POPULAR SCIENTIFIC LECTURES.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

THE SCIENCE OF MECHANICS. Translated from the Second German Edition by T. J. McCormack.
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[Pg iii]

POPULAR
SCIENTIFIC LECTURES

BY
ERNST MACH
FORMERLY PROFESSOR OF PHYSICS IN THE UNIVERSITY OF PRAGUE, NOW PROFESSOR OF THE
HISTORY AND THEORY OF INDUCTIVE SCIENCE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF VIENNA
TRANSLATED
BY
THOMAS J. McCORMACK
THIRD EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED

WITH FIFTY-NINE CUTS AND DIAGRAMS

CHICAGO
THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING COMPANY

FOR SALE BY
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUEBNER & CO., LONDON
1898
[Pg iv]

COPYRIGHT
BY THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING CO.

[Pg v]

AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

Popular lectures, owing to the knowledge they presuppose, and the time they occupy, can afford only a
modicum of instruction. They must select for this purpose easy subjects, and restrict themselves to the
exposition of the simplest and the most essential points. Nevertheless, by an appropriate choice of the
matter, the charm and the poetry of research can be conveyed by them. It is only necessary to set forth
the attractive and the alluring features of a problem, and to show what broad domains of fact can be
illuminated by the light radiating from the solution of a single and ofttimes unobtrusive point.
Furthermore, such lectures can exercise a favorable influence by showing the substantial sameness of
scientific and every-day thought. The public, in this way, loses its shyness towards scientific questions,
and acquires an interest in scientific work which is a great help to the inquirer. The latter, in his turn, is
brought to understand that his work is a small part only of the universal process of life, and that the
results of his labors must redound to the benefit not only of himself and a few of his associates, but to
that of the collective whole.
I sincerely hope that these lectures, in the present excellent translation, will be productive of good in the
direction indicated.
E. MACH.
PRAGUE, December, 1894.

[Pg vii]
[Pg vi]

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION.

The present third edition of this work has been enlarged by the addition of a new lecture, "On Some
Phenomena Attending the Flight of Projectiles." The additions to the second consisted of the following
four lectures and articles: Professor Mach's Vienna Inaugural Lecture, "The Part Played by Accident in
Invention and Discovery," the lecture on "Sensations of Orientation," recently delivered and summing up
the results of an important psychological investigation, and two historical articles (see Appendix) on
Acoustics and Sight.
The lectures extend over a long period, from 1864 to 1898, and differ greatly in style, contents, and
purpose. They were first published in collected form in English; afterwards two German editions were
called for.
As the dates of the first five lectures are not given in the footnotes they are here appended. The first
lecture, "On the Forms of Liquids," was delivered in 1868 and published with that "On Symmetry" in 1872
(Prague). The second and third lectures, on acoustics, were first published in 1865 (Graz); the fourth and
fifth, on optics, in 1867 (Graz). They belong to the earliest period of Professor Mach's scientific activity,
and with the lectures on electrostatics and education will more than realise the hope expressed in the
author's Preface.
The eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth lectures are of
[Pg viii]
a more philosophical character and deal principally with the methods and nature of scientific inquiry. In
the ideas summarised in them will be found one of the most important contributions to the theory of
knowledge made in the last quarter of a century. Significant hints in psychological method, and
exemplary specimen-researches in psychology and physics, are also presented; while in physics many
ideas find their first discussion that afterwards, under other names and other authorship, became
rallying-cries in this department of inquiry.
All the proofs of this translation have been read by Professor Mach himself.
T. J. MCCORMACK.
LA SALLE, ILL., May, 1898.

