waves whose frequency is comparable with that of sound; and, for thirty or forty octaves above this, nothing about us responds; but high up, in a range of vibration of the inconceivably high pitch of four to seven hundred million million per second—a range which extremely few accessible bodies are able to emit, and which it requires some knowledge and skill artificially to produce—to those waves the eye is acutely, surpassingly, and most intelligently sensitive.
This little fragment of total radiation is in itself trivial and negligible. Were it not for men, and glow-worms, and a few other forms of life, hardly any of it would ever occur, on such a moderate-sized lump of matter as the earth. Except for an occasional volcano, or a flash of lightning, only gigantic bodies like the sun and stars have energy enough to produce these higher flute-like notes; and they do it by sheer main force and violence—the violence of their gravitative energy—producing not only these, but every other kind of radiation also. Glow-worms, so far as I know, alone have learnt the secret of emitting the physiologically useful waves, and none others.
Why these waves are physiologically useful—why they are what is called "light," while other kinds of radiation are "dark," is a question to be asked, but, at present, only tentatively answered. The answer must ultimately be given by the Physiologist; for the distinction between light and non-light can only be stated in terms of the eye, and its peculiar specialised sensitiveness; but a hint may be given him by the Physicist. The etherial waves which affect the eye and the photographic plate are of a size not wholly incomparable with that of the atoms of matter. When a physical phenomenon is concerned with the ultimate atoms of matter, it is often relegated at present to the field of knowledge summarised under the head of Chemistry. Sight is probably a chemical sense. The retina may contain complex aggregations of atoms, shaken asunder by the incident light vibrations, and rapidly built up again by the living tissues in which they live; the nerve-endings meanwhile appreciating them in their temporarily dissociated condition. A vague speculation! Not to be further countenanced except as a working hypothesis leading to examination of fact; but, nevertheless, the direction in which the thoughts of some physicists are tending—a direction towards which many recently discovered experimental facts point.[2]