CHAPTER I.

OF EXPERIENCE AS THE SOURCE OF OUR KNOWLEDGE.--OF THE DISMISSAL OF PREJUDICES.--OF THE EVIDENCE OF OUR SENSES.

(66.) Into abstract science, as we have before observed, the notion of cause does not enter. The truths it is conversant with are _necessary_ ones, and exist independent of cause. There may be no such real _thing_ as a right-lined triangle marked out in space; but the moment we conceive one in our minds, we cannot refuse to admit the sum of its three angles to be equal to two right angles; and if in addition we conceive one of its angles to be a right angle, we cannot thenceforth refuse to admit that the sum of the squares on the two sides, including the right angle, is equal to the square on the side subtending it. To maintain the contrary, would be, in effect, to deny its being right angled. No one _causes_ or _makes_ all the diameters of an ellipse to be bisected in its centre. To assert the contrary, would not be to rebel against a power, but to deny our own words. But in natural science _cause_ and _effect_ are the ultimate relations we contemplate; and _laws_, whether imposed or maintained, which, for aught we can perceive, might have been other than they are. This distinction is very important. A clever man, shut up alone and allowed unlimited time, might reason out for himself all the truths of mathematics, by proceeding from those simple notions of space and number of which he cannot divest himself without ceasing to think. But he could never tell, by any effort of reasoning, what would become of a lump of sugar if immersed in water, or what impression would be produced on his eye by mixing the colours yellow and blue.

(67.) We have thus pointed out to us, as the great, and indeed only ultimate source of our knowledge of nature and its laws, EXPERIENCE; by which we mean, not the experience of one man only, or of one generation, but the accumulated experience of all mankind in all ages, registered in books or recorded by tradition. But experience may be acquired in two ways: either, first, by noticing facts as they occur, without any attempt to influence the frequency of their occurrence, or to vary the circumstances under which they occur; this is OBSERVATION: or, secondly, by putting in action causes and agents over which we have control, and purposely varying their combinations, and noticing what effects take place; this is EXPERIMENT. To these two sources we must look as the fountains of all natural science. It is not intended, however, by thus distinguishing observation from experiment, to place them in any kind of contrast. Essentially they are much alike, and differ rather in degree than in kind; so that, perhaps, the terms _passive_ and _active observation_ might better express their distinction; but it is, nevertheless, highly important to mark the different states of mind in inquiries carried on by their respective aids, as well as their different effects in promoting the progress of science. In the former, we sit still and listen to a tale, told us, perhaps obscurely, piecemeal, and at long intervals of time, with our attention more or less awake. It is only by after-rumination that we gather its full import; and often, when the opportunity is gone by, we have to regret that our attention was not more particularly directed to some point which, at the time, appeared of little moment, but of which we at length appretiate the importance. In the latter, on the other hand, we cross-examine our witness, and by comparing one part of his evidence with the other, while he is yet before us, and reasoning upon it in his presence, are enabled to put pointed and searching questions, the answer to which may at once enable us to make up our minds. Accordingly it has been found invariably, that in those departments of physics where the phenomena are beyond our control, or into which experimental enquiry, from other causes, has not been carried, the progress of knowledge has been slow, uncertain, and irregular; while in such as admit of experiment, and in which mankind have agreed to its adoption, it has been rapid, sure, and steady. For example, in our knowledge of the nature and causes of volcanoes, earthquakes, the fall of stones from the sky, the appearance of new stars and disappearance of old ones, and other of those great phenomena of nature which are altogether beyond our command, and at the same time are of too rare occurrence to permit any one to repeat and rectify his impressions respecting them, we know little more now than in the earliest times. Here our tale is told us slowly, and in broken sentences. In astronomy, again, we have at least an uninterrupted narrative; the opportunity of observation is constantly present, and makes up in some measure for the impossibility of varying our point of view, and calling for information at the precise moment it is wanted. Accordingly, astronomy, regarded as a science of mere observation, arrived, though by very slow degrees, to a state of considerable maturity. But the moment that it became a branch of mechanics, a science essentially experimental, (that is to say, one in which any principle laid down can be subjected to immediate and decisive _trial_, and where experience does not require to be waited for,) its progress suddenly acquired a tenfold acceleration; nay, to such a degree, that it has been asserted, and we believe with truth, that were the records of all observations from the earliest ages annihilated, leaving only those made in a single observatory[27], during a single lifetime[28], the whole of this most perfect of sciences might, from those data, and as to the objects included in them, be at once reconstructed, and appear precisely as it stood at their conclusion. To take another instance: mineralogy, till modern times, could hardly be said to exist. The description of even the precious stones in Theophrastus and Pliny are, in most cases, hardly sufficient to identify them, and in many fall short even of that humble object; more recent observers, by attending more carefully to the obvious characters of minerals, had formed a pretty extensive catalogue of them, and made various attempts to arrange and methodize the knowledge thus acquired, and even to deduce some general conclusions respecting the forms they habitually assume: but from the moment that chemical analysis was applied to resolve them into their constituent elements, and that, led by a happy accident, the genius of Bergmann discovered the general fact, that they could be _cloven_ or split in such directions as to lay bare their peculiar primitive or fundamental forms, (which lay concealed within them, as the statue might be conceived encrusted in its marble envelope,)--from that moment, mineralogy ceased to be an unmeaning list of names, a mere laborious cataloguing of stones and rubbish, and became, what it now is, a regular, methodical, and most important science, in which every year is bringing to light new relations, new laws, and new practical applications.

(68.) Experience once recognized as the fountain of all our knowledge of nature, it follows that, in the study of nature and its laws, we ought at once to make up our minds to dismiss as idle prejudices, or at least suspend as premature, any preconceived notion of what might or what ought to be the order of nature in any proposed case, and content ourselves with observing, as a plain matter of fact, what _is_. To experience we refer, as the only ground of all physical enquiry. But before experience itself can be used with advantage, there is one preliminary step to make, which depends wholly on ourselves: it is the absolute dismissal and clearing the mind of all prejudice, from whatever source arising, and the determination to stand and fall by the result of a direct appeal to facts in the first instance, and of strict logical deduction from them afterwards. Now, it is necessary to distinguish between two kinds of prejudices, which exercise very different dominion over the mind, and, moreover, differ extremely in the difficulty of dispossessing them, and the process to be gone through for that purpose. These are,--

1. Prejudices of opinion. 2. Prejudices of sense.

(69.) By prejudices of opinion, we mean opinions hastily taken up, either from the assertion of others, from our own superficial views, or from vulgar observation, and which, from being constantly admitted without dispute, have obtained the strong hold of habit on our minds. Such were the opinions once maintained that the earth is the greatest body in the universe, and placed immovable in its centre, and all the rest of the universe created for its sole use; that it is the nature of fire and of sounds to ascend; that the moonlight is cold; that dews _fall_ from the air, &c.

(70.) To combat and destroy such prejudices we may proceed in two ways, either by demonstrating the falsehood of the facts alleged in their support, or by showing how the appearances, which seem to countenance them, are more satisfactorily accounted for without their admission. But it is unfortunately the nature of prejudices of opinion to adhere, in a certain degree, to every mind, and to some with pertinacious obstinacy, _pigris radicibus_, after all ground for their reasonable entertainment is destroyed. Against such a disposition the student of natural science must contend with all his power. Not that we are so unreasonable as to demand of him an instant and peremptory dismission of all his former opinions and judgments; all we require is, that he will hold them without bigotry, retain till he shall see reason to question them, and be ready to resign them when fairly proved untenable, and to doubt them when the weight of probability is shown to lie against them. If he refuse this, he is incapable of science.

(71.) Our resistance against the destruction of the other class of prejudices, those of sense, is commonly more violent at first, but less persistent, than in the case of those of opinion. Not to trust the evidence of our senses, seems, indeed, a hard condition, and one which, if proposed, none would comply with. But it is not the direct evidence of our senses that we are in any case called upon to reject, but only the erroneous judgments we unconsciously form from them, and this only when they can be shown to be so _by counter evidence of the same sort_; when one sense is brought to testify against another, for instance; or the same sense against itself, and the obvious conclusions in the two cases disagree, so as to compel us to acknowledge that one or other must be wrong. For example, nothing at first can seem a more rational, obvious, and incontrovertible conclusion, than that the _colour_ of an object is an inherent quality, like its weight, hardness, &c. and that to _see_ the object, and see it _of its own colour_, when nothing intervenes between our eyes and it, are one and the same thing. Yet this is only a prejudice; and that it is so, is shown by bringing forward the same sense of vision which led to its adoption, as evidence on the other side; for, when the differently coloured prismatic rays are thrown, in a dark room, in succession upon any object, whatever be the colour we are in the habit of calling its own, it will appear of the particular hue of the light which falls upon it: a yellow paper, for instance, will appear scarlet when illuminated by red rays, yellow when by yellow, green by green, and blue by blue rays; its own (so called) proper colour _not in the least degree mixing with that it so exhibits_.

(72.) To give one or two more examples of the kind of illusion which the senses practise on us, or rather which we practise on ourselves, by a misinterpretation of their evidence: the moon at its rising and setting appears much larger than when high up in the sky. This is, however, a mere erroneous judgment; for when we come to measure its diameter, so far from finding our conclusion borne out by fact, we actually find it to measure materially less. Here is eyesight opposed to eyesight, with the advantage of deliberate measurement. In ventriloquism we have the hearing at variance with all the other senses, and especially with the sight, which is sometimes contradicted by it in a very extraordinary and surprising manner, as when the voice is made to seem to issue from an inanimate and motionless object. If we plunge our hands, one into ice-cold water, and the other into water as hot as can be borne, and, after letting them stay awhile, suddenly transfer them both to a vessel full of water at a blood heat, the one will feel a sensation of heat, the other of cold. And if we cross the two first fingers of one hand, and place a pea in the fork between them, moving and rolling it about on a table, we shall (especially if we close our eyes) be fully persuaded we have two peas. If the nose be held while we are eating cinnamon, we shall perceive no difference between its flavour and that of a deal shaving.

(73.) These, and innumerable instances we might cite, will convince us, that though we are never deceived in the _sensible impression_ made by external objects on us, yet in forming our judgments of them we are greatly at the mercy of circumstances, which either modify the impressions actually received, or combine them with adjuncts which have become habitually associated with different judgments; and, therefore, that, in estimating the degree of confidence we are to place in our conclusions, we must, of necessity, take into account these modifying or accompanying circumstances, whatever they may be. We do not, of course, here speak of deranged organization; such as, for instance, a distortion of the eye, producing double vision, and still less of mental delusion, which absolutely perverts the meaning of sensible impressions.

(74.) As the mind exists not in the place of sensible objects, and is not brought into immediate relation with them, we can only regard sensible impressions as signals conveyed from them by a wonderful, and, to us, inexplicable mechanism, to our minds, which receives and reviews them, and, by habit and association, connects them with corresponding qualities or affections in the objects; just as a person writing down and comparing the signals of a telegraph might interpret their meaning. As, for instance, if he had constantly observed that the exhibition of a certain signal was sure to be followed next day by the announcement of the arrival of a ship at Portsmouth, he would connect the two facts by a link of the very same nature with that which connects the notion of a large wooden building, filled with sailors, with the impression of her outline on the retina of a spectator on the beach.