[Pg ix]
 THE FORMS OF LIQUIDS.
What thinkest thou, dear Euthyphron, that the holy is, and the just, and the good? Is the holy holy
because the gods love it, or are the gods holy because they love the holy? By such easy questions did
the wise Socrates make the market-place of Athens unsafe and relieve presumptuous young statesmen
of the burden of imaginary knowledge, by showing them how confused, unclear, and self-contradictory
their ideas were.
You know the fate of the importunate questioner. So called good society avoided him on the promenade.
Only the ignorant accompanied him. And finally he drank the cup of hemlock—a lot which we ofttimes
wish would fall to modern critics of his stamp.
What we have learned from Socrates, however,—our inheritance from him,—is scientific criticism. Every
one who busies himself with science recognises how unsettled and indefinite the notions are which he
has brought with him from common life, and how, on a minute examination of things, old differences are
[Pg 2]
effaced and new ones introduced. The history of science is full of examples of this constant change,
development, and clarification of ideas.
But we will not linger by this general consideration of the fluctuating character of ideas, which becomes
a source of real uncomfortableness, when we reflect that it applies to almost every notion of life. Rather
shall we observe by the study of a physical example how much a thing changes when it is closely
examined, and how it assumes, when thus considered, increasing definiteness of form.
The majority of you think, perhaps, you know quite well the distinction between a liquid and a solid. And
precisely persons who have never busied themselves with physics will consider this question one of the
easiest that can be put. But the physicist knows that it is one of the most difficult. I shall mention here
only the experiments of Tresca, which show that solids subjected to high pressures behave exactly as
liquids do; for example, may be made to flow out in the form of jets from orifices in the bottoms of
vessels. The supposed difference of kind between liquids and solids is thus shown to be a mere
difference of degree.
The common inference that because the earth is oblate in form, it was originally fluid, is an error, in the
light of these facts. True, a rotating sphere, a few inches in diameter will assume an oblate form only if it
is very soft, for example, is composed of freshly kneaded clay or some viscous stuff. But the earth,
[Pg 3]
even if it consisted of the rigidest stone, could not help being crushed by its tremendous weight, and
must perforce behave as a fluid. Even our mountains could not extend beyond a certain height without
crumbling. The earth may once have been fluid, but this by no means follows from its oblateness.
The particles of a liquid are displaced on the application of the slightest pressure; a liquid conforms
exactly to the shapes of the vessels in which it is contained; it possesses no form of its own, as you have
all learned in the schools. Accommodating itself in the most trifling respects to the conditions of the
vessel in which it is placed, and showing, even on its surface, where one would suppose it had the freest
play, nothing but a polished, smiling, expressionless countenance, it is the courtier par excellence of the
natural bodies.
Liquids have no form of their own! No, not for the superficial observer. But persons who have observed
that a raindrop is round and never angular, will not be disposed to accept this dogma so unconditionally.
It is fair to suppose that every man, even the weakest, would possess a character, if it were not too
difficult in this world to keep it. So, too, we must suppose that liquids would possess forms of their own,
if the pressure of the circumstances permitted it,—if they were not crushed by their own weights.
An astronomer once calculated that human beings could not exist on the sun, apart from its great heat,
because they would be crushed to pieces there by their
[Pg 4]
own weight. The greater mass of this body would also make the weight of the human body there much
greater. But on the moon, because here we should be much lighter, we could jump as high as the
church-steeples without any difficulty, with the same muscular power which we now possess. Statues
and "plaster" casts of syrup are undoubtedly things of fancy, even on the moon, but maple-syrup would
flow so slowly there that we could easily build a maple-syrup man on the moon, for the fun of the thing,
just as our children here build snow-men.
Accordingly, if liquids have no form of their own with us on earth, they have, perhaps, a form of their own
on the moon, or on some smaller and lighter heavenly body. The problem, then, simply is to get rid of the
effects of gravity; and, this done, we shall be able to find out what the peculiar forms of liquids are.
The problem was solved by Plateau of Ghent, whose method was to immerse the liquid in another of the
same specific gravity.[1] He employed for his experiments oil and a mixture of alcohol and water. By
Archimedes's well-known principle, the oil in this mixture loses its entire weight. It no longer sinks
beneath its weight; its formative forces, be they ever so weak, are now in full play.
As a fact, we now see, to our surprise, that the oil, instead of spreading out into a layer, or lying in a
[Pg 5]
formless mass, assumes the shape of a beautiful and perfect sphere, freely suspended in the mixture, as
the moon is in space. We can construct in this way a sphere of oil several inches in diameter.
If, now, we affix a thin plate to a wire and insert the plate in the oil sphere, we can, by twisting the wire
between our fingers, set the whole ball in rotation. Doing this, the ball assumes an oblate shape, and we
can, if we are skilful enough, separate by such rotation a ring from the ball, like that which surrounds
Saturn. This ring is finally rent asunder, and, breaking up into a number of smaller balls, exhibits to us a
kind of model of the origin of the planetary system according to the hypothesis of Kant and Laplace.

Fig. 1.

Still more curious are the phenomena exhibited when the formative forces of the liquid are partly
disturbed by putting in contact with the liquid's surface some rigid body. If we immerse, for example, the
wire framework of a cube in our mass of oil, the oil will everywhere stick to the wire framework. If the
quantity of oil is exactly sufficient we shall obtain an oil cube with perfectly smooth walls. If there is too
much or too little oil, the walls of the cube will bulge out or cave in. In this manner we
[Pg 6]
can produce all kinds of geometrical figures of oil, for example, a three-sided pyramid, a cylinder (by
bringing the oil between two wire rings), and so on. Interesting is the change of form that occurs when
we gradually suck out the oil by means of a glass tube from the cube or pyramid. The wire holds the oil
fast. The figure grows smaller and smaller, until it is at last quite thin. Ultimately it consists simply of a
number of thin, smooth plates of oil, which extend from the edges of the cube to the centre, where they
meet in a small drop. The same is true of the pyramid.

