§ 8. Polarization of Heat.

Mounting our two Nicols (B and C, fig. 52) in front of the electric lamp, with their principal sections crossed, no light reaches the screen. Placing our thermo-electric pile (D) behind the prisms, with its face turned towards the source, no deflection of the galvanometer is observed. Interposing between the lamp (A) and the first prism (B) our ray-filter, the light previously transmitted through the first Nicol is quenched; and now the slightest turning of either Nicol opens a way for the transmission of the heat, a very small rotation sufficing to send the needle up to 90°. When the Nicol is turned back to its first position, the needle again sinks to zero, thus demonstrating, in the plainest manner, the polarization of the heat.

Removing the mica and restoring the needle once more to 0°, I introduce between the Nicols a plate of quartz cut perpendicular to the axis; the immediate deflection of the needle declares the transmission of the heat, and when the transmitted beam is properly examined, it is found to be circularly polarized, exactly as a beam of light is polarized under the same conditions.

§ 9. Double Refraction of Heat.

§ 10. Magnetization of Heat.

To render our series of comparisons complete, we must demonstrate the magnetization of heat. But here a slight modification of our arrangement will be necessary. In repeating Faraday's experiment on the magnetization of light, we had, in the first instance, our Nicols crossed and the field rendered dark, a flash of light appearing upon the screen when the magnet was excited. Now the quantity of light transmitted in this case is really very small, its effect being rendered striking through contrast with the preceding darkness. When we so place the Nicols that their principal sections enclose an angle of 45°, the excitement of the magnet causes a far greater positive augmentation of the light, though the augmentation is not so well seen through lack of contrast, because here, at starting, the field is illuminated.

By the refined experiments of Knoblauch, who worked long and successfully at this question, the double refraction of heat, by Iceland spar, was first demonstrated; but, though he employed the luminous heat of the sun, the observed deflections were exceedingly small. So, likewise, those eminent investigators De la Povostaye and Desains succeeded in magnetizing a beam of heat; but though, in their case also, the luminous solar heat was employed, the deflection obtained did not amount to more than two or three degrees. With obscure radiant heat the effect, prior to the experiments now brought before you, had not been obtained; but, with the arrangement here described, we obtain deflections from purely invisible heat, equal to 150 of the lower degrees of the galvanometer.

§ 11. Distribution of Heat in the Electric Spectrum.

We have finally to determine the position and magnitude of the invisible radiation which produces these results. For this purpose we employ a particular form of the thermo-pile. Its face is a rectangle, which by movable side-pieces can be rendered as narrow as desirable. Throwing a small and concentrated spectrum upon a screen, by means of an endless screw we move the rectangular pile through the entire spectrum, and determine in succession the thermal power of all its colours.

Drawing a horizontal line to represent the length of the spectrum, and erecting along it, at various points, perpendiculars proportional in length to the heat existing at those points, we obtain a curve which exhibits the distribution of heat in the prismatic spectrum. It is represented in the adjacent figure. Beginning at the blue, the curve rises, at first very gradually; towards the red it rises more rapidly, the line C D (fig. 54, opposite page) representing the strength of the extreme red radiation. Beyond the red it shoots upwards in a steep and massive peak to B; whence it falls, rapidly for a time, and afterwards gradually fades from the perception of the pile. This figure is the result of more than twelve careful series of measurements, from each of which the curve was constructed. On superposing all these curves, a satisfactory agreement was found to exist between them. So that it may safely be concluded that the areas of the dark and white spaces, respectively, represent the relative energies of the visible and invisible radiation. The one is 7.7 times the other.

What is true of the carbon is true in a still more striking degree of the metals, the most refractory of which can be fused, boiled, and reduced to vapour by the electric current. From the incandescent vapour the light, as a general rule, flashes in groups of rays of definite degrees of refrangibility, spaces existing between group and group, which are unfilled by rays of any kind. But the contemplation of the facts will render this subject more intelligible than words can make it. Within the camera is now placed a cylinder of carbon hollowed out at the top; in the hollow is placed a fragment of the metal thallium. Down upon this we bring the upper carbon-point, and then separate the one from the other. A stream of incandescent thallium-vapour passes between them, the magnified image of which is now seen upon the screen. It is of a beautiful green colour. What is the meaning of that green? We answer the question by subjecting the light to prismatic analysis. Sent through the prism, its spectrum is seen to consist of a single refracted band. Light of one degree of refrangibility—that corresponding to this particular green—is emitted by the thallium-vapour.