(75.) In captain Head’s amusing and vivid description of his journey across the Pampas of South America occurs an anecdote quite in point. His guide one day suddenly stopped him, and, pointing high into the air, cried out, “A lion!” Surprised at such an exclamation, accompanied with such an act, he turned up his eyes, and with difficulty perceived, at an immeasurable height, a flight of condors soaring in circles in a particular spot. Beneath that spot, far out of sight of himself or guide, lay the carcass of a horse, and over that carcass stood (as the guide well knew) the lion, whom the condors were eyeing with envy from their airy height. The signal of the birds was to him what the sight of the lion alone could have been to the traveller, a full assurance of its existence.

CHAP. II.

OF THE ANALYSIS OF PHENOMENA

(76.) _Phenomena_, then, or appearances, as the word is literally rendered, are the sensible results of processes and operations carried on among external objects, or their constituent principles, of which they are only signals, conveyed to our minds as aforesaid. Now, these processes themselves may be in many instances rendered _sensible_; that is to say, analysed, and shown to consist in the motions or other affections of sensible objects themselves. For instance, the phenomenon of the sound produced by a musical string, or a bell, when struck, may be shown to be the result of a process consisting in the rapid vibratory motion of its parts communicated to the air, and thence to our ears; though the immediate effect on our organs of hearing does not excite the least idea of such a motion. On the other hand, there are innumerable instances of sensible impressions which (at least at present) we are incapable of tracing beyond the mere sensation; for example, in the sensations of bitterness, sweetness, &c. These, accordingly, if we were inclined to form hasty decisions, might be regarded as ultimate qualities; but the instance of sounds, just adduced, alone would teach us caution in such decisions, and incline us to believe them mere results of some secret process going on in our organs of taste, which is too subtle for us to trace. A simple experiment will serve to set this in a clearer light. A solution of the salt called by chemists _nitrate of silver_, and another of the _hyposulphite of soda_, have each of them separately, when taken into the mouth, a disgustingly bitter taste; but if they be mixed, or if one be tasted before the mouth is thoroughly cleared of the other, the sensible impression is that of intense sweetness. Again, the salt called _tungstate of soda_ when first tasted is sweet, but speedily changes to an intense and pure bitter, like quassia.[29]

(77.) How far we may ever be enabled to attain a knowledge of the ultimate and inward processes of nature in the production of phenomena, we have no means of knowing; but, to judge from the degree of obscurity which hangs about the only case in which we feel within ourselves a _direct_ power to produce any one, there seems no great hope of penetrating so far. The case alluded to is the production of motion by the exertion of force. We are conscious of a power to move our limbs, and by their intervention other bodies; and that this effect is the result of a certain inexplicable process which we are aware of, but can no way describe in words, by which we exert _force_. And even when such exertion produces no visible effect, (as when we press our two hands violently together, so as just to oppose each other’s effort,) we still perceive, by the fatigue and exhaustion, and by the impossibility of maintaining the effort long, that something is going on within us, of which the mind is the agent, and the will the determining cause. This impression which we receive of the nature of force, from our own effort and our sense of fatigue, is quite different from that which we obtain of it from seeing the effect of force exerted by others in producing _motion_. Were there no such thing as motion, had we been from infancy shut up in a dark dungeon, and every limb encrusted with plaster, this internal consciousness would give us a complete idea of _force_; but when set at liberty, habit alone would enable us to recognize its exertion by its _signal_, motion, and _that_ only by finding that the same action of the mind which in our confined state enables us to fatigue and exhaust ourselves by the tension of our muscles, puts it in our power, when at liberty, to move ourselves and other bodies. But how obscure is our knowledge of the process going on within us in the exercise of this important privilege, in virtue of which alone we act as direct _causes_, we may judge from this, that when we put any limb in motion, the seat of the exertion seems to us to be _in_ the limb, whereas it is demonstrably no such thing, but either in the brain or in the spinal marrow; the proof of which is, that if a little fibre, called a nerve, which forms a communication between the limb and the brain, or spine, be divided in any part of its course, however we may make the effort, the limb will not move.

(78.) This one instance of the obscurity which hangs about the only act of direct _causation_ of which we have an immediate consciousness, will suffice to show how little prospect there is that, in our investigation of nature, we shall ever be able to arrive at a knowledge of ultimate causes, and will teach us to limit our views to that of _laws_, and to the analysis of complex phenomena by which they are resolved into simpler ones, which, appearing to us incapable of further analysis, we must consent to regard as causes. Nor let any one complain of this as a limitation of his faculties. We have here “ample room and verge enough” for the full exercise of all the powers we possess; and, besides, it does so happen, that we are actually able to trace up a very large portion of the phenomena of the universe to this one _cause_, viz. the exertion of mechanical _force_; indeed, so large a portion, that it has been made a matter of speculation whether this is not the only one that is capable of acting on material beings.

(79.) What we mean by the analysis of complex phenomena into simpler ones, will best be understood by an instance. Let us, therefore, take the phenomenon of sound, and, by considering the various cases in which sounds of all kinds are produced, we shall find that they all agree in these points:--1st, The excitement of a motion in the sounding body. 2dly, The communication of this motion to the air or other intermedium which is interposed between the sounding body and our ears. 3dly, The propagation of such motion from particle to particle of such intermedium in due succession. 4thly, Its communication, from the particles of the intermedium adjacent to the ear, to the ear itself. 5thly, Its conveyance in the ear, by a certain mechanism, to the auditory nerves. 6thly, The excitement of sensation. Now, in this analysis, we perceive that two principal matters must be understood, before we can have a true and complete knowledge of sound:--1st, The excitement and propagation of motion. 2dly, The production of sensation. These, then, are two other phenomena, of a simpler, or, it would be more correct to say, of a more general or elementary order, into which the complex phenomenon of sound resolves itself. But again, if we consider the communication of motion from body to body, or from one part to another of the same, we shall perceive that it is again resolvable into several other phenomena. 1st, The original setting in motion of a material body, or any part of one. 2dly, The behaviour of a particle set in motion, when it meets another lying in its way, or is otherwise impeded or influenced by its connection with surrounding particles. 3dly, The behaviour of the particles so impeding or influencing it under such circumstances; besides which, the last two point out another phenomenon, which it is necessary also to consider, viz. the phenomenon of the connection of the parts of material bodies in masses, by which they form aggregates, and are enabled to influence each other’s motions.

(80.) Thus, then, we see that an analysis of the phenomenon of sound leads to the enquiry, 1st, of two _causes_, viz. the cause of motion, and the cause of sensation, these being phenomena which (at least as human knowledge stands at present) we are unable to analyse further; and, therefore, we set them down as simple, elementary, and referable, for any thing we can see to the contrary, to the immediate action of their causes. 2dly, Of several questions relating to the connection between the motion of material bodies and its cause, such as, _What will happen_ when a moving body is surrounded on all sides by others not in motion? _What will happen_ when a body not in motion is advanced upon by a moving one? It is evident that the answers to such questions as these can be no other than _laws of motion_, in the sense we have above attributed to laws of nature, viz. a statement in words of what will happen in such and such proposed general contingencies. Lastly, we are led, by pursuing the analysis, and considering the phenomenon of the aggregation of the parts of material bodies, and the way in which they influence each other, to two other general phenomena, viz., the cohesion and elasticity of matter; and these we have no means of analysing further, and must, therefore, regard them (till we see reasons to the contrary) as _ultimate phenomena_, and referable to the direct action of causes, viz. an attractive and a repulsive _force_.

(81.) Of force, as counterbalanced by opposing force, we have, as already said, an internal consciousness; and though it may seem strange to us that matter should be capable of exerting on matter the same kind of effort, which, judging alone from this consciousness, we might be led to regard as a mental one; yet we cannot refuse the direct evidence of our senses, which shows us that when we keep a spring stretched with one hand, we feel our effort opposed exactly in the same way as if we had ourselves opposed it with the other hand, or as it would be by that of another person. The enquiry, therefore, into the aggregation of matter resolves itself into the general question, What will be the behaviour of material particles under the mutual action of opposing forces capable of counterbalancing each other? and the answer to this question can be no other than the announcement of the _law_ of equilibrium, whatever law that may be.

(82.) With regard to the cause of sensation, it must be regarded as much more obscure than that of motion, inasmuch as we have no conscious knowledge of it, _i. e._ we have no power, by any act of our minds and will, to call up a sensation. It is true, we are not destitute of an approach to it, since, by an effort of memory and imagination, we can produce in our minds an impression, or idea, of a sensation which, in peculiar cases, may even approach in vividness to actual reality. In dreams, too, and, in some cases of disordered nerves, we have sensations without objects. But if force, as a cause of motion, is obscure to us, even while we are in the act of exercising it, how much more so is this other cause, whose exercise we can only imitate imperfectly by any voluntary act, and of whose purely internal action we are only fully conscious when in a state that incapacitates us from reasoning, and almost from observation!

(83.) Dismissing, then, as beyond our reach, the enquiry into causes, we must be content at present to concentrate our attention on the laws which prevail among phenomena, and which seem to be their immediate results. From the instance we have just given, we may perceive that every enquiry into the intimate nature of a complex phenomenon branches out into as many different and distinct enquiries as there are simple or elementary phenomena into which it may be analysed; and that, therefore, it would greatly assist us in our study of nature, if we could, by any means, ascertain what _are_ the ultimate phenomena into which all the composite ones presented by it may be resolved. There is, however, clearly no way by which this can be ascertained _à priori_. We must go to nature itself, and be guided by the same kind of rule as the chemist in his analysis, who accounts every ingredient an _element_ till it can be decompounded and resolved into others. So, in natural philosophy, we must account every phenomenon an elementary or simple one till we can analyse it, and show that it is the result of others, which in their turn become elementary. Thus, in a modified and relative sense, we may still continue to speak of causes, not intending thereby those ultimate principles of action on whose exertion the whole frame of nature depends, but of those proximate links which connect phenomena with others of a simpler, higher, and more general or elementary kind. For example: we may regard the vibration of a musical string as the proximate cause of the sound it yields, receiving it, so far, as an ultimate fact, and waving or deferring enquiry into the cause of vibrations, which is of a higher and more general nature.

(84.) Moreover, as in chemistry we are sometimes compelled to acknowledge the existence of elements different from those already identified and known, though we cannot insulate them, and to perceive that substances have the characters of compounds, and must therefore be susceptible of analysis, though we do not see how it is to be set about; so, in physics, we may perceive the complexity of a phenomenon, without being able to perform its analysis. For example: in magnetism, the agency of electricity is clearly made out, and they are shown to stand to one another in the relation of effect and cause. But the analysis of magnetism, in its relation to particular metals, is not yet quite satisfactorily performed; and we are compelled to admit the existence of some cause, whether proximate or ultimate, whose presence in different metals, or in different states of the same metal, determines that peculiar electric condition which constitutes permanent magnetism. Cases like these, of all which science presents, offer the highest interest. They excite enquiry, like the near approach to the solution of an enigma; they show us that there is light, could only a certain veil be drawn aside.