Fig. 2.
The idea now suggests itself that liquid figures as thin as this, and possessing, therefore, so slight a
weight, cannot be crushed or deformed by their weight; just as a small, soft ball of clay is not affected in
this respect by its weight. This being the case, we no longer need our mixture of alcohol and water for
the production of figures, but can construct them in the
[Pg 7]
open air. And Plateau, in fact, found that these thin figures, or at least very similar ones, could be
produced in the air, by dipping the wire nets described in a solution of soap and water and quickly
drawing them out again. The experiment is not difficult. The figure is formed of itself. The preceding
drawing represents to the eye the forms obtained with cubical and pyramidal nets. In the cube, thin,
smooth films of soap-suds proceed from the edges to a small, quadratic film in the centre. In the
pyramid, a film proceeds from each edge to the centre.
These figures are so beautiful that they hardly admit of appropriate description. Their great regularity and
geometrical exactness evokes surprise from all who see them for the first time. Unfortunately, they are of
only short duration. They burst, on the drying of the solution in the air, but only after exhibiting to us the
most brilliant play of colors, such as is often seen in soap-bubbles. Partly their beauty of form and partly
our desire to examine them more minutely induces us to conceive of methods of endowing them with
permanent form. This is very simply done.[2] Instead of dipping the wire nets in solutions of soap, we dip
them in pure melted colophonium (resin). When drawn out the figure at once forms and solidifies by
contact with the air.
It is to be remarked that also solid fluid-figures can
[Pg 8]
be constructed in the open air, if their weight be light enough, or the wire nets of very small dimensions.
If we make, for example, of very fine wire a cubical net whose sides measure about one-eighth of an inch
in length, we need simply to dip this net in water to obtain a small solid cube of water. With a piece of
blotting paper the superfluous water may be easily removed and the sides of the cube made smooth.
Yet another simple method may be devised for observing these figures. A drop of water on a greased
glass plate will not run if it is small enough, but will be flattened by its weight, which presses it against
its support. The smaller the drop the less the flattening. The smaller the drop the nearer it approaches
the form of a sphere. On the other hand, a drop suspended from a stick is elongated by its weight. The
undermost parts of a drop of water on a support are pressed against the support, and the upper parts are
pressed against the lower parts because the latter cannot yield. But when a drop falls freely downward all
its parts move equally fast; no part is impeded by another; no part presses against another. A freely
falling drop, accordingly, is not affected by its weight; it acts as if it were weightless; it assumes a
spherical form.
A moment's glance at the soap-film figures produced by our various wire models, reveals to us a great
multiplicity of form. But great as this multiplicity is,
[Pg 9]
the common features of the figures also are easily discernible.

"All forms of Nature are allied, though none is the same as the
other;

Thus, their common chorus points to a hidden law."

This hidden law Plateau discovered. It may be expressed, somewhat prosily, as follows:
1) If several plane liquid films meet in a figure they are always three in number, and, taken in pairs, form,
each with another, nearly equal angles.
2) If several liquid edges meet in a figure they are always four in number, and, taken in pairs, form, each
with another, nearly equal angles.
This is a strange law, and its reason is not evident. But we might apply this criticism to almost all laws. It
is not always that the motives of a law-maker are discernible in the form of the law he constructs. But our
law admits of analysis into very simple elements or reasons. If we closely examine the paragraphs which
state it, we shall find that their meaning is simply this, that the surface of the liquid assumes the shape of
smallest area that is possible under the circumstances.
If, therefore, some extraordinarily intelligent tailor, possessing a knowledge of all the artifices of the
higher mathematics, should set himself the task of so covering the wire frame of a cube with cloth that
every piece of cloth should be connected with the wire and joined with the remaining cloth, and should
seek to accomplish this feat with the greatest saving of material, he
[Pg 10]
would construct no other figure than that which is here formed on the wire frame in our solution of soap
and water. Nature acts in the construction of liquid figures on the principle of a covetous tailor, and gives
no thought in her work to the fashions. But, strange to say, in this work, the most beautiful fashions are
of themselves produced.
The two paragraphs which state our law apply primarily only to soap-film figures, and are not applicable,
of course, to solid oil-figures. But the principle that the superficial area of the liquid shall be the least
possible under the circumstances, is applicable to all fluid figures. He who understands not only the
letter but also the reason of the law will not be at a loss when confronted with cases to which the letter
does not accurately apply. And this is the case with the principle of least superficial area. It is a sure
guide for us even in cases in which the above-stated paragraphs are not applicable.
Our first task will now be, to show by a palpable illustration the mode of formation of liquid figures by the
principle of least superficial area. The oil on the wire pyramid in our mixture of alcohol and water, being
unable to leave the wire edges, clings to them, and the given mass of oil strives so to shape itself that its
surface shall have the least possible area. Suppose we attempt to imitate this phenomenon. We take a
wire pyramid, draw over it a stout film of rubber, and in place of the wire handle insert a small tube
leading
[Pg 11]
into the interior of the space enclosed by the rubber (Fig. 3). Through this tube we can blow in or suck
out air. The quantity of air in the enclosure represents the quantity of oil. The stretched rubber film,
which, clinging to the wire edges, does its utmost to contract, represents the surface of the oil
endeavoring to decrease its area. By blowing in, and drawing out the air, now, we actually obtain all the
oil pyramidal figures, from those bulged out to those hollowed in. Finally, when all the air is pumped or
sucked out, the soap-film figure is exhibited. The rubber films strike together, assume the form of planes,
and meet at four sharp edges in the centre of the pyramid.