If we add to the silver in our camera a bit of thallium, we shall obtain the light of both metals. After waiting a little, we see that the green of the thallium lies midway between the two greens of the silver. Hence this similarity of colour.

But we are not confined to the metals themselves; the salts of these metals yield the bands of the metals. Chemical union is ruptured by a sufficiently high heat; the vapour of the metal is set free, and it yields its characteristic bands. The chlorides of the metals are particularly suitable for experiments of this character. Common salt, for example, is a compound of chlorine and sodium; in the electric lamp it yields the spectrum of the metal sodium. The chlorides of copper, lithium, and strontium yield, in like manner, the bands of these metals.

All this relates to chemical discovery upon earth, where the materials are in our own hands. But it was soon shown how spectrum analysis might be applied to the investigation of the sun and stars; and this result was reached through the solution of a problem which had been long an enigma to natural philosophers. The scope and conquest of this problem we must now endeavour to comprehend. A spectrum is pure in which the colours do not overlap each other. We purify the spectrum by making our beam narrow, and by augmenting the number of our prisms. When a pure spectrum of the sun has been obtained in this way, it is found to be furrowed by innumerable dark lines. Four of them were first seen by Dr. Wollaston, but they were afterwards multiplied and measured by Fraunhofer with such masterly skill, that they are now universally known as Fraunhofer's lines. To give an explanation of these lines was, as I have said, a problem which long challenged the attention of philosophers, and to Professor Kirchhoff belongs the honour of having first conquered this problem.

The brief memoir of two pages, in which this immortal discovery is recorded, was communicated to the Berlin Academy on October 27, 1859. Fraunhofer had remarked in the spectrum of a candle flame two bright lines, which coincide accurately, as to position, with the double dark line D of the solar spectrum. These bright lines are produced with particular intensity by the yellow flame derived from a mixture of salt and alcohol. They are in fact the lines of sodium vapour. Kirchhoff produced a spectrum by permitting the sunlight to enter his telescope by a slit and prism, and in front of the slit he placed the yellow sodium flame. As long as the spectrum remained feeble, there always appeared two bright lines, derived from the flame, in the place of the two dark lines D of the spectrum. In this case, such absorption as the flame exerted upon the sunlight was more than atoned for by the radiation from the flame. When, however, the solar spectrum was rendered sufficiently intense, the bright bands vanished, and the two dark Fraunhofer lines appeared with much greater sharpness and distinctness than when the flame was not employed.

Here then is a result of the utmost significance. Kirchhoff immediately inferred from it that the salt flame, which could intensify so remarkably the dark lines of Fraunhofer, ought also to be able to produce them. The spectrum of the Drummond light is known to exhibit the two bright lines of sodium, which, however, gradually disappear as the modicum of sodium, contained as an impurity in the incandescent lime, is exhausted. Kirchhoff formed a spectrum of the limelight, and after the two bright lines had vanished, he placed his salt flame in front of the slit. The two dark lines immediately started forth. Thus, in the continuous spectrum of the lime-light, he evoked, artificially, the lines D of Fraunhofer.

Kirchhoff knew that this was an action not peculiar to the sodium flame, and he immediately extended his generalisation to all coloured flames which yield sharply defined bright bands in their spectra. White light, with all its constituents complete, sent through such flames, would, he inferred, have those precise constituents absorbed, whose refrangibilities are the same as those of the bright bands; so that after passing through such flames, the white light, if sufficiently intense, would have its spectrum furrowed by bands of darkness. On the occasion here referred to Kirchhoff also succeeded in reversing a bright band of lithium.

All subsequent research verified the accuracy of these first daring conclusions. In his second paper, communicated to the Berlin Academy before the close of 1859, Kirchhoff proved the existence of iron in the sun. The bright lines of the spectrum of iron vapour are exceedingly numerous, and 65 of them were subsequently proved by Kirchhoff to be absolutely identical in position with 65 dark Fraunhofer's lines. Ångström and Thalén pushed the coincidences to 450 for iron, while, according to the same excellent investigators, the following numbers express the coincidences, in the case of the respective metals to which they are attached:—

The probability is overwhelming that all these substances exist in the atmosphere of the sun.

