Part 7

The method which Galileo devised was as simple as it was natural. Two practised observers, with muffled lanterns, were to take up positions in a dark night at a considerable distance from each other, one at A and one at B. At a moment previously fixed upon, A was instructed to unmask his lantern; while as soon as B saw the light of A's lantern he was to unmask his. Now it is clear that the time which A counted from the uncovering of his lantern until he caught sight of the light of B's would be the time which it would take light to travel from A to B and from B back to A.

The experiment was not executed, nor could it, in the nature of the case, have been a success. As we now know, light travels too rapidly to be thus noted. The time elapsing between the arrival of the light at B and its perception by the observer, with that between the decision to uncover and the uncovering of the lantern, is, as we now know, incomparably greater than the time which it takes light to travel the greatest earthly distances. The great velocity of light will be made apparent, if we reflect that a flash of lightning in the night illuminates instantaneously a very extensive region, whilst the single reflected claps of thunder arrive at the observer's ear very gradually and in appreciable succession.

During his life, then, the efforts of Galileo to determine the velocity of light remained uncrowned with success. But the subsequent history of the measurement of the velocity of light is intimately associated with his name, for with the telescope which he constructed he discovered the four satellites of Jupiter, and these furnished the next occasion for the determination of the velocity of light.

The terrestrial spaces were too small for Galileo's experiment. The measurement was first executed when the spaces of the planetary system were employed. Olaf Römer, (born at Aarhuus in 1644, died at Copenhagen in 1710) accomplished the feat (1675-1676), while watching with Cassini at the observatory of Paris the revolutions of Jupiter's moons.

Let AB (Fig. 14) be Jupiter's orbit. Let S stand for the sun, E for the earth, J for Jupiter, and T for Jupiter's first satellite. When the earth is at E₁ we see the satellite enter regularly into Jupiter's shadow, and by watching the time between two successive eclipses, can calculate its time of revolution. The time which Römer noted was forty-two hours, twenty-eight minutes, and thirty-five seconds. Now, as the earth passes along in its orbit towards E₂, the revolutions of the satellite grow apparently longer and longer: the eclipses take place later and later. The greatest retardation of the eclipse, which occurs when the earth is at E₂, amounts to sixteen minutes and twenty-six seconds. As the earth passes back again to E₁, the revolutions grow apparently shorter, and they occur in exactly the time that they first did when the earth arrives at E₁. It is to be remarked that Jupiter changes only very slightly its position during one revolution of the earth. Römer guessed at once that these periodical changes of the time of revolution of Jupiter's satellite were not actual, but apparent changes, which were in some way connected with the velocity of light.

Let us make this matter clear to ourselves by a simile. We receive regularly by the post, news of the political status at our capital. However far away we may be from the capital, we hear the news of every event, later it is true, but of all equally late. The events reach us in the same succession of time as that in which they took place. But if we are travelling away from the capital, every successive post will have a greater distance to pass over, and the events will reach us more slowly than they took place. The reverse will be the case if we are approaching the capital.

At rest, we hear a piece of music played in the same tempo at all distances. But the tempo will be seemingly accelerated if we are carried rapidly towards the band, or retarded if we are carried rapidly away from it.

Picture to yourself a cross, say the sails of a wind-mill (Fig. 15), in uniform rotation about its centre. Clearly, the rotation of the cross will appear to you more slowly executed if you are carried very rapidly away from it. For the post which in this case conveys to you the light and brings to you the news of the successive positions of the cross will have to travel in each successive instant over a longer path.

Now this must also be the case with the rotation (the revolution) of the satellite of Jupiter. The greatest retardation of the eclipse (16½ minutes), due to the passage of the earth from E₁ to E₂, or to its removal from Jupiter by a distance equal to the diameter of the orbit of the earth, plainly corresponds to the time which it takes light to traverse a distance equal to the diameter of the earth's orbit. The velocity of light, that is, the distance described by light in a second, as determined by this calculation, is 311,000 kilometres, or 193,000 miles. A subsequent correction of the diameter of the earth's orbit, gives, by the same method, the velocity of light as approximately 186,000 miles a second.