Fig. 3.

Fig. 4.

The tendency of soap-films to assume smaller forms may be directly demonstrated by a method of Van
der Mensbrugghe. If we dip a square wire frame to which
[Pg 12]
a handle is attached into a solution of soap and water, we shall obtain on the frame a beautiful, plane
film of soap-suds. (Fig. 4.) On this we lay a thread having its two ends tied together. If, now, we puncture
the part enclosed by the thread, we shall obtain a soap-film having a circular hole in it, whose
circumference is the thread. The remainder of the film decreasing in area as much as it can, the hole
assumes the largest area that it can. But the figure of largest area, with a given periphery, is the circle.

Fig. 5.
Similarly, by the principle of least superficial area, a freely suspended mass of oil assumes the shape of a
sphere. The sphere is the form of least surface for a given content. This is evident. The more we put into
a travelling-bag, the nearer its shape approaches the spherical form.
The connexion of the two above-mentioned paragraphs with the principle of least superficial area may be
shown by a yet simpler example. Picture to yourselves four fixed pulleys, a, b, c, d, and two movable
[Pg 13]
rings f, g (Fig. 5); about the pulleys and through the rings imagine a smooth cord passed, fastened at
one extremity to a nail e, and loaded at the other with a weight h. Now this weight always tends to sink,
or, what is the same thing, always tends to make the portion of the string e h as long as possible, and
consequently the remainder of the string, wound round the pulleys, as short as possible. The strings
must remain connected with the pulleys, and on account of the rings also with each other. The
conditions of the case, accordingly, are similar to those of the liquid figures discussed. The result also is
a similar one. When, as in the right hand figure of the cut, four pairs of strings meet, a different
configuration must be established. The consequence of the endeavor of the string to shorten itself is that
the rings separate from each other, and that now at all points only three pairs of strings meet, every two
at equal angles of one hundred and twenty degrees. As a fact, by this arrangement the greatest possible
shortening of the string is attained; as can be easily proved by geometry.
This will help us to some extent to understand the creation of beautiful and complicated figures by the
simple tendency of liquids to assume surfaces of least superficial area. But the question arises, Why do
liquids seek surfaces of least superficial area?
The particles of a liquid cling together. Drops brought into contact coalesce. We can say, liquid particles
attract each other. If so, they seek to come
[Pg 14]
as close as they can to each other. The particles at the surface will endeavor to penetrate as far as they
can into the interior. This process will not stop, cannot stop, until the surface has become as small as
under the circumstances it possibly can become, until as few particles as possible remain at the surface,
until as many particles as possible have penetrated into the interior, until the forces of attraction have no
more work to perform.[3]
The root of the principle of least surface is to be sought, accordingly, in another and much simpler
principle, which may be illustrated by some such analogy as this. We can conceive of the natural forces
of attraction and repulsion as purposes or intentions of nature. As a matter of fact, that interior pressure
which we feel before an act and which we call an intention or purpose, is not, in a final analysis, so
essentially different from the pressure of a stone on its support, or the pressure of a magnet on another,
that it is necessarily unallowable to use for both the same term—at least for well-defined purposes.[4] It is
the purpose of nature, accordingly, to bring the iron nearer the magnet, the stone nearer the centre of the
earth, and so forth. If such a purpose can be realised, it is carried out. But where she cannot realise her
purposes, nature does nothing. In this respect she acts exactly as a good man of business does.
[Pg 15]
It is a constant purpose of nature to bring weights lower. We can raise a weight by causing another,
larger weight to sink; that is, by satisfying another, more powerful, purpose of nature. If we fancy we are
making nature serve our purposes in this, it will be found, upon closer examination, that the contrary is
true, and that nature has employed us to attain her purposes.
Equilibrium, rest, exists only, but then always, when nature is brought to a halt in her purposes, when the
forces of nature are as fully satisfied as, under the circumstances, they can be. Thus, for example, heavy
bodies are in equilibrium, when their so-called centre of gravity lies as low as it possibly can, or when as
much weight as the circumstances admit of has sunk as low as it can.
The idea forcibly suggests itself that perhaps this principle also holds good in other realms. Equilibrium
exists also in the state when the purposes of the parties are as fully satisfied as for the time being they
can be, or, as we may say, jestingly, in the language of physics, when the social potential is a maximum.[5]
You see, our miserly mercantile principle is replete with consequences.[6] The result of sober research, it
has become as fruitful for physics as the dry questions of Socrates for science generally. If the principle
seems to lack in ideality, the more ideal are the fruits which it bears.
[Pg 16]
But why, tell me, should science be ashamed of such a principle? Is science[7] itself anything more
than—a business? Is not its task to acquire with the least possible work, in the least possible time, with
the least possible thought, the greatest possible part of eternal truth?
[Pg 17]