(85.) In pursuing the analysis of any phenomenon, the moment we find ourselves stopped by one of which we perceive no analysis, and which, therefore, we are forced to refer (at least provisionally) to the class of ultimate facts, and to regard as elementary, the study of that phenomenon and of its laws becomes a separate branch of science. If we encounter the same elementary phenomenon in the analysis of several composite ones, it becomes still more interesting, and assumes additional importance; while at the same time we acquire information respecting the phenomenon itself, by observing those with which it is habitually associated, that may help us at length to its analysis. It is thus that sciences increase, and acquire a mutual relation and dependency. It is thus, too, that we are at length enabled to trace parallels and analogies between great branches of science themselves, which at length terminate in a perception of their dependence on some common phenomenon of a more general and elementary nature than that which form the subject of either separately. It was thus, for example, that, previous to Oërsted’s great discovery of electro-magnetism, a general resemblance between the two sciences of electricity and magnetism was recognised, and many of the chief phenomena in each were ascertained to have their parallels, _mutatis mutandis_, in the other. It was thus, too, that an analogy subsisting between sound and light has been gradually traced into a closeness of agreement, which can hardly leave any reasonable doubt of their ultimate coincidence in one common phenomenon, the vibratory motion of an elastic medium. If it be allowed to pursue our illustration from chemistry, and to ground its application not on what has been, but on what may one day be, done, it is thus that the general family resemblance between certain groups of bodies, now regarded as elementary, (as nickel and cobalt, for instance, chlorine, iode, and brome,) will, perhaps, lead us hereafter to perceive relations between them of a more intimate kind than we can at present trace.

(86.) On those phenomena which are most frequently encountered in an analysis of nature and which most decidedly resist further decomposition, it is evident that the greatest pains and attention ought to be bestowed, not only because they furnish a key to the greatest number of enquiries, and serve to group and classify together the greatest range of phenomena, but by reason of their higher nature, and because it is in these that we must look for the direct action of causes, and the most extensive and general enunciation of the laws of nature. These, once discovered, place in our power the explanation of all particular facts, and become grounds of reasoning, independent of particular trial: thus playing the same part in natural philosophy that axioms do in geometry; containing, in a refined and condensed state, and as it were in a quintessence, all that our reason has occasion to draw from experience to enable it to follow out the truths of physics by the mere application of logical argument. Indeed, the axioms of geometry themselves may be regarded as in some sort an appeal to experience, not corporeal, but mental. When we say, the whole is greater than its part, we announce a general fact, which rests, it is true, on our ideas of whole and part; but, in abstracting these notions, we begin by considering them as subsisting in space, and time, and body, and again, in linear, and superficial, and solid space. Again, when we say, the equals of equals are equal, we mentally make comparisons, in equal spaces, equal times, &c.; so that these axioms, however self-evident, are still general propositions so far of the inductive kind, that, independently of experience, they would not present themselves to the mind.

The only difference between these and axioms obtained from extensive induction is this, that, in raising the axioms of geometry, the instances offer themselves spontaneously, and without the trouble of search, and are few and simple; in raising those of nature, they are infinitely numerous, complicated, and remote; so that the most diligent research and the utmost acuteness are required to unravel their web, and place their meaning in evidence.

(87.) By far the most general phenomenon with which we are acquainted, and that which occurs most constantly, in every enquiry into which we enter, is motion, and its communication. Dynamics, then, or the science of force and motion, is thus placed at the head of all the sciences; and, happily for human knowledge, it is one in which the highest certainty is attainable, a certainty no way inferior to mathematical demonstration. As its axioms are few, simple, and in the highest degree distinct and definite, so they have at the same time an immediate relation to geometrical quantity, space, time, and direction, and thus accommodate themselves with remarkable facility to geometrical reasoning. Accordingly, their consequences may be pursued, by arguments purely mathematical, to any extent, insomuch that the limit of our knowledge of dynamics is determined only by that of pure mathematics, which is the case in no other branch of physical science.

(88.) But, it will now be asked, how we are to proceed to analyse a composite phenomenon into simpler ones, and whether any general rules can be given for this important process? We answer, None; any more than (to pursue the illustration we have already had recourse to) general rules can be laid down by the chemist for the analysis of substances of which all the ingredients are unknown. Such rules, could they be discovered, would include the whole of natural science; but we are very far, indeed, from being able to propound them. However, we are to recollect that the analysis of phenomena, philosophically speaking, is principally useful, as it enables us to recognize, and mark for special investigation, those which appear to us simple; to set methodically about determining their laws, and thus to facilitate the work of raising up general axioms, or forms of words, which shall include the whole of them; which shall, as it were, transplant them out of the external into the intellectual world, render them creatures of pure thought, and enable us to reason them out _à priori_. And what renders the power of doing this so eminently desirable is, that, in thus reasoning back from generals to particulars, the propositions at which we arrive apply to an immense multitude of combinations and cases, which were never individually contemplated in the mental process by which our axioms were first discovered; and that, consequently, when our reasonings are pushed to the utmost limit of particularity, their results appear in the form of _individual facts_, of which we might have had no knowledge from immediate experience; and thus we are not only furnished with the explanation of all known facts, but with the actual discovery of such as were before unknown. A remarkable example of this has already been mentioned in Fresnel’s _à priori_ discovery of the extraordinary refraction of both rays in a doubly refracting medium. To give another example:--The law of gravitation is a physical axiom of a very high and universal kind, and has been raised by a succession of inductions and abstractions drawn from the observation of numerous facts and subordinate laws in the planetary system. When this law is taken for granted, and laid down as a basis of reasoning, and applied to the actual condition of our own planet, one of the consequences to which it leads is, that the earth, instead of being an exact sphere, must be compressed or flattened in the direction of its polar diameter, the one diameter being about thirty miles shorter than the other; and this conclusion, deduced at first by mere reasoning, has been since found to be true in fact. All astronomical predictions are examples of the same thing.

(89.) In the important business of raising these axioms of nature, we are not, as in the analysis of phenomena, left wholly without a guide. The nature of abstract or general reasoning points out in a great measure the course we must pursue. A law of nature, being the statement of what will happen in certain general contingencies, may be regarded as the announcement, in the same words, of a whole group or class of phenomena. Whenever, therefore, we perceive that two or more phenomena agree in so many or so remarkable points, as to lead us to regard them as forming a class or group, if we lay out of consideration, or _abstract_, all the circumstances in which they disagree, and retain in our minds those only in which they agree, and then, under this kind of mental convention, frame a definition or statement of one of them, in such words that it shall apply equally to them all, such statement will appear in the form of a general proposition, having so far at least the character of a law of nature.

(90.) For example: a great number of transparent substances, when exposed, in a certain particular manner, to a beam of light which has been prepared by undergoing certain reflexions or refractions, (and has thereby acquired peculiar properties, and is said to be “_polarized_,”) exhibit very vivid and beautiful colours, disposed in streaks, bands, &c. of great regularity, which seem to arise within the substance, and which, from a certain regular succession observed in their appearance, are called “periodical colours.” Among the substances which exhibit these periodical colours occur a great variety of transparent solids, but no fluids and no opake solids. Here, then, there seems to be sufficient community of nature to enable us to use a general term, and to state the proposition as a law, viz. _transparent solids_ exhibit periodical colours by exposure to polarized light. However, this, though true of many, does not apply to _all_ transparent solids, and therefore we cannot state it as a general truth or law of nature in this form; although the reverse proposition, that all solids which exhibit such colours in such circumstances are _transparent_, would be correct and general. It becomes necessary, then, to make a list of those to which it does apply; and thus a great number of substances of all kinds become grouped together, in a class linked by this common property. If we examine the individuals of this group, we find among them the utmost variety of colour, texture, weight, hardness, form and composition; so that, in these respects, we seem to have fallen upon an assemblage of contraries. But when we come to examine them closely, in all their properties, we find they have all one point of agreement, in the property of double refraction, (see page 30.) and therefore we may describe them all truly as _doubly refracting substances_. We may, therefore, state the fact in the form, “Doubly refracting substances exhibit periodical colours by exposure to polarized light;” and in this form it is found, on further examination, to be true, not only for those particular instances which we had in view when we first propounded it, but in all cases which have since occurred on further enquiry, without a single exception; so that the proposition is general, and entitled to be regarded as a law of nature.

(91.) We may therefore regard a law of nature either, 1st, as a general proposition, announcing, in abstract terms, a whole group of particular facts relating to the behaviour of natural agents in proposed circumstances; or, 2dly, as a proposition announcing that a whole class of individuals agreeing in one character agree also in another. For example: in the case before us, the law arrived at includes, in its general announcement, among others, the particular facts, that rock crystal and saltpetre exhibit periodical colours; for these are both of them doubly refracting substances. Or, it may be regarded as announcing a relation between the two phenomena of double refraction, and the exhibition of periodical colours; which in the actual case is one of the most important, viz. the relation of _constant association_, inasmuch as it asserts that in whatever individual the one character is found, the other will invariably be found also.

(92.) These two lights, in which the announcement of a general law may be regarded, though at bottom they come to the same thing, yet differ widely in their influence on our minds. The former exhibits a law as little more than a kind of artificial memory; but in the latter it becomes a step in philosophical investigation, leading directly to the consideration of a proximate, if not an ultimate, cause; inasmuch as, whenever two phenomena are observed to be invariably connected together, we conclude them to be related to each other, either as cause and effect, or as common effects of a single cause.

(93.) There is still another light in which we may regard a law of the kind in question, viz. as a proposition asserting the mutual connection, or in some cases the entire identity, of two classes of individuals (whether individual objects or individual facts); and this is, perhaps, the simplest and most instructive way in which it can be conceived, and that which furnishes the readiest handle to further generalization in the raising of yet higher axioms. For example: in the case above mentioned, if observation had enabled us to establish the existence of a class of bodies possessing the property of double refraction, and observations of another kind had, independently of the former, led as to recognize a class possessing that of the exhibition of periodical colours in polarized light, a mere comparison of lists would at once demonstrate the identity of the two classes, or enable us to ascertain whether one was or was not included in the other.

(94.) It is thus we perceive the high importance in physical science of just and accurate classifications of particular facts, or individual objects, under general well considered heads or points of agreement (for which there are none better adapted than the simple phenomena themselves into which they can be analysed in the first instance); for by so doing each of such phenomena, or heads of classification, becomes not a particular but a general fact; and when we have amassed a great store of such _general facts_, they become the objects of another and higher species of classification, and are themselves included in laws which, as they dispose of groups, not individuals, have a far superior degree of generality, till at length, by continuing the process, we arrive at _axioms_ of the highest degree of generality of which science is capable.

(95.) This process is what we mean by induction; and, from what has been said, it appears that induction may be carried on in two different ways,--either by the simple juxta-position and comparison of ascertained classes, and marking their agreements and disagreements; or by considering the individuals of a class, and casting about, as it were to find in what particular they all agree, besides that which serves as their principle of classification. Either of these methods may be put in practice as one or the other may afford facilities in any case; but it will naturally happen that, where facts are numerous, well observed, and methodically arranged, the former will be more applicable than in the contrary case: the one is better adapted to the maturity, the other to the infancy, of science: the one employs, as an engine, the division of labour; the other mainly relies on individual penetration, and requires a union of many branches of knowledge in one person.