The method is exactly that of Galileo; only better conditions are selected. Instead of a short terrestrial distance we have the diameter of the earth's orbit, three hundred and seven million kilometres; in place of the uncovered and covered lanterns we have the satellite of Jupiter, which alternately appears and disappears. Galileo, therefore, although he could not carry out himself the proposed measurement, found the lantern by which it was ultimately executed.

Physicists did not long remain satisfied with this beautiful discovery. They sought after easier methods of measuring the velocity of light, such as might be performed on the earth. This was possible after the difficulties of the problem were clearly exposed. A measurement of the kind referred to was executed in 1849 by Fizeau (born at Paris in 1819).

I shall endeavor to make the principle of Fizeau's apparatus clear to you. Let s (Fig. 16) be a disk free to rotate about its centre, and perforated at its rim with a series of holes. Let l be a luminous point casting its light on an unsilvered glass, a, inclined at an angle of forty-five degrees to the axis of the disk. The ray of light, reflected at this point, passes through one of the holes of the disk and falls at right angles upon a mirror b, erected at a point about five miles distant. From the mirror b the light is again reflected, passes once more through the hole in s, and, penetrating the glass plate, finally strikes the eye, o, of the observer. The eye, o, thus, sees the image of the luminous point l through the glass plate and the hole of the disk in the mirror b.

If, now, the disk be set in rotation, the unpierced spaces between the apertures will alternately take the place of the apertures, and the eye o will now see the image of the luminous point in b only at interrupted intervals. On increasing the rapidity of the rotation, however, the interruptions for the eye become again unnoticeable, and the eye sees the mirror b uniformly illuminated.

But all this holds true only for relatively small velocities of the disk, when the light sent through an aperture in s to b on its return strikes the aperture at almost the same place and passes through it a second time. Conceive, now, the speed of the disk to be so increased that the light on its return finds before it an unpierced space instead of an aperture, it will then no longer be able to reach the eye. We then see the mirror b only when no light is emitted from it, but only when light is sent to it; it is covered when light comes from it. In this case, accordingly, the mirror will always appear dark.

If the velocity of rotation at this point were still further increased, the light sent through one aperture could not, of course, on its return pass through the same aperture but might strike the next and reach the eye by that. Hence, by constantly increasing the velocity of the rotation, the mirror b may be made to appear alternately bright and dark. Plainly, now, if we know the number of apertures of the disk, the number of rotations per second, and the distance sb, we can calculate the velocity of light. The result agrees with that obtained by Römer.

The experiment is not quite as simple as my exposition might lead you to believe. Care must be taken that the light shall travel back and forth over the miles of distance sb and bs undispersed. This difficulty is obviated by means of telescopes.

If we examine Fizeau's apparatus closely, we shall recognise in it an old acquaintance: the arrangement of Galileo's experiment. The luminous point l is the lantern A, while the rotation of the perforated disk performs mechanically the uncovering and covering of the lantern. Instead of the unskilful observer B we have the mirror b, which is unfailingly illuminated the instant the light arrives from s. The disk s, by alternately transmitting and intercepting the reflected light, assists the observer o. Galileo's experiment is here executed, so to speak, countless times in a second, yet the total result admits of actual observation. If I might be pardoned the use of a phrase of Darwin's in this field, I should say that Fizeau's apparatus was the descendant of Galileo's lantern.

A still more refined and delicate method for the measurement of the velocity of light was employed by Foucault, but a description of it here would lead us too far from our subject.

The measurement of the velocity of sound is easily executed by the method of Galileo. It was unnecessary, therefore, for physicists to rack their brains further about the matter; but the idea which with light grew out of necessity was applied also in this field. Koenig of Paris constructs an apparatus for the measurement of the velocity of sound which is closely allied to the method of Fizeau.