THE FIBRES OF CORTI.

Whoever has roamed through a beautiful country knows that the tourist's delights increase with his
progress. How pretty that wooded dell must look from yonder hill! Whither does that clear brook flow,
that hides itself in yonder sedge? If I only knew how the landscape looked behind that mountain! Thus
even the child thinks in his first rambles. It is also true of the natural philosopher.
The first questions are forced upon the attention of the inquirer by practical considerations; the
subsequent ones are not. An irresistible attraction draws him to these; a nobler interest which far
transcends the mere needs of life. Let us look at a special case.
For a long time the structure of the organ of hearing has actively engaged the attention of anatomists. A
considerable number of brilliant discoveries has been brought to light by their labors, and a splendid
array of facts and truths established. But with these facts a host of new enigmas has been presented.
Whilst in the theory of the organisation and functions
[Pg 18]
of the eye comparative clearness has been attained; whilst, hand in hand with this, ophthalmology has
reached a degree of perfection which the preceding century could hardly have dreamed of, and by the
help of the ophthalmoscope the observing physician penetrates into the profoundest recesses of the
eye, the theory of the ear is still much shrouded in mysterious darkness, full of attraction for the
investigator.
Look at this model of the ear. Even at that familiar part by whose extent we measure the quantity of
people's intelligence, even at the external ear, the problems begin. You see here a succession of helixes
or spiral windings, at times very pretty, whose significance we cannot accurately state, yet for which
there must certainly be some reason.

Fig. 6.

The shell or concha of the ear, a in the annexed diagram, conducts the sound into the curved auditory
passage b, which is terminated by a thin membrane, the so-called tympanic membrane, e. This
membrane is set in motion by the sound, and in its turn sets in motion a series of little bones of very
peculiar formation, c. At the end of all is the labyrinth d. The labyrinth consists of a group of cavities
filled with a liquid, in which the innumerable fibres of the nerve of hearing are imbedded. By the vibration
of the chain of bones c, the liquid of the labyrinth is shaken, and the auditory nerve excited. Here the
process of hearing
[Pg 19]
begins. So much is certain. But the details of the process are one and all unanswered questions.
To these old puzzles, the Marchese Corti, as late as 1851, added a new enigma. And, strange to say, it is
this last enigma, which, perhaps, has first received its correct solution. This will be the subject of our
remarks to-day.
Corti found in the cochlea, or snail-shell of the labyrinth, a large number of microscopic fibres placed
side by side in geometrically graduated order. According to Kölliker their number is three thousand. They
were also the subject of investigation at the hands of Max Schultze and Deiters.
A description of the details of this organ would only weary you, besides not rendering the matter much
clearer. I prefer, therefore, to state briefly what in the opinion of prominent investigators like Helmholtz
and Fechner is the peculiar function of Corti's fibres. The cochlea, it seems, contains a large number of
elastic fibres of graduated lengths (Fig. 7), to which the branches of the auditory nerve are attached.
These fibres, called the fibres, pillars, or rods of Corti, being of unequal length, must also be of unequal
elasticity, and, consequently, pitched to different notes. The cochlea, therefore, is a species of pianoforte.

Fig. 7.