CHAP. III.

OF THE STATE OF PHYSICAL SCIENCE IN GENERAL, PREVIOUS TO THE AGE OF GALILEO AND BACON.

(96.) It is to our immortal countryman Bacon that we owe the broad announcement of this grand and fertile principle; and the developement of the idea, that the whole of natural philosophy consists entirely of a series of inductive generalizations, commencing with the most circumstantially stated particulars, and carried up to universal laws, or axioms, which comprehend in their statements every subordinate degree of generality, and of a corresponding series of inverted reasoning from generals to particulars, by which these axioms are traced back into their remotest consequences, and all particular propositions deduced from them; as well those by whose immediate consideration we rose to their discovery, as those of which we had no previous knowledge. In the course of this descent to particulars, we must of necessity encounter all those facts on which the arts and works that tend to the accommodation of human life depend, and acquire thereby the command of an unlimited practice, and a disposal of the powers of nature co-extensive with those powers themselves. A noble promise, indeed, and one which ought, surely, to animate us to the highest exertion of our faculties; especially since we have already such convincing proof that it is neither vain nor rash, but, on the contrary, has been, and continues to be, fulfilled, with a promptness and liberality which even its illustrious author in his most sanguine mood would have hardly ventured to anticipate.

(97.) Previous to the publication of the Novum Organum of Bacon, natural philosophy, in any legitimate and extensive sense of the word, could hardly be said to exist. Among the Greek philosophers, of whose attainments in science alone, in the earlier ages of the world, we have any positive knowledge, and that but a very limited one, we are struck with the remarkable contrast between their powers of acute and subtle disputation, their extraordinary success in abstract reasoning, and their intimate familiarity with subjects purely intellectual, on the one hand; and, on the other, with their loose and careless consideration of external nature, their grossly illogical deductions of principles of sweeping generality from few and ill-observed facts, in some cases; and their reckless assumption of abstract principles having no foundation but in their own imaginations, in others; mere forms of words, with nothing corresponding to them in nature, from which, as from mathematical definitions, postulates, and axioms, they imagined that all phenomena could be derived, all the laws of nature deduced. Thus, for instance, having settled it in their own minds, that a circle is the most perfect of figures, they concluded, of course, that the movements of the heavenly bodies must all be performed in exact circles, and with uniform motions; and when the plainest observation demonstrated the contrary, instead of doubting the principle, they saw no better way of getting out of the difficulty than by having recourse to endless combinations of circular motions to preserve their ideal perfection.

(98.) Undoubtedly among the Greek philosophers were many men of transcendent talents and virtues, the ornaments of their species, and justly entitled to the veneration of all posterity; but regarded as a body they can hardly be considered otherwise than as a knot of disputatious candidates for popular favour, too busy in maintaining their ascendency over their followers and admirers, by an ostentatious display of superior knowledge, to have the leisure (had they always the inclination) to base their pretensions on a deep and sure foundation, and yet too sensible of the disgrace and inconvenience of failure, not to defend their dogmas, however shallow, when once promulgated, against their keen and sagacious opponents, by every art of sophism or appeal to passion. Hence the crudities and chimerical views with which their systems of philosophy, both natural and moral, were overloaded; their endless disputes about verbal subtleties, and, last and worst, the proud assumption with which they sheltered ignorance and indolence under the screen of unintelligible jargon or dogmatical assertion. Perhaps, however, this character applies rather to the later than to the earlier of the Greek philosophers. The spirit of rational enquiry into nature seems, if we can judge from the uncertain and often contradictory notices handed down to us of their tenets, to have been far more alive, and less warped by this vain and arrogant turn, then than at a later period. We know not now what was the precise meaning attached by Thales to his opinion, that water was the origin of all things; but modern geologists will not be at a loss to conceive how an observant traveller might become impressed with this notion, without having recourse to the mystic records of Egypt or Chaldea. His ideas of eclipses and of the nature of the moon were sound; and his prediction of an eclipse of the sun, in particular, was attended with circumstances so remarkable as to have made it a matter of important investigation to modern astronomers. Anaxagoras, among a number of crude and imperfectly explained notions, speculated rationally enough on the cause of the winds and of the rainbow, and less absurdly on earthquakes than many modern geologists have done, and appears generally to have had his attention alive to nature, and his mind open to just reasoning on its phenomena; while Pythagoras, whether he reasoned it out for himself, or borrowed the notion from Egypt or India, had attained a just conception of the general disposition of the parts of the solar system, and the place held by the earth in it; nay, according to some accounts, had even raised his views so far as to speculate on the attraction of the sun as the bond of its union.

(99.) But the successors of these _bonâ fide_ enquirers into nature debased the standard of truth; and, taking advantage of the credit justly attached to their discoveries, renounced the modest character of learners, and erected themselves into teachers, and, to maintain their pretensions to this character, adopted the tone of men who had nothing further to learn. Unfortunately for true science, the national character gave every encouragement to pretensions of this kind. That restless craving after novelty, which distinguished the Greeks in their civil and political relations, pursued them into their philosophy. Whatever speculations were only ingenious and new had irresistible charms; and the teacher who could embody a clever thought in elegant language, or at once save his followers and himself the trouble of thinking or reasoning, by bold assertion, was too often induced to acquire cheaply the reputation of superior knowledge, snatch a few superficial notions from the most ordinary and obvious facts, envelope them in a parade of abstruse words, declare them the primary and ultimate principles of all things, and denounce as absurd and impious all opinions opposed to his own.

(100.) In this war of words the study of nature was neglected, and an humble and patient enquiry after facts altogether despised, as unworthy of the high _priori_ ground a true philosopher ought to take. It was the radical error of the Greek philosophy to imagine that the same method which proved so eminently successful in mathematical, would be equally so in physical, enquiries, and that, by setting out from a few simple and almost self-evident notions, or _axioms_, every thing could be reasoned out. Accordingly, we find them constantly straining their invention to discover these principles, which were to prove so pregnant. One makes _fire_ the essential matter and origin of the universe; another, _air_; a third, discovers the key to every difficulty, and the explanation of all phenomena, in the “το απειρον” or infinitude of things; a fourth, in the το ὁν and the το μη ὁν, that is to say, in entity and nonentity;--till at length an authority, which was destined to command opinions for nearly two thousand years, settled this important point, by deciding, that _matter_, _form_, and _privation_, were to be considered the principles of all things.

(101.) It were to do injustice to Aristotle, however, to judge of him by _such_ a sample of his philosophy. He, at least, saw the necessity of having recourse to nature for something like principles of physical science; and, as an observer, a collector and recorder of facts and phenomena, stood without an equal in his age. It was the fault of that age, and of the perverse and flimsy style of verbal disputation which had infected all learning, rather than his own, that he allowed himself to be contented with vague and loose notions drawn from general and vulgar observation, in place of seeking carefully, in well arranged and thoroughly considered instances, for the true laws of nature. His voluminous works, on every department of human knowledge existing in his time, have nearly all perished. From his work on animals, which has descended to us, we are, however, enabled to appreciate his powers of observation; and a parallel drawn by an eminent Oxford professor between his classifications and those of the most illustrious of living naturalists, shows him to have attained a view of animated nature in a remarkable degree comprehensive, and which contrasts strikingly with the confusion, vagueness, and assumption of his physical opinions and dogmas. In these it is easy to recognize a mind not at home, and an impression of the necessity of saying something learned and systematic, without knowing what to say. Thus he divides motions into natural and unnatural; the natural motion of fire and light bodies being upwards, those of heavy downwards, each seeking its kindred nature in the heavens and the earth. Thus, too, the immediate impressions made on us by external objects, such as hardness, colour, heat, &c. are referred at once, in the Aristotelian philosophy, to occult qualities, in virtue of which they are as they are, and beyond which it is useless to enquire.[30] Of course there will occur a limit beyond which it _is_ useless for merely human faculties to enquire; but where that limit is placed, experience alone can teach us; and at least to assert that we _have_ attained it, is now universally recognized as the sure criterion of dogmatism.

(102.) In the early ages of the church the writings of Aristotle were condemned, as allowing too much to reason and sense; and even so late as the twelfth century they were sought out and burned, and their readers excommunicated. By degrees, however, the extreme injustice of this impeachment of their character was acknowledged: they became the favourite study of the schoolmen, and furnished the keenest weapons of their controversy, being appealed to in all disputes as of sovereign authority; so that the slightest dissent from any opinion of the “great master,” however absurd or unintelligible, was at once drowned by clamour, or silenced by the still more effectual argument of bitter persecution. If the logic of that gloomy period could be justly described as “the art of talking unintelligibly on matters of which we are ignorant,” its physics might, with equal truth, be summed up in a deliberate preference of ignorance to knowledge, in matters of every day’s experience and use.

(103.) In “this opake of nature and of soul,” the perverse activity of the alchemists from time to time struck out a doubtful spark[31]; and our illustrious countryman, Roger Bacon, shone out at the obscurest moment, like an early star predicting dawn. It was not, however, till the sixteenth century that the light of nature began to break forth with a regular and progressive increase. The vaunts of Paracelsus of the power of his chemical remedies and elixirs, and his open condemnation of the ancient pharmacy, backed as they were by many surprising cures, convinced all rational physicians that chemistry could furnish many excellent remedies, unknown till that time[32], and a number of valuable experiments began to be made by physicians and chemists, desirous of discovering and describing new chemical remedies. The chemical and metallurgic arts, exercised by persons empirically acquainted with their secrets, began to be seriously studied with a view to the acquisition of rational and useful knowledge, and regular treatises on branches of natural science at length to appear. George Agricola, in particular, devoted himself with ardour to the study of mineralogy and metallurgy in the mining districts of Bohemia and Schemnitz, and published copious and methodical accounts of all the facts within his knowledge: and our countryman, Dr. Gilbert of Colchester, in 1590, published a treatise on magnetism, full of valuable facts and experiments, ingeniously reasoned on; and he likewise extended his enquiries to a variety of other subjects, in particular to electricity.

(104.) But, as the decisive mark of a great commencing change in the direction of the human faculties, astronomy, the only science in which the ancients had made any real progress, and ascended to any thing like large and general conceptions, began once more to be studied in the best spirit of a candid philosophy; and the Copernican or Pythagorean system arose or revived, and rapidly gained advocates. Galileo at length appeared, and openly attacked and refuted the Aristotelian dogmas respecting motion, by direct appeal to the evidence of sense, and by experiments of the most convincing kind. The persecutions which such a step drew upon him, the record of his perseverance and sufferings, and the ultimate triumph of his opinions and reasonings, have been too lately and too well related[33] to require repetition here.