The apparatus is very simple. It consists of two electrical clock-works which strike simultaneously, with perfect precision, tenths of seconds. If we place the two clock-works directly side by side, we hear their strokes simultaneously, wherever we stand. But if we take our stand by the side of one of the works and place the other at some distance from us, in general a coincidence of the strokes will now not be heard. The companion strokes of the remote clock-work arrive, as sound, later. The first stroke of the remote work is heard, for example, immediately after the first of the adjacent work, and so on. But by increasing the distance we may produce again a coincidence of the strokes. For example, the first stroke of the remote work coincides with the second of the near work, the second of the remote work with the third of the near work, and so on. If, now, the works strike tenths of seconds and the distance between them is increased until the first coincidence is noted, plainly that distance is travelled over by the sound in a tenth of a second.

We meet frequently the phenomenon here presented, that a thought which centuries of slow and painful endeavor are necessary to produce, when once developed, fairly thrives. It spreads and runs everywhere, even entering minds in which it could never have arisen. It simply cannot be eradicated.

The determination of the velocity of light is not the only case in which the direct perception of the senses is too slow and clumsy for use. The usual method of studying events too fleet for direct observation consists in putting into reciprocal action with them other events already known, the velocities of all of which are capable of comparison. The result is usually unmistakable, and susceptible of direct inference respecting the character of the event which is unknown. The velocity of electricity cannot be determined by direct observation. But it was ascertained by Wheatstone, simply by the expedient of watching an electric spark in a mirror rotating with tremendous known velocity.

If we wave a staff irregularly hither and thither, simple observation cannot determine how quickly it moves at each point of its course. But let us look at the staff through holes in the rim of a rapidly rotating disk (Fig. 17). We shall then see the moving staff only in certain positions, namely, when a hole passes in front of the eye. The single pictures of the staff remain for a time impressed upon the eye; we think we see several staffs, having some such disposition as that represented in Fig. 18. If, now, the holes of the disk are equally far apart, and the disk is rotated with uniform velocity, we see clearly that the staff has moved slowly from a to b, more quickly from b to c, still more quickly from c to d, and with its greatest velocity from d to e.

A jet of water flowing from an orifice in the bottom of a vessel has the appearance of perfect quiet and uniformity, but if we illuminate it for a second, in a dark room, by means of an electric flash we shall see that the jet is composed of separate drops. By their quick descent the images of the drops are obliterated and the jet appears uniform. Let us look at the jet through the rotating disk. The disk is supposed to be rotated so rapidly that while the second aperture passes into the place of the first, drop 1 falls into the place of 2, 2 into the place of 3, and so on. We see drops then always in the same places. The jet appears to be at rest. If we turn the disk a trifle more slowly, then while the second aperture passes into the place of the first, drop 1 will have fallen somewhat lower than 2, 2 somewhat lower than 3, etc. Through every successive aperture we shall see drops in successively lower positions. The jet will appear to be flowing slowly downwards.

Now let us turn the disk more rapidly. Then while the second aperture is passing into the place of the first, drop 1 will not quite have reached the place of 2, but will be found slightly above 2, 2 slightly above 3, etc. Through the successive apertures we shall see the drops at successively higher places. It will now look as if the jet were flowing upwards, as if the drops were rising from the lower vessel into the higher.

You see, physics grows gradually more and more terrible. The physicist will soon have it in his power to play the part of the famous lobster chained to the bottom of the Lake of Mohrin, whose direful mission, if ever liberated, the poet Kopisch humorously describes as that of a reversal of all the events of the world; the rafters of houses become trees again, cows calves, honey flowers, chickens eggs, and the poet's own poem flows back into his inkstand.

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You will now allow me the privilege of a few general remarks. You have seen that the same principle often lies at the basis of large classes of apparatus designed for different purposes. Frequently it is some very unobtrusive idea which is productive of so much fruit and of such extensive transformations in physical technics. It is not otherwise here than in practical life.