What, now, may be the office of this structure, which is found in no other organ of sense? May it
[Pg 20]
not be connected with some special property of the ear? It is quite probable; for the ear possesses a
very similar power. You know that it is possible to follow the individual voices of a symphony. Indeed, the
feat is possible even in a fugue of Bach, where it is certainly no inconsiderable achievement. The ear can
pick out the single constituent tonal parts, not only of a harmony, but of the wildest clash of music
imaginable. The musical ear analyses every agglomeration of tones.
The eye does not possess this ability. Who, for example, could tell from the mere sight of white, without a
previous experimental knowledge of the fact, that white is composed of a mixture of other colors? Could
it be, now, that these two facts, the property of the ear just mentioned, and the structure discovered by
Corti, are really connected? It is very probable. The enigma is solved if we assume that every note of
definite pitch has its special string in this pianoforte of Corti, and, therefore, its special branch of the
auditory nerve attached to that string. But before I can make this point perfectly plain to you, I must ask
you to follow me a few steps into the dry domain of physics.
Look at this pendulum. Forced from its position of equilibrium by an impulse, it begins to swing with a
definite time of oscillation, dependent upon its length. Longer pendulums swing more slowly, shorter
ones more quickly. We will suppose our pendulum to execute one to-and-fro movement in a second.
[Pg 21]
This pendulum, now, can be thrown into violent vibration in two ways; either by a single heavy impulse,
or by a number of properly communicated slight impulses. For example, we impart to the pendulum,
while at rest in its position of equilibrium, a very slight impulse. It will execute a very small vibration. As
it passes a third time its position of equilibrium, a second having elapsed, we impart to it again a slight
shock, in the same direction with the first. Again after the lapse of a second, on its fifth passage through
the position of equilibrium, we strike it again in the same manner; and so continue. You see, by this
process the shocks imparted augment continually the motion of the pendulum. After each slight impulse,
the pendulum reaches out a little further in its swing, and finally acquires a considerable motion.[8]
But this is not the case under all circumstances. It is possible only when the impulses imparted
synchronise with the swings of the pendulum. If we should communicate the second impulse at the end
of half a second and in the same direction with the first impulse, its effects would counteract the motion
of the pendulum. It is easily seen that our little impulses help the motion of the pendulum more and
more, according as their time accords with the time of the pendulum. If we strike the pendulum in any
other time than in that of its vibration, in some instances, it is true, we shall augment its vibration, but in
others
[Pg 22]
again, we shall obstruct it. Our impulses will be less effective the more the motion of our own hand
departs from the motion of the pendulum.
What is true of the pendulum holds true of every vibrating body. A tuning-fork when it sounds, also
vibrates. It vibrates more rapidly when its sound is higher; more slowly when it is deeper. The standard A
of our musical scale is produced by about four hundred and fifty vibrations in a second.
I place by the side of each other on this table two tuning-forks, exactly alike, resting on resonant cases. I
strike the first one a sharp blow, so that it emits a loud note, and immediately grasp it again with my hand
to quench its note. Nevertheless, you still hear the note distinctly sounded, and by feeling it you may
convince yourselves that the other fork which was not struck now vibrates.
I now attach a small bit of wax to one of the forks. It is thrown thus out of tune; its note is made a little
deeper. I now repeat the same experiment with the two forks, now of unequal pitch, by striking one of
them and again grasping it with my hand; but in the present case the note ceases the very instant I touch
the fork.
What has happened here in these two experiments? Simply this. The vibrating fork imparts to the air and
to the table four hundred and fifty shocks a second, which are carried over to the other fork. If the other
fork is pitched to the same note, that is to say, if it
[Pg 23]
vibrates when struck in the same time with the first, then the shocks first emitted, no matter how slight
they may be, are sufficient to throw the second fork into rapid sympathetic vibration. But when the time
of vibration of the two forks is slightly different, this does not take place. We may strike as many forks as
we will, the fork tuned to A is perfectly indifferent to their notes; is deaf, in fact, to all except its own; and
if you strike three, or four, or five, or any number whatsoever, of forks all at the same time, so as to make
the shocks which come from them ever so great, the A fork will not join in with their vibrations unless
another fork A is found in the collection struck. It picks out, in other words, from all the notes sounded,
that which accords with it.
The same is true of all bodies which can yield notes. Tumblers resound when a piano is played, on the
striking of certain notes, and so do window panes. Nor is the phenomenon without analogy in other
provinces. Take a dog that answers to the name "Nero." He lies under your table. You speak of Domitian,
Vespasian, and Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, you call upon all the names of the Roman Emperors that
occur to you, but the dog does not stir, although a slight tremor of his ear tells you of a faint response of
his consciousness. But the moment you call "Nero" he jumps joyfully towards you. The tuning-fork is
like your dog. It answers to the name A.
You smile, ladies. You shake your heads. The
[Pg 24]
simile does not catch your fancy. But I have another, which is very near to you: and for punishment you
shall hear it. You, too, are like tuning-forks. Many are the hearts that throb with ardor for you, of which
you take no notice, but are cold. Yet what does it profit you! Soon the heart will come that beats in just
the proper rhythm, and then your knell, too, has struck. Then your heart, too, will beat in unison, whether
you will or no.
The law of sympathetic vibration, here propounded for sounding bodies, suffers some modification for
bodies incompetent to yield notes. Bodies of this kind vibrate to almost every note. A high silk hat, we
know, will not sound; but if you will hold your hat in your hand when attending your next concert you will
not only hear the pieces played, but also feel them with your fingers. It is exactly so with men. People
who are themselves able to give tone to their surroundings, bother little about the prattle of others. But
the person without character tarries everywhere: in the temperance hall, and at the bar of the
public-house—everywhere where a committee is formed. The high silk hat is among bells what the
weakling is among men of conviction.
A sonorous body, therefore, always sounds when its special note, either alone or in company with
others, is struck. We may now go a step further. What will be the behaviour of a group of sonorous
bodies which in the pitch of their notes form a scale? Let us picture
[Pg 25]
to ourselves, for example (Fig. 8), a series of rods or strings pitched to the notes c d e f g.... On a
musical instrument the accord c e g is struck. Every one of the rods of Fig. 8 will see if its special note is
contained in the accord, and if it finds it, it will respond. The rod c will give at once the note c, the rod e
the note e, the rod g the note g. All the other rods will remain at rest, will not sound.