(105.) By the discoveries of Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo, the errors of the Aristotelian philosophy were effectually overturned on a plain appeal to the facts of nature; but it remained to show on broad and general principles, how and why Aristotle was in the wrong; to set in evidence the peculiar weakness of his method of philosophizing, and to substitute in its place a stronger and better. This important task was executed by Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, who will, therefore, justly be looked upon in all future ages as the great reformer of philosophy, though his own actual contributions to the stock of physical truths were small, and his ideas of particular points strongly tinctured with mistakes and errors, which were the fault rather of the general want of physical information of the age than of any narrowness of view on his own part; and of this he was fully aware. It has been attempted by some to lessen the merit of this great achievement, by showing that the inductive method had been practised in many instances, both ancient and modern, by the mere instinct of mankind; but it is not the introduction of inductive reasoning, as a new and hitherto untried process, which characterizes the Baconian philosophy, but his keen perception, and his broad and spirit-stirring, almost enthusiastic, announcement of its paramount importance, as the alpha and omega of science, as the grand and only chain for the linking together of physical truths, and the eventual key to every discovery and every application. Those who would deny him his just glory on such grounds would refuse to Jenner or to Howard their civic crowns, because a few farmers in a remote province had, time out of mind, been acquainted with vaccination, or philanthropists, in all ages, had occasionally visited the prisoner in his dungeon.

(106.) An immense impulse was now given to science, and it seemed as if the genius of mankind, long pent up, had at length rushed eagerly upon Nature, and commenced, with one accord, the great work of turning up her hitherto unbroken soil, and exposing the treasures so long concealed. A general sense now prevailed of the poverty and insufficiency of existing knowledge in _matters of fact_; and, as information flowed fast in, an era of excitement and wonder commenced, to which the annals of mankind had furnished nothing similar. It seemed, too, as if Nature herself seconded the impulse; and, while she supplied new and extraordinary aids to those senses which were henceforth to be exercised in her investigation,--while the telescope and the microscope laid open _the infinite_ in both directions,--as if to call attention to her wonders, and signalize the epoch, she displayed the rarest, the most splendid and mysterious, of all astronomical phenomena, the appearance and subsequent total extinction of a new and brilliant fixed star twice within the lifetime of Galileo himself.[34]

(107.) The immediate followers of Bacon and Galileo ransacked all nature for new and surprising facts, with something of that craving for the marvellous, which might be regarded as a remnant of the age of alchemy and natural magic, but which, under proper regulation, is a most powerful and useful stimulus to experimental enquiry. Boyle, in particular, seemed animated by an enthusiasm of ardour, which hurried him from subject to subject, and from experiment to experiment, without a moment’s intermission, and with a sort of undistinguishing appetite; while Hooke (the great contemporary, and almost the worthy rival, of Newton) carried a keener eye of scrutinizing reason into a range of research even yet more extensive. As facts multiplied, leading phenomena became prominent, laws began to emerge, and generalizations to commence; and so rapid was the career of discovery, so signal the triumph of the inductive philosophy, that a single generation and the efforts of a single mind sufficed for the establishment of the system of the universe, on a basis never after to be shaken.

(108.) We shall now endeavour to enumerate and explain in detail the principal steps by which legitimate and extensive inductions are arrived at, and the processes by which the mind, in the investigation of natural laws, purges itself by successive degrees of the superfluities and incumbrances which hang about particulars, and obscure the perception of their points of resemblance and connection. We shall state the helps which may be afforded us, in a work of so much thought and labour, by a methodical course of proceeding, and by a careful notice of those means which have at any time been found successful, with a view to their better understanding and adaptation to other cases: a species of mental induction of no mean utility and extent in itself; inasmuch as by pursuing it alone we can attain a more intimate knowledge than we actually possess of the laws which regulate our discovery of truth, and of the rules, so far as they extend, to which invention is reducible. In doing this, we shall commence at the beginning, with experience itself, considered as the accumulation of the knowledge of individual objects and facts.

CHAP. IV.

OF THE OBSERVATION OF FACTS AND THE COLLECTION OF INSTANCES.

(109.) Nature offers us two sorts of subjects of contemplation in the external world,--objects, and their mutual actions. But, after what has been said on the subject of sensation, the reader will be at no loss to perceive that we know nothing of the objects themselves which compose the universe, except through the medium of the impressions they excite in us, which impressions are the results of certain actions and processes in which sensible objects and the material parts of ourselves are directly concerned. Thus, our observation of external nature is limited to the mutual action of material objects on one another; and to facts, that is, the associations of phenomena or appearances. We gain no information by perceiving merely that an object is black; but if we also perceive it to be fluid, we at least acquire the knowledge that blackness is not incompatible with fluidity, and have thus made a step, however trifling, to a knowledge of the more intimate nature of these two qualities. Whenever, therefore, we would either analyse a phenomenon into simpler ones, or ascertain what is the course or law of nature under any proposed general contingency, the first step is to accumulate a sufficient quantity of well ascertained facts or recorded instances, bearing on the point in question. Common sense dictates this, as affording us the means of examining the same subject in several points of view; and it would also dictate, that the more different these collected facts are in all other circumstances but that which forms the subject of enquiry, the better; because they are then in some sort brought into contrast with one another in their points of disagreement, and thus tend to render those in which they agree more prominent and striking.

(110.) The only facts which can ever become useful as grounds of physical enquiry are those which happen uniformly and invariably under the same circumstances. This is evident: for if they have not this character they cannot be included in laws; they want that universality which fits them to enter as elementary particles into the constitution of those universal axioms which we aim at discovering. If one and the same result does not constantly happen under a given combination of circumstances, apparently the same, one of two things must be supposed,--caprice (_i. e._ the arbitrary intervention of mental agency), or differences in the circumstances themselves, really existing, but unobserved by us. In either case, though we may record such facts as curiosities, or as awaiting explanation when the difference of circumstances shall be understood, we can make no use of them in scientific enquiry. Hence, whenever we notice a remarkable effect of any kind, our first question ought to be, Can it be reproduced? What are the circumstances under which it has happened? And will it _always_ happen again if those circumstances, so far as we have been able to collect them, co-exist?

(111.) The circumstances, then, which accompany any observed fact, are main features in its observation, at least until it is ascertained by sufficient experience what circumstances have nothing to do with it, and might therefore have been left unobserved without sacrificing _the fact_. In observing and recording a fact, therefore, altogether new, we ought not to omit any circumstance capable of being noted, lest some one of the omitted circumstances should be essentially connected with the fact, and its omission should, therefore, reduce the implied statement of a _law of nature_ to the mere record of an _historical event_. For instance, in the fall of meteoric stones, flashes of fire are seen proceeding from a cloud, and a loud rattling noise like thunder is heard. These circumstances, and the sudden stroke and destruction ensuing, long caused them to be confounded with an effect of lightning, and called thunderbolts. But one circumstance is enough to mark the difference: the flash and sound have been perceived occasionally to emanate from a _very small cloud_ insulated in _a clear sky_; a combination of circumstances which never happens in a thunder storm, but which is undoubtedly intimately connected with their real origin.

(112.) Recorded observation consists of two distinct parts: 1st, an exact notice of the thing observed, and of all the particulars which may be supposed to have any natural connection with it; and, 2dly, a true and faithful record of them. As our senses are the only inlets by which we receive impressions of facts, we must take care, in observing, to have them all in activity, and to let nothing escape notice which affects any one of them. Thus, if lightning were to strike the house we inhabit, we ought to notice what kind of light we saw--whether a sheet of flame, a darting spark, or a broken zig-zag; in what direction moving, to what objects adhering, its colour, its duration, &c.; what sounds were heard--explosive, crashing, rattling, momentary, or gradually increasing and fading, &c.; whether any smell of fire was perceptible, and if sulphureous, metallic, or such as would arise merely from substances scorched by the flash, &c.; whether we felt any shock, stroke, or peculiar sensation, or experienced any strange taste in our mouths. Then, besides detailing the effects of the stroke, all the circumstances which might in any degree seem likely to attract, produce, or modify it, such as the presence of conductors, neighbouring objects, the state of the atmosphere, the barometer, thermometer, &c., and the disposition of the clouds, should be noted; and after all this particularity, the question _how_ the house _came to be struck?_ might ultimately depend on the fact that a flash of lightning twenty miles off passed at that particular moment _from the ground to the clouds_, by an effect of what has been termed the returning stroke.

(113.) A writer in the Edinburgh Philosophical Journal[35] states himself to have been led into a series of investigations on the chemical nature of a peculiar acid, by noticing, accidentally, a bitter taste in a liquid about to be thrown away. Chemistry is full of such incidents.

(114.) In transient phenomena, if the number of particulars be great, and the time to observe them short, we must consult our memory before they have had time to fade, or refresh it by placing ourselves as nearly as possible in the same circumstances again; go back to the spot, for instance, and try the words of our statement by appeal to all remaining indications, &c. This is most especially necessary where we have not observed ourselves, but only collect and record the observations of others, particularly of illiterate or prejudiced persons, on any rare phenomenon, such as the passing of a great meteor,--the fall of a stone from the sky,--the shock of an earthquake,--an extraordinary hailstorm, &c.

(115.) In all cases which admit of numeration or measurement, it is of the utmost consequence to obtain precise numerical statements, whether in the measure of time, space, or quantity of any kind. To omit this, is, in the first place, to expose ourselves to illusions of sense which may lead to the grossest errors. Thus, in alpine countries, we are constantly deceived in heights and distances; and when we have overcome the first impression which leads us to under-estimate them, we are then hardly less apt to run into the opposite extreme. But it is not merely in preserving us from exaggerated impressions that numerical precision is desirable. It is the very soul of science; and its attainment affords the only criterion, or at least the best, of the truth of theories, and the correctness of experiments. Thus, it was entirely to the omission of exact numerical determinations of quantity that the mistakes and confusion of the Stahlian chemistry were attributable,--a confusion which dissipated like a morning mist as soon as precision, in this respect, came to be regarded as essential. Chemistry is in the most pre-eminent degree a science of quantity; and to enumerate the discoveries which have arisen in it, from the mere determination of weights and measures, would be nearly to give a synopsis of this branch of knowledge. We need only mention the law of definite proportions, which fixes the composition of every body in nature in determinate proportional weights of its ingredients.

(116.) Indeed, it is a character of all the higher laws of nature to assume the form of precise _quantitative_ statement. Thus, the law of gravitation, the most universal truth at which human reason has yet arrived, expresses not merely the general fact of the mutual attraction of all matter; not merely the vague statement that its influence decreases as the distance increases, but the exact numerical rate at which that decrease takes place; so that when its amount is known at any one distance it may be calculated exactly for any other. Thus, too, the laws of crystallography, which limit the forms assumed by natural substances, when left to their own inherent powers of aggregation, to precise geometrical figures, with fixed angles and proportions, have the same essential character of strict mathematical expression, without which no exact particular conclusions could ever be drawn from them.