Instead of the image of the sun, Foucault then projected upon the arc the image of one of the solid incandescent carbon points, which of itself would give a continuous spectrum; and he found that the lines D were thus generated in that spectrum. Foucault's conclusion from this admirable experiment was 'that the arc is a medium which emits the rays D on its own account, and at the same time absorbs them when they come from another quarter.' Here he stopped. He did not extend his observations beyond the voltaic arc; he did not offer any explanation of the lines of Fraunhofer; he did not arrive at any conception of solar chemistry, or of the constitution of the sun. His beautiful experiment remained a germ without fruit, until the discernment, ten years subsequently, of the whole class of phenomena to which it belongs, enabled Kirchhoff to solve these great problems.

Soon after the publication of Kirchhoff's discovery, Professor Stokes, who also, ten years prior to the discovery, had nearly anticipated it, borrowed an illustration from sound, to explain the reciprocity of radiation and absorption. A stretched string responds to aërial vibrations which synchronize with its own. A great number of such strings stretched in space would roughly represent a medium; and if the note common to them all were sounded at a distance they would take up or absorb its vibrations.

'But none of these distinguished men betrayed the least knowledge of the connexion between the bright bands of the metals and the dark lines of the solar spectrum; nor could spectrum analysis be said to be placed upon anything like a safe foundation prior to the researches of Bunsen and Kirchhoff. The man who, in a published paper, came nearest to the philosophy of the subject was Ångström. In that paper, translated by myself, and published in the "Philosophical Magazine" for 1855, he indicates that the rays which a body absorbs are precisely those which, when luminous, it can emit. In another place, he speaks of one of his spectra giving the general impression of the reversal of the solar spectrum. But his memoir, philosophical as it is, is distinctly marked by the uncertainty of his time. Foucault, Thomson, and Balfour Stewart have all been near the discovery, while, as already stated, it was almost hit by the acute but unpublished conjecture of Stokes.'

But the prominences may be rendered visible in sunshine; and for a reason easily understood. You have seen in these lectures a single prism employed to produce a spectrum, and you have seen a pair of prisms employed. In the latter case, the dispersed white light, being diffused over about twice the area, had all its colours proportionately diluted. You have also seen one prism and a pair of prisms employed to produce the bands of incandescent vapours; but here the light of each band, being absolutely monochromatic, was incapable of further dispersion by the second prism, and could not therefore be weakened by such dispersion.

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION.

My desire in these lectures has been to show you, with as little breach of continuity as possible, something of the past growth and present aspect of a department of science, in which have laboured some of the greatest intellects the world has ever seen. I have sought to confer upon each experiment a distinct intellectual value, for experiments ought to be the representatives and expositors of thought—a language addressed to the eye as spoken words are to the ear. In association with its context, nothing is more impressive or instructive than a fit experiment; but, apart from its context, it rather suits the conjurer's purpose of surprise, than the purpose of education which ought to be the ruling motive of the scientific man.

The course of investigation, as regards light, was resumed in 1100 by an Arabian philosopher named Alhazen. Then it was taken up in succession by Roger Bacon, Vitellio, and Kepler. These men, though failing to detect the principles which ruled the facts, kept the fire of investigation constantly burning. Then came the fundamental discovery of Snell, that cornerstone of optics, as I have already called it, and immediately afterwards we have the application, by Descartes, of Snell's discovery to the explanation of the rainbow. Following this we have the overthrow, by Roemer, of the notion of Descartes, that light was transmitted instantaneously through space. Then came Newton's crowning experiments on the analysis and synthesis of white light, by which it was proved to be compounded of various kinds of light of different degrees of refrangibility.

But Newton committed a graver error than this. Science, as I sought to make clear to you in our second lecture, is only in part a thing of the senses. The roots of phenomena are embedded in a region beyond the reach of the senses, and less than the root of the matter will never satisfy the scientific mind. We find, accordingly, in this career of optics the greatest minds constantly yearning to break the bounds of the senses, and to trace phenomena to their subsensible foundation. Thus impelled, they entered the region of theory, and here Newton, though drawn from time to time towards truth, was drawn still more strongly towards error; and he made error his substantial choice. His experiments are imperishable, but his theory has passed away. For a century it stood like a dam across the course of discovery; but, as with all barriers that rest upon authority, and not upon truth, the pressure from behind increased, and eventually swept the barrier away.