Fig. 8.

We need not look about us long for such an instrument. Every piano is an instrument of this kind, with
which the experiment mentioned may be executed with splendid success. Two pianos stand here by the
side of each other, both tuned alike. We will employ the first for exciting the notes, while we will allow the
second to respond; after having first pressed upon the loud pedal, so as to render all the strings capable
of motion.
Every harmony struck with vigor on the first piano is distinctly repeated on the second. To prove that it is
the same strings that are sounded in both pianos, we repeat the experiment in a slightly changed form.
We let go the loud pedal of the second piano and pressing on the keys c e g of that instrument
vigorously strike the harmony c e g on the first piano. The harmony c e g is now also sounded on the
second piano. But if we press only on one key g of one piano, while we strike c e g on the other, only g
will be sounded on
[Pg 26]
the second. It is thus always the like strings of the two pianos that excite each other.
The piano can reproduce any sound that is composed of its musical notes. It will reproduce, for example,
very distinctly, a vowel sound that is sung into it. And in truth physics has proved that the vowels may be
regarded as composed of simple musical notes.
You see that by the exciting of definite tones in the air quite definite motions are set up with mechanical
necessity in the piano. The idea might be made use of for the performance of some pretty pieces of
wizardry. Imagine a box in which is a stretched string of definite pitch. This is thrown into motion as
often as its note is sung or whistled. Now it would not be a very difficult task for a skilful mechanic to so
construct the box that the vibrating cord would close a galvanic circuit and open the lock. And it would
not be a much more difficult task to construct a box which would open at the whistling of a certain
melody. Sesame! and the bolts fall. Truly, we should have here a veritable puzzle-lock. Still another
fragment rescued from that old kingdom of fables, of which our day has realised so much, that world of
fairy-stories to which the latest contributions are Casselli's telegraph, by which one can write at a
distance in one's own hand, and Prof. Elisha Gray's telautograph. What would the good old Herodotus
have said to these things who even in Egypt shook his head at much that he saw?
[Pg 27]
ἐμοἱ μἑνe ού πιστα, just as simple-heartedly as then, when he heard of the circumnavigation of Africa.
A new puzzle-lock! But why invent one? Are not we human beings ourselves puzzle-locks? Think of the
stupendous groups of thoughts, feelings, and emotions that can be aroused in us by a word! Are there
not moments in all our lives when a mere name drives the blood to our hearts? Who that has attended a
large mass-meeting has not experienced what tremendous quantities of energy and motion can be
evolved by the innocent words, "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity."
But let us return to the subject proper of our discourse. Let us look again at our piano, or what will do
just as well, at some other contrivance of the same character. What does this instrument do? Plainly, it
decomposes, it analyses every agglomeration of sounds set up in the air into its individual component
parts, each tone being taken up by a different string; it performs a real spectral analysis of sound. A
person completely deaf, with the help of a piano, simply by touching the strings or examining their
vibrations with a microscope, might investigate the sonorous motion of the air, and pick out the separate
tones excited in it.
The ear has the same capacity as this piano. The ear performs for the mind what the piano performs for a
person who is deaf. The mind without the ear is deaf. But a deaf person, with the piano, does hear after a
fashion, though much less vividly, and more
[Pg 28]
clumsily, than with the ear. The ear, thus, also decomposes sound into its component tonal parts. I shall
now not be deceived, I think, if I assume that you already have a presentiment of what the function of
Corti's fibres is. We can make the matter very plain to ourselves. We will use the one piano for exciting
the sounds, and we shall imagine the second one in the ear of the observer in the place of Corti's fibres,
which is a model of such an instrument. To every string of the piano in the ear we will suppose a special
fibre of the auditory nerve attached, so that this fibre and this alone, is irritated when the string is thrown