(117.) But, to arrive at laws of this description, it is evident that every step of our enquiry must be perfectly free from the slightest degree of looseness and indecision, and carry with it the full force of strict numerical announcement; and that, therefore, the observations themselves on which all laws ultimately rest ought to have the same property. None of our senses, however, gives us direct information for the exact comparison of quantity. Number, indeed, that is to say, integer number, is an object of sense, because we can count; but we can neither weigh, measure, nor form any precise estimate of fractional parts by the unassisted senses. Scarcely any man could tell the difference between twenty pounds and the same weight increased or diminished by a few ounces; still less could he judge of the proportion between an ounce of gold and a hundred grains of cotton by balancing them in his hands. To take another instance: the eye is no judge of the proportion of different degrees of illumination, even when seen side by side; and if an interval elapses, and circumstances change, nothing can be more vague than its judgments. When we gaze with admiration at the gorgeous spectacle of the golden clouds at sunset, which seem drenched in light and glowing like flames of real fire, it is hardly by any effort we can persuade ourselves to regard them as the very same objects which at noonday pass unnoticed as mere white clouds basking in the sun, only participating, from their great horizontal distance, in the ruddy tint which luminaries acquire by shining through a great extent of the vapours of the atmosphere, and thereby even losing something of their light. So it is with our estimates of time, velocity, and all other matters of quantity; they are absolutely vague, and inadequate to form a foundation for any exact conclusion.

(118.) In this emergency we are obliged to have recourse to instrumental aids, that is, to contrivances which shall substitute for the vague impressions of sense the precise one of number, and reduce all measurement to counting. As a first preliminary towards effecting this, we fix on convenient _standards_ of weight, dimension, time, &c., and invent contrivances for readily and correctly repeating them as often as we please, and counting how often such a standard unit is contained in the thing, be it weight, space, time, or angle, we wish to measure; and if there be a fractional part over, we measure this as a new quantity by aliquot parts of the former standard.

(119.) If every scientific enquirer observed only for his own satisfaction, and reasoned only on his own observations, it would be of little importance what standards he used, or what contrivances (if only just ones) he employed for this purpose; but if it be intended (as it is most important they should) that observations once made should remain as records to all mankind, and to all posterity, it is evidently of the highest consequence that all enquirers should agree on the use of a common standard, and that this should be one not liable to change by lapse of time. The selection and verification of such standards, however, will easily be understood to be a matter of extreme difficulty, if only from the mere circumstance that, to verify the permanence of one standard, we must compare it with others, which it is possible may be themselves inaccurate, or, at least, stand in need of verification.

(120.) Here we can only call to our assistance the presumed permanence of the great laws of Nature, with all experience in its favour, and the strong impression we have of the general composure and steadiness of every thing relating to the gigantic mass we inhabit--“the great globe itself.” In its uniform rotation on its axis, accordingly, we find a standard of time, which nothing has ever given us reason to regard as subject to change, and which, compared with other periods which the revolutions of the planets about the sun afford, has demonstrably undergone none since the earliest history. In the dimensions of the earth we find a natural unit of the measure of space, which possesses in perfection every quality that can be desired; and in its attraction combined with its rotation the researches of dynamical science have enabled us, through the medium of the pendulum, to obtain another invariable standard, more refined and less obvious, it is true, in its origin, but possessing a great advantage in its capability of ready verification, and therefore easily made to serve as a check on the other. The former, viz. direct measurement of the dimensions of the earth, is the origin of the _mètre_, the French unit of linear measure; the latter, of the British yard. Theoretically speaking, they are equally eligible; but when we consider that the _quantity directly measured_, in the case of the mètre, is a length a great many thousand times the final unit, and in the pendulum or yard very nearly the unit itself, there can be no hesitation in giving the preference as an original measure to the former, because any error committed in the process by which that is determined becomes subdivided in the final result; while, on the other hand, any minute error committed in determining the length of the pendulum becomes multiplied by the repetition of the unit in all measurements of considerable lengths performed in yards.

(121.) The same admirable invention of the pendulum affords a means of subdividing time to an almost unlimited nicety. A clock is nothing more than a piece of mechanism for counting the oscillations of a pendulum; and by that peculiar property of the pendulum, that one vibration commences exactly where the last terminates, no part of time is lost or gained in the juxta-position of the units so counted, so that the precise fractional part of a day can be ascertained which each such unit measures.

(122.) It is owing to this peculiar property by which the _juxta-position_ of units of time and weight can be performed _without error_, that the whole of the accuracy with which time and weight can be multiplied and subdivided is owing.[36] The same thing cannot be accomplished in _space_, by any method we are yet acquainted with, so that our means of subdividing space are much inferior in precision. The beautiful principle of repetition, invented by Borda, offers the nearest approach to it, but cannot be said to be absolutely free from the source of error in question. The method of “double weighing,” which we owe to the same distinguished observer, affords an instance of the direct comparison of two equal weights independent of almost every source of error which can affect the comparison of one object with another. It has been remarked by Biot, that previous to the invention of this elegant method, instruments afforded no perfect means of ascertaining the weight of a body.

(123.) But it is not enough to possess a standard of this abstract kind: a real material measure must be constructed, and exact copies of it taken. This, however, is not very difficult; the great difficulty is to preserve it unaltered from age to age; for unless we transmit to posterity the units of our measurements, _such as we have ourselves used them_, we, in fact, only half bequeath to them our observations. This is a point too much lost sight of, and it were much to be wished that some direct provision for so important an object were made.[37]

(124.) But, it may be asked, if our measurement of quantity is thus unavoidably liable to error, how is it possible that our observations can possess that quality of numerical veracity which is requisite to render them the foundation of laws, whose distinguishing perfection consists in their strict mathematical expression? To this the reply is twofold. 1st, that though we admit the necessary existence of numerical error in every observation, we can always assign a limit which such error cannot possibly exceed; and the extent of this _latitude of error of observation_ is less in proportion to the perfection of the instrumental means we possess, and the care bestowed on their employment. In the greater part of modern measurements it is, in point of fact, extremely minute, and may be still further diminished, almost to any required extent, by repeating the measurements a great number of times, and under a great variety of circumstances, and taking a mean of the results, when errors of opposite kinds will, at length, compensate each other. But, 2dly, there exists a much more fundamental reply to this objection. In reasoning upon our observations, the existence and possible amount of quantitative error is always to be allowed for; and the extent to which theories may be affected by it is never to be lost sight of. In reasoning upwards, from observations confessedly imperfect to general laws, we must take care always to regard our conclusions as conditional, so far as they may be affected by such unavoidable imperfections; and when at length we shall have arrived at our highest point, and attained to axioms which admit of general and deductive reasoning, the question, whether they _are_ vitiated by the errors of observation or not, will still remain to be decided, and must become the object of subsequent verification. This point will be made the subject of more distinct consideration hereafter, when we come to speak of the verification of theories and the laws of probability.

(125.) With respect to our record of observations, it should be not only circumstantial but _faithful_; by which we mean, that it should contain all we did _observe_, and nothing else. Without any intention of falsifying our record, we may do so unperceived by ourselves, owing to a mixture of the views and language of an erroneous theory with that of simple fact. Thus, for example, if, in describing the effect of lightning, we should say, “The thunderbolt struck with violence against the side of the house, and beat in the wall,” a fact would be stated which we did not see, and would lead our hearers to believe that a solid or ponderable projectile was concerned. The “strong smell of sulphur,” which is sometimes said to accompany lightning, is a remnant of the theory which made thunder and lightning the explosion of a kind of aërial gunpowder, composed of sulphureous and nitrous exhalations. There are some subjects particularly infested with this mixture of theory in the statement of observed fact. The older chemistry was so overborne by this mischief, as quite to confound and nullify the descriptions of innumerable curious and laborious experiments. And in geology, till a very recent period, it was often extremely difficult, from this circumstance, to know what _were_ the facts observed. Thus, Faujas de St. Fond, in his work on the volcanoes of central France, describes with every appearance of minute precision craters existing no where but in his own imagination. There is no greater fault (direct falsification of fact excepted) which can be committed by an observer.

(126.) When particular branches of science have acquired that degree of consistency and generality, which admits of an abstract statement of laws, and legitimate deductive reasoning, the principle of the division of labour tends to separate the province of the observer from that of the theorist. There is no accounting for the difference of minds or inclinations, which leads one man to observe with interest the developements of phenomena, another to speculate on their causes; but were it not for this happy disagreement, it may be doubted whether the higher sciences could ever have attained even their present degree of perfection. As laws acquire generality, the influence of individual observations becomes less, and a higher and higher degree of refinement in their performance, as well as a great multiplication in their number, becomes necessary to give them importance. In astronomy, for instance, the superior departments of theory are completely disjoined from the routine of practical observation.

(127.) To make a perfect observer, however, either in astronomy or in any other department of science, an extensive acquaintance is requisite, not only with the particular science to which his observations relate, but with every branch of knowledge which may enable him to appretiate and neutralize the effect of extraneous disturbing causes. Thus furnished, he will be prepared to seize on any of those minute indications, which (such is the subtlety of nature) often connect phenomena which seem quite remote from each other. He will have his eyes as it were opened, that they may be struck at once with any occurrence which, according to received theories, ought not to happen; for these are the facts which serve as clews to new discoveries. The deviation of the magnetic needle, by the influence of an electrified wire, must have happened a thousand times to a perceptible amount, under the eyes of persons engaged in galvanic experiments, with philosophical apparatus of all kinds standing around them; but it required the eye of a philosopher such as Oërsted to seize the indication, refer it to its origin, and thereby connect two great branches of science. The grand discovery of Malus of the polarization of light by reflection originated in his casual remark of the disappearance of one of the images of a window in the Luxembourg palace, one evening, when strongly illuminated by the setting sun, viewed through a doubly refracting prism.

(128.) To avail ourselves as far as possible of the advantages which a division of labour may afford for the collection of facts, by the industry and activity which the general diffusion of information, in the present age, brings into exercise, is an object of great importance. There is scarcely any well-informed person, who, if he has but the will, has not also the power to add something essential to the general stock of knowledge, if he will only observe regularly and methodically some particular class of facts which may most excite his attention, or which his situation may best enable him to study with effect. To instance one or two subjects, which can only be effectually improved by the united observations of great numbers widely dispersed:--Meteorology, one of the most complicated but important branches of science, is at the same time one in which any person who will attend to plain rules, and bestow the necessary degree of attention, may do effectual service. What benefits has not Geology reaped from the activity of industrious individuals, who, setting aside all theoretical views, have been content to exercise the useful and highly entertaining occupation of collecting specimens from the countries which they visit? In short, there is no branch of science whatever in which, at least, if useful and sensible queries were distinctly proposed, an immense mass of valuable information might not be collected from those who, in their various lines of life, at home or abroad, stationary or in travel, would gladly avail themselves of opportunities of being useful. Nothing would tend better to attain this end than the circulation of printed skeleton forms, on various subjects, which should be so formed as, 1st, to ask distinct and pertinent questions, admitting of short and definite answers; 2dly, To call for exact numerical statement on all principal points; 3dly, To point out the attendant circumstances most likely to prove influential, and which ought to be observed; 4thly, To call for their transmission to a common centre.

CHAP. V.

OF THE CLASSIFICATION OF NATURAL OBJECTS AND PHENOMENA, AND OF NOMENCLATURE.

