Part 6

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:

I do not mean that very little happened, or that what did happen was always easy to explain. But most of the happenings were trifling, and not such as to preclude the idea of trickery. One’s coat-tails would be pulled, paper cutters, etc., would fly about, knocks would shake our chairs, and so on. I do not count messages, usually of no interest, which were spelt out alphabetically by raps that seemed to come from the neighbourhood of the medium’s feet. Perhaps what struck us most were lights which on one or two occasions floated about. They were real enough, but rather difficult to locate, though I do not think they were ever more than six or eight feet away from us.

Another incident was the gradual tipping over of a rather heavy table at which they had been sitting. “Mrs. Jencken, as well as ourselves [i.e. Lady Rayleigh and himself. The husband was not admitted to these séances] was apparently standing quite clear of it.” He found it very difficult to reproduce the phenomenon himself, using both hands. He endeavoured to “improve” the conditions for some experiments. After being shown some writing, “supposed to be spirit writing,” he arranged paper and pencils inside a large glass retort, which he then hermetically sealed. Nothing then appeared on the paper at these séances. “Possibly this was too much to expect. I may add that on recently inspecting the retort I find that the opportunity has remained neglected for forty-five years.”

And so he has left the matter. The experiences were certainly strange, yes, but in his judgment, not strange enough. On the other hand, he is reluctant to believe they were due to fraud, and he is quite convinced that he was not a victim of hallucinations. If Mrs. Jencken were a clever fraud “her acting was as wonderful as her conjuring.” She practically never made an intelligent remark on any occasion. “Her interests seemed to be limited to the spirits and her baby.” In investigating this subject he finds that the attitude of convinced believers makes a difficulty. They “take no pains over the details of evidence on which everything depends.” Others attribute all these phenomena to the devil and will have nothing to do with them. “I have sometimes pointed out that if during the long hours of séances we could keep the devil occupied in so comparatively harmless a manner we deserved well of our neighbours.”