The wave theory was applied and verified in all directions, Airy being especially conspicuous for the severity and conclusiveness of his proofs. A most remarkable verification fell to the lot of the late Sir William Hamilton, of Dublin, who, taking up the theory where Fresnel had left it, arrived at the conclusion that at four special points of the 'wave-surface' in double-refracting crystals, the ray was divided, not into two parts but into an infinite number of parts; forming at these points a continuous conical envelope instead of two images. No human eye had ever seen this envelope when Sir William Hamilton inferred its existence. He asked Dr. Lloyd to test experimentally the truth of his theoretic conclusion. Lloyd, taking a crystal of arragonite, and following with the most scrupulous exactness the indications of theory, cutting the crystal where theory said it ought to be cut, observing it where theory said it ought to be observed, discovered the luminous envelope which had previously been a mere idea in the mind of the mathematician.

After him came Fresnel, whose transcendent mathematical abilities enabled him to give the theory a generality unattained by Young. He seized it in its entirety; followed the ether into the hearts of crystals of the most complicated structure, and into bodies subjected to strain and pressure. He showed that the facts discovered by Malus, Arago, Brewster, and Biot were so many ganglia, so to speak, of his theoretic organism, deriving from it sustenance and explanation. With a mind too strong for the body with which it was associated, that body became a wreck long before it had become old, and Fresnel died, leaving, however, behind him a name immortal in the annals of science.

I should like to read to you a brief extract from a letter written by Fresnel to Young in 1824, as it throws a pleasant light upon the character of the French philosopher. 'For a long time,' says Fresnel, 'that sensibility, or that vanity, which people call love of glory has been much blunted in me. I labour much less to catch the suffrages of the public, than to obtain that inward approval which has always been the sweetest reward of my efforts. Without doubt, in moments of disgust and discouragement, I have often needed the spur of vanity to excite me to pursue my researches. But all the compliments I have received from Arago, De la Place, and Biot never gave me so much pleasure as the discovery of a theoretic truth or the confirmation of a calculation by experiment.'

Could we have seen these men at work, without any knowledge of the consequences of their work, what should we have thought of them? To the uninitiated, in their day, they might often appear as big children playing with soap-bubbles and other trifles. It is so to this hour. Could you watch the true investigator—your Henry or your Draper, for example—in his laboratory, unless animated by his spirit, you could hardly understand what keeps him there. Many of the objects which rivet his attention might appear to you utterly trivial; and if you were to ask him what is the use of his work, the chances are that you would confound him. He might not be able to express the use of it in intelligible terms. He might not be able to assure you that it will put a dollar into the pocket of any human being present or to come. That scientific discovery may put not only dollars into the pockets of individuals, but millions into the exchequers of nations, the history of science amply proves; but the hope of its doing so never was, and it never can be, the motive power of the investigator.

If you can tolerate freedom of speech on my part, I will answer this question by an illustration. Strip a strong arm, and regard the knotted muscles when the hand is clenched and the arm bent. Is this exhibition of energy the work of the muscle alone? By no means. The muscle is the channel of an influence, without which it would be as powerless as a lump of plastic dough. It is the delicate unseen nerve that unlocks the power of the muscle. And without those filaments of genius, which have been shot like nerves through the body of society by the original discoverer, industrial America, and industrial England, would be very much in the condition of that plastic dough.

At the present time there is a cry in England for technical education, and it is a cry in which the most commonplace intellect can join, its necessity is so obvious. But there is no such cry for original investigation. Still, without this, as surely as the stream dwindles when the spring dies, so surely will 'technical education' lose all force of growth, all power of reproduction. Our great investigators have given us sufficient work for a time; but if their spirit die out, we shall find ourselves eventually in the condition of those Chinese mentioned by De Tocqueville, who, having forgotten the scientific origin of what they did, were at length compelled to copy without variation the inventions of an ancestry wiser than themselves, who had drawn their inspiration direct from Nature.

What has been said of technical operations holds equally good for education, for here also the original investigator constitutes the fountain-head of knowledge. It belongs to the teacher to give this knowledge the requisite form; an honourable and often a difficult task. But it is a task which receives its final sanctification, when the teacher himself honestly tries to add a rill to the great stream of scientific discovery. Indeed, it may be doubted whether the real life of science can be fully felt and communicated by the man who has not himself been taught by direct communion with Nature. We may, it is true, have good and instructive lectures from men of ability, the whole of whose knowledge is second-hand, just as we may have good and instructive sermons from intellectually able and unregenerate men. But for that power of science, which corresponds to what the Puritan fathers would call experimental religion in the heart, you must ascend to the original investigator.