(129.) The number and variety of objects and relations which the observation of nature brings before us are so great as to distract the attention, unless assisted and methodized by such judicious distribution of them in classes as shall limit our view to a few at a time, or to groups so bound together by general resemblances that, for the immediate purpose for which we consider them, they may be regarded as individuals. Before we can enter into any thing which deserves to be called a general and systematic view of nature, it is necessary that we should possess an enumeration, if not complete, at least of considerable extent, of her materials and combinations; and that those which appear in any degree important should be distinguished by names which may not only tend to fix them in our recollection, but may constitute, as it were, nuclei or centres, about which information may collect into masses. The imposition of a name on any subject of contemplation, be it a material object, a phenomenon of nature, or a group of facts and relations, looked upon in a peculiar point of view, is an epoch in its history of great importance. It not only enables us readily to refer to it in conversation or writing, without circumlocution, but, what is of more consequence, it gives it a recognized existence in our own minds, as a matter for separate and peculiar consideration; places it on a list for examination; and renders it a head or title, under which information of various descriptions may be arranged; and, in consequence, fits it to perform the office of a connecting link between all the subjects to which such information may refer.

(130.) For these purposes, however, a temporary or provisional name, or one adapted for common parlance, may suffice. But when a very great multitude of objects come to be referred to one class, especially of such as do not offer very obvious and remarkable distinctions, a more systematic and regular nomenclature becomes necessary, in which the names shall recall the differences as well as the resemblances between the individuals of a class, and in which the direct relation between the name and the object shall materially assist the solution of the problem, “_given the one, to determine the other_.” How necessary this may become, will be at once seen, when we consider the immense number of individual objects, or rather species, presented by almost every branch of science of any extent; which absolutely require to be distinguished by names. Thus, the botanist is conversant with from 80,000 to 100,000 species of plants; the entomologist with, perhaps, as many, of insects: the chemist has to register the properties of combinations, by twos, threes, fours, and upwards, in various doses of upwards of fifty different elements, all distinguished from each other by essential differences; and of which though a great many thousands are known, by far the greater part have never yet been formed, although hundreds of new ones are coming to light, in perpetual succession, as the science advances; all of which are to be named as they arise. The objects of astronomy are, literally, as numerous as the stars of heaven; and although not more than one or two thousand require to be expressed by distinct names, yet the number, respecting which particular information is required, is not less than a hundred times that amount; and all these must be registered in lists, (so as to be at once referred to, and so that none shall escape,) if not by actual names, at least by some equivalent means.

(131.) Nomenclature, then, is, in itself, undoubtedly an important part of science, as it prevents our being lost in a wilderness of particulars, and involved in inextricable confusion. Happily, in those great branches of science where the objects of classification are most numerous, and the necessity for a clear and convenient nomenclature most pressing, no very great difficulty in its establishment is felt. The very multitude of the objects themselves affords the power of grouping them in subordinate classes, sufficiently well defined to admit of names, and these again into others, whose names may become attached to, or compounded with, the former, till at length the particular species is identified. The facility with which the botanist, the entomologist, or the chemist, refers by name to any individual object in his science shows what may be accomplished in this way when characters are themselves distinct. In other branches, however, considerable difficulty is experienced. This arises mostly where the species to be distinguished are separated from each other chiefly by difference in degree, of certain qualities common to all, and where the degrees shade into each other insensibly. Perhaps such subjects can hardly be considered ripe for systematic nomenclature; and that the attempt to apply it ought only to be partial, embracing such groups and parcels of individuals as agree in characters evidently natural and generic, and leaving the remainder under trivial or provisional denominations, till they shall be better known, and capable of being scientifically grouped.

(132.) Indeed, nomenclature, in a systematic point of view, is as much, perhaps more, a consequence than a cause of extended knowledge. Any one may give an arbitrary name to a thing, merely to be able to talk of it; but, to give a name which shall at once refer it to a place in a system, we must know its properties; and we must _have_ a system, large enough, and regular enough, to receive it in a place which belongs to it, and to no other. It appears, therefore, doubtful whether it is desirable, for the essential purposes of science, that extreme refinement in systematic nomenclature should be insisted on. Were science perfect, indeed, systems of classification might be agreed on, which should assign to every object in nature a place in some class, to which it more remarkably and pre-eminently belonged than to any other, and under which it might acquire a name, never afterwards subject to change. But, so long as this is not the case, and new relations are daily discovered, we must be very cautious how we insist strongly on the establishment and extension of classes which have in them any thing artificial, as a basis of a rigid nomenclature; and especially how we mistake the means for the end, and sacrifice convenience and distinctness to a rage for arrangement. Every nomenclature dependent on artificial classifications is necessarily subject to fluctuations; and hardly any thing can counterbalance the evil of disturbing well-established names, which have once acquired a general circulation. In nature, one and the same object makes a part of an infinite number of different systems,--an individual in an infinite number of groups, some of greater, some of less importance, according to the different points of view in which they may be considered. Hence, as many different systems of nomenclature may be imagined as there can be discovered different heads of classification, while yet it is highly desirable that each object should be universally spoken of under one name, _if possible_. Consequently, in all subjects where comprehensive heads of classification do not prominently offer themselves, all nomenclature must be a balance of difficulties, and a good, short, _unmeaning_ name, which has once obtained a footing in usage, is preferable to almost any other.

(133.) There is no science in which the evils resulting from a rage for nomenclature have been felt to such an extent as in mineralogy. The number of simple minerals actually recognised by mineralogists does not exceed a few hundreds, yet there is scarcely one which has not four or five names in different books. The consequence is most unhappy. No name is suffered to endure long enough to take root; and every new writer on this interesting science begins, as a matter of course, by making a _tabula rasa_ of all former nomenclature, and proposing a new one in its place. The climax has at length been put to this most inconvenient and bewildering state of things by the appearance of a system supported by extraordinary merit in other respects, and therefore carrying the highest authority, in which names which had acquired universal circulation, and had hitherto maintained their ground in the midst of the general confusion, and even worked their way into common language, as denotive of _species_ too definite to admit of mistake, are actually rendered _generic_, and extended to whole groups, comprising objects agreeing in nothing but the arbitrary heads of a classification from which the most important natural relations are professedly and purposely rejected.[38]

(134.) The classifications by which science is advanced, however, are widely different from those which serve as bases for artificial systems of nomenclature. They cross and intersect one another, as it were, in every possible way, and have for their very aim to interweave all the objects of nature in a close and compact web of mutual relations and dependence. As soon, then, as any resemblance or analogy, any point of agreement whatever, is perceived between any two or more things,--be they what they will, whether objects, or phenomena, or laws,--they immediately and _ipso facto_ constitute themselves into a group or class, which may become enlarged to any extent by the accession of such new objects, phenomena, or laws, agreeing in the same point, as may come to be subsequently ascertained. It is thus that the materials of the world become grouped in natural families, such as chemistry furnishes examples of, in its various groups of acids, alkalies, sulphurets, &c.; or botany, in its euphorbiaceæ, umbelliferæ, &c. It is thus, too, that phenomena assume their places under general points of resemblance; as, in optics, those which refer themselves to the class of periodic colours, double refraction, &c.; and that resemblances themselves become traced, which it is the business of induction to generalize and include in abstract propositions.

(135.) But every class formed on a positive resemblance of characters, or on a distinct analogy, draws with it the consideration of a negative class, in which that resemblance either does not subsist at all, or the contrary takes place; and again, there are classes in which a given quality is possessed by the different individuals in a descending scale of intensity. Now, it is of consequence to distinguish between cases in which there is a real opposition of quality, or a mere diminution of intensity, in some quality susceptible of degrees, till it becomes imperceptible. For example, between transparency and opacity there would at first sight appear a direct opposition; but, on nearer consideration, when we consider the gradations by which transparency diminishes in natural substances, we shall see reason to admit that the latter quality, instead of being the _opposite_ of the former, is only its _extreme lowest degree_. Again, in the arrangement of natural objects under the head of weight or specific gravity, the scale extends through all nature, and we know of no natural body in which the opposite of gravity, or positive _levity_, subsists. On the other hand, the opposite electricities; the north and south magnetic polarities; the alkaline and acid qualities of chemical agents; the positive and negative rotations impressed by plates of rock crystal on the planes of polarization of the rays of light, and many other cases, exemplify not merely a negation, but an active opposition of quality. Both these modes of classification have their peculiar importance in the inductive process: the one, as affording an opportunity of tracing a relation between phenomena by the observation of a correspondence in their scales of intensity; the other, by that of contrast, as we shall show more at large in the next section.

(136.) There is a very wide distinction, too, to be taken between such classes as turn upon a single head of resemblance among individuals otherwise very different, and such as bind together in natural groups, by a great variety of analogies, objects which yet differ in many remarkable particulars. For example: if we make colourless transparency a head of classification, the list of the class will comprise objects differing most widely in their nature, such as water, air, diamond, spirit of wine, glass, &c. On the other hand, the chemical families of alkalies, metals, &c. are instances of groups of the other kind; which, with properties in many respects different, still agree in a general resemblance of several others, which at once decides us in considering them as having a natural relation. In the former cases, our ingenuity is exercised to determine what can be the cause of their resemblance, in the latter, of their difference; the former belong to the province of inductive generalization, and afford the most instructive cases for the investigation of causes; the latter appertain to the more secret recesses of nature; the very existence of such families being in itself one of the great and complicated phenomena of the universe, which we cannot hope to unriddle without an intimate and extensive acquaintance with the highest laws.[39]

CHAP. VI.

OF THE FIRST STAGE OF INDUCTION.--THE DISCOVERY OF PROXIMATE CAUSES, AND LAWS OF THE LOWEST DEGREE OF GENERALITY, AND THEIR VERIFICATION.

(137.) The first thing that a philosophic mind considers, when any new phenomenon presents itself, is its _explanation_, or reference to an immediate producing cause. If that cannot be ascertained, the next is to _generalize_ the phenomenon, and include it, with others analogous to it, in the expression of some law, in the hope that its consideration, in a more advanced state of knowledge, may lead to the discovery of an adequate proximate cause.

(138.) Experience having shown us the manner in which one phenomenon depends on another in a great variety of cases, we find ourselves provided, as science extends, with a continually increasing stock of such antecedent phenomena, or causes (meaning at present merely proximate causes), competent, under different modifications, to the production of a great multitude of effects, besides those which originally led to a knowledge of them. To such causes Newton has applied the term _veræ causæ_; that is, causes recognized as having a real existence in nature, and not being mere hypotheses or figments of the mind. To exemplify the distinction:--The phenomenon of shells found in rocks, at a great height above the sea, has been attributed to several causes. By some it has been ascribed to a plastic virtue in the soil; by some, to fermentation; by some, to the influence of the celestial bodies; by some, to the casual passage of pilgrims with their scallops; by some, to birds feeding on shell-fish; and by all modern geologists, with one consent, to the life and death of real mollusca at the bottom of the sea, and a subsequent alteration of the relative level of the land and sea. Of these, the plastic virtue and celestial influence belong to the class of figments of fancy. Casual transport by pilgrims is a real cause, and might account for a few shells here and there dropped on frequented passes, but is not extensive enough for the purpose of explanation. Fermentation, generally, is a real cause, so far as that there _is such a thing_; but it is not a real cause of the production of a shell in a rock, since no such thing was ever witnessed as one of its effects, and rocks and stones do not ferment. On the other hand, for a shell-fish dying at the bottom of the sea to leave his shell in the mud, where it becomes silted over and imbedded, happens daily; and the elevation of the bottom of the sea to become dry land has really been witnessed so often, and on such a scale, as to qualify it for a _vera causa_ available in sound philosophy.