into vibration. If we strike now an accord on the external piano, for every tone of that accord a definite
string of the internal piano will sound and as many different nervous fibres will be irritated as there are
notes in the accord. The simultaneous sense-impressions due to different notes can thus be preserved
unmingled and be separated by the attention. It is the same as with the five fingers of the hand. With
each finger I can touch something different. Now the ear has three thousand such fingers, and each one
is designed for the touching of a different tone.[9] Our ear is a puzzle-lock of the kind mentioned. It opens
at the magic melody of a sound. But it is a stupendously ingenious lock. Not only one tone, but every
tone makes it open; but each one differently. To each tone it replies with a different sensation.
[Pg 29]
More than once it has happened in the history of science that a phenomenon predicted by theory, has not
been brought within the range of actual observation until long afterwards. Leverrier predicted the
existence and the place of the planet Neptune, but it was not until sometime later that Galle actually
found the planet at the predicted spot. Hamilton unfolded theoretically the phenomenon of the so-called
conical refraction of light, but it was reserved for Lloyd some time subsequently to observe the fact. The
fortunes of Helmholtz's theory of Corti's fibres have been somewhat similar. This theory, too, received its
substantial confirmation from the subsequent observations of V. Hensen. On the free surface of the
bodies of Crustacea, connected with the auditory nerves, rows of little hairy filaments of varying lengths
and thicknesses are found, which to some extent are the analogues of Corti's fibres. Hensen saw these
hairs vibrate when sounds were excited, and when different notes were struck different hairs were set in
vibration.
I have compared the work of the physical inquirer to the journey of the tourist. When the tourist ascends
a new hill he obtains of the whole district a different view. When the inquirer has found the solution of
one enigma, the solution of a host of others falls into his hands.
Surely you have often felt the strange impression experienced
[Pg 30]
when in singing through the scale the octave is reached, and nearly the same sensation is produced as
by the fundamental tone. The phenomenon finds its explanation in the view here laid down of the ear.
And not only this phenomenon but all the laws of the theory of harmony may be grasped and verified
from this point of view with a clearness before undreamt of. Unfortunately, I must content myself to-day
with the simple indication of these beautiful prospects. Their consideration would lead us too far aside
into the fields of other sciences.
The searcher of nature, too, must restrain himself in his path. He also is drawn along from one beauty to
another as the tourist from dale to dale, and as circumstances generally draw men from one condition of
life into others. It is not he so much that makes the quests, as that the quests are made of him. Yet let
him profit by his time, and let not his glance rove aimlessly hither and thither. For soon the evening sun
will shine, and ere he has caught a full glimpse of the wonders close by, a mighty hand will seize him and
lead him away into a different world of puzzles.
Respected hearers, science once stood in an entirely different relation to poetry. The old Hindu
mathematicians wrote their theorems in verses, and lotus-flowers, roses, and lilies, beautiful sceneries,
lakes, and mountains figured in their problems.
"Thou goest forth on this lake in a boat. A lily juts forth, one palm above the water. A breeze bends
[Pg 31]
it downwards, and it vanishes two palms from its previous spot beneath the surface. Quick,
mathematician, tell me how deep is the lake!"
Thus spoke an ancient Hindu scholar. This poetry, and rightly, has disappeared from science, but from its
dry leaves another poetry is wafted aloft which cannot be described to him who has never felt it.
Whoever will fully enjoy this poetry must put his hand to the plough, must himself investigate. Therefore,
enough of this! I shall reckon myself fortunate if you do not repent of this brief excursion into the
flowered dale of physiology, and if you take with yourselves the belief that we can say of science what we
say of poetry,

"Who the song would understand,

Needs must seek the song's own land;

Who the minstrel understand

Needs must seek the minstrel's land."