Take the electric telegraph as an example, which has been repeatedly forced upon my attention of late. I am not here to attenuate in the slightest degree the services of those who, in England and America, have given the telegraph a form so wonderfully fitted for public use. They earned a great reward, and they have received it. But I should be untrue to you and to myself if I failed to tell you that, however high in particular respects their claims and qualities may be, your practical men did not discover the electric telegraph. The discovery of the electric telegraph implies the discovery of electricity itself, and the development of its laws and phenomena. Such discoveries are not made by practical men, and they never will be made by them, because their minds are beset by ideas which, though of the highest value from one point of view, are not those which stimulate the original discoverer.

Are we to ignore all this? We do so at our peril. For I say again that, behind all our practical applications, there is a region of intellectual action to which practical men have rarely contributed, but from which they draw all their supplies. Cut them off from this region, and they become eventually helpless. In no case is the adage truer, 'Other men laboured, but ye are entered into their labours,' than in the case of the discoverer and applier of natural truth. But now a word on the other side. While practical men are not the men to make the necessary antecedent discoveries, the cases are rare, though, in our day, not absent, in which the discoverer knows how to turn his labours to practical account. Different qualities of mind and habits of thought are usually needed in the two cases; and while I wish to give emphatic utterance to the claims of those whose position, owing to the simple fact of their intellectual elevation, is often misunderstood, I am not here to exalt the one class of workers at the expense of the other. They are the necessary complements of each other. But remember that one class is sure to be taken care of. All the material rewards of society are already within their reach, while that same society habitually ascribes to them intellectual achievements which were never theirs. This cannot but act to the detriment of those studies out of which, not only our knowledge of nature, but our present industrial arts themselves, have sprung, and from which the rising genius of the country is incessantly tempted away.

When the Pilgrim Fathers landed at Plymouth Rock, and when Penn made his treaty with the Indians, the new-comers had to build their houses, to cultivate the earth, and to take care of their souls. In such a community science, in its more abstract forms, was not to be thought of. And at the present hour, when your hardy Western pioneers stand face to face with stubborn Nature, piercing the mountains and subduing the forest and the prairie, the pursuit of science, for its own sake, is not to be expected. The first need of man is food and shelter; but a vast portion of this continent is already raised far beyond this need. The gentlemen of New York, Brooklyn, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington have already built their houses, and very beautiful they are; they have also secured their dinners, to the excellence of which I can also bear testimony. They have, in fact, reached that precise condition of well-being and independence when a culture, as high as humanity has yet reached, may be justly demanded at their hands. They have reached that maturity, as possessors of wealth and leisure, when the investigator of natural truth, for the truth's own sake, ought to find among them promoters and protectors.

De Tocqueville evidently doubts the capacity of a democracy to foster genius as it was fostered in the ancient aristocracies. 'The future,' he says, 'will prove whether the passion for profound knowledge, so rare and so fruitful, can be born and developed as readily in democratic societies as in aristocracies. For my part,' he continues, 'I can hardly believe it.' He speaks of the unquiet feverishness of democratic communities, not in times of great excitement, for such times may give an extraordinary impetus to ideas, but in times of peace. There is then, he says, 'a small and uncomfortable agitation, a sort of incessant attrition of man against man, which troubles and distracts the mind without imparting to it either loftiness or animation.' It rests with you to prove whether these things are necessarily so—whether scientific genius cannot find, in the midst of you, a tranquil home.

Your most difficult problem will be, not to build institutions, but to discover men. You may erect laboratories and endow them; you may furnish them with all the appliances needed for inquiry; in so doing you are but creating opportunity for the exercise of powers which come from sources entirely beyond your reach. You cannot create genius by bidding for it. In biblical language, it is the gift of God; and the most you could do, were your wealth, and your willingness to apply it, a million-fold what they are, would be to make sure that this glorious plant shall have the freedom, light, and warmth necessary for its development. We see from time to time a noble tree dragged down by parasitic runners. These the gardener can remove, though the vital force of the tree itself may lie beyond him: and so, in many a case you men of wealth can liberate genius from the hampering toils which the struggle for existence often casts around it.