(139.) To take another instance, likewise drawn from the same deservedly popular science:--The fact of a great change in the general climate of large tracts of the globe, if not of the whole earth, and of a diminution of general temperature, having been recognised by geologists, from their examination of the remains of animals and vegetables of former ages enclosed in the strata, various causes for such diminution of temperature have been assigned. Some consider the whole globe as having gradually cooled from absolute fusion; some regard the immensely superior activity of former volcanoes, and consequent more copious communication of internal heat to the surface, in former ages, as the cause. Neither of these can be regarded as real causes in the sense here intended; for we do not _know_ that the globe has so cooled from fusion, nor are we sure that such supposed greater activity of former than of present volcanoes really did exist. A cause, possessing the essential requisites of a _vera causa_, has, however, been brought forward[40] in the varying influence of the distribution of land and sea over the surface of the globe: a change of such distribution, in the lapse of ages, by the degradation of the old continents, and the elevation of new, being a demonstrated fact; and the influence of such a change on the climates of particular regions, if not of the whole globe, being a perfectly fair conclusion, from what we know of continental, insular, and oceanic climates by actual observation. Here, then, we have, at least, a cause on which a philosopher may consent to reason; though, whether the changes actually going on are such as to warrant the whole extent of the conclusion, or are even taking place in the right direction, may be considered as undecided till the matter has been more thoroughly examined.

(140.) To this we may add another, which has likewise the essential characters of a _vera causa_, in the astronomical _fact_ of the actual slow diminution of the eccentricity of the earth’s orbit round the sun; and which, as a general one, affecting the _mean temperature of the whole globe_, and as one of which the effect is both inevitable, and susceptible, to a certain degree, of exact estimation, deserves consideration. It is evident that the _mean_ temperature of the whole surface of the globe, in so far as it is maintained by the action of the sun at a higher degree than it would have were the sun extinguished, must depend on the mean quantity of the sun’s rays which it receives, or, which comes to the same thing, on the _total_ quantity received in a given invariable time: and the length of the year being unchangeable in all the fluctuations of the planetary system, it follows, that the total _annual_ amount of solar radiation will determine, _cæteris paribus_, the general climate of the earth. Now, it is not difficult to show that this amount is inversely proportional to the minor axis of the ellipse described by the earth about the sun, regarded as slowly variable; and that, therefore, the major axis remaining, as we know it to be, constant, and the orbit being actually in a state of approach to a circle, and, consequently, the minor axis being on the _increase_, the mean annual amount of solar radiation received by the whole earth must be actually on the _decrease_. We have here, therefore, an evident real cause, of sufficient universality, and acting _in the right direction_, to account for the phenomenon. Its adequacy is another consideration.[41]

(141.) Whenever, therefore, any phenomenon presents itself for explanation, we naturally seek, in the first instance, to refer it to some one or other of those real causes which experience has shown to exist, and to be efficacious in producing similar phenomena. In this attempt our probability of success will, of course, mainly depend, 1st, On the number and variety of causes experience has placed at our disposal; 2dly, On our habit of applying them to the explanation of natural phenomena; and, 3dly, On the number of analogous phenomena we can collect, which have either been explained, or which admit of explanation by some one or other of those causes, and the closeness of their analogy with that in question.

(142.) Here, then, we see the great importance of possessing a stock of analogous instances or phenomena which class themselves with that under consideration, the explanation of one among which may naturally be expected to lead to that of all the rest. If the analogy of two phenomena be very close and striking, while, at the same time, the cause of one is very obvious, it becomes scarcely possible to refuse to admit the action of an analogous cause in the other, though not so obvious in itself. For instance, when we see a stone whirled round in a sling, describing a circular orbit round the hand, keeping the string stretched, and flying away the moment it breaks, we never hesitate to regard it as retained in its orbit by the tension of the string, that is, by _a force_ directed to the centre; for we feel that we do really exert such a force. We have here _the direct perception_ of the cause. When, therefore, we see a great body like the moon circulating round the earth and not flying off, we cannot help believing it to be prevented from so doing, not indeed by a material tie, but by that which operates in the other case through the intermedium of the string,--a _force_ directed constantly to the centre. It is thus that we are continually acquiring a knowledge of the existence of causes acting under circumstances of such concealment as effectually to prevent their direct discovery.

(143.) In general we must observe that motion, wherever produced or changed, invariably points out the existence of _force_ as its cause; and thus the forces of nature become known and measured by the motions they produce. Thus, the _force_ of magnetism becomes known by the deviation produced by iron in a compass needle, or by a needle leaping up to a magnet held over it, as certainly as by that adhesion to it, when in contact and at rest, which requires force to break the connection; and thus the currents produced in the surface of a quantity of quicksilver, electrified under a conducting fluid, have pointed out the existence and direction of forces of enormous intensity developed by the electric circuit, of which we should not otherwise have had the least suspicion.[42]

(144.) But when the cause of a phenomenon neither presents itself obviously on the consideration of the phenomenon itself, nor is as it were forced on our attention by a case of strong analogy, such as above described, we have then no resource but in a deliberate assemblage of all the parallel instances we can muster; that is, to the formation of a class of facts, having the phenomenon in question for a head of classification; and to a search among the individuals of this class for some other common points of agreement, among which the cause will of necessity be found. But if more than one cause should appear, we must then endeavour to find, or, if we cannot find, to _produce, new facts_, in which each of these in succession shall be wanting, while yet they agree in the general point in question. Here we find the use of what Bacon terms “_crucial instances_,” which are phenomena brought forward to decide between two causes, each having the same analogies in its favour. And here, too, we perceive the utility of _experiment_ as distinguished from mere passive observation. We make an experiment of the crucial kind when we form combinations, and put in action causes from which some particular one shall be deliberately excluded, and some other purposely admitted; and by the agreement or disagreement of the resulting phenomena with those of the class under examination, we decide our judgment.

(145.) When we would lay down general rules for guiding and facilitating our search, among a great mass of assembled facts, for their common cause, we must have regard to the characters of that relation which we intend by cause and effect. Now, these are,--

1st, Invariable connection, and, in particular, invariable antecedence of the cause and consequence of the effect, unless prevented by some counteracting cause. But it must be observed, that, in a great number of natural phenomena, the effect is produced gradually, while the cause often goes on increasing in intensity; so that the antecedence of the one and consequence of the other becomes difficult to trace, though it really exists. On the other hand, the effect often follows the cause so instantaneously, that the interval cannot be perceived. In consequence of this, it is sometimes difficult to decide, of two phenomena constantly accompanying one another, which is cause or which effect.

2d, Invariable negation of the effect with absence of the cause, unless some other cause be capable of producing the same effect.

3d, Increase or diminution of the effect, with the increased or diminished intensity of the cause, in cases which admit of increase and diminution.

4th, Proportionality of the effect to its cause in all cases of _direct unimpeded_ action.

5th, Reversal of the effect with that of the cause.

(146.) From these characters we are led to the following observations, which may be considered as so many propositions readily applicable to particular cases, or rules of philosophizing: we conclude, 1st, That if in our group of facts there be one in which any assigned peculiarity, or attendant circumstance, is wanting or opposite, such peculiarity cannot be the cause we seek.

(147.) 2d, That any circumstance in which all the facts without exception agree, _may_ be the cause in question, or, if not, at least a collateral effect of the same cause: if there be but one such point of agreement, this possibility becomes a certainty; and, on the other hand, if there be more than one, they may be concurrent causes.

(148.) 3d, That we are not to deny the existence of a cause in favour of which we have a unanimous agreement of strong analogies, though it may not be apparent how such a cause can produce the effect, or even though it may be difficult to conceive its existence under the circumstances of the case; in such cases we should rather appeal to experience when possible, than decide _à priori_ against the cause, and try whether it cannot be made apparent.

(149.) For instance: seeing the sun vividly luminous, every analogy leads us to conclude it intensely hot. How heat can produce light, we know not; and how such a heat can be maintained, we can form no conception. Yet we are not, therefore, entitled to deny the inference.

(150.) 4th, That contrary or opposing facts are equally instructive for the discovery of causes with favourable ones.

(151.) For instance: when air is confined with moistened iron filings in a close vessel over water, its bulk is diminished, by a certain portion of it being abstracted and combining with the iron, producing _rust_. And, if the remainder be examined, it is found that it will _not_ support flame or animal life. This contrary fact shows that the cause of the support of flame and animal life is to be looked for in that part of the air which the iron abstracts, and which rusts it.

(152.) 5th, That causes will very frequently become obvious, by a mere arrangement of our facts in the order of intensity in which some peculiar quality subsists; though not of necessity, because counteracting or modifying causes may be at the same time in action.

(153.) For example: sound consists in impulses communicated to our ears by the air. If a series of impulses of equal force be communicated to it at equal intervals of time, at first in slow succession, and by degrees more and more rapidly, we hear at first a rattling noise, then a low murmur, and then a hum, which by degrees acquires the character of a musical note, rising higher and higher in acuteness, till its pitch becomes too high for the ear to follow. And from this correspondence between the pitch of the note and the rapidity of succession of the impulse, we conclude that our sensation of the different pitches of musical notes originates in the different rapidities with which their impulses are communicated to our ears.

(154.) 6th, That such counteracting or modifying causes may subsist unperceived, and annul the effects of the cause we seek, in instances which, but for their action, would have come into our class of favourable facts; and that, therefore, exceptions may often be made to disappear by removing or allowing for such counteracting causes. This remark becomes of the greatest importance, when (as is often the case) a single striking exception stands out, as it were, against an otherwise unanimous array of facts in favour of a certain cause.

(155.) Thus, in chemistry, the _alkaline_ quality of the alkaline and earthy bases is found to be due to the presence of oxygen combined with one or other of a peculiar set of metals. Ammonia is, however, a violent outstanding exception, such as here alluded to, being a compound of azote and hydrogen: but there are almost certain indications that this exception is not a real one, but assumes that appearance in consequence of some modifying cause not understood.

(156.) 7th, If we can either find produced by nature, or produce designedly for ourselves, two instances which agree _exactly_ in all but one particular, and differ in that one, its influence in producing the phenomenon, if it have any, _must_ thereby be rendered sensible. If that particular be present in one instance and wanting altogether in the other, the production or non-production of the phenomenon will decide whether it be or be not the only cause: still more evidently, if it be present _contrariwise_ in the two cases, and the effect be thereby reversed. But if its total presence or absence only produces a change in the _degree_ or intensity of the phenomenon, we can then only conclude that it acts as a concurrent cause or condition with some other to be sought elsewhere. In nature, it is comparatively rare to find instances pointedly differing in one circumstance and agreeing in every other; but when we call experiment to our aid, it is easy to produce them; and this is, in fact, the grand application of _experiments of enquiry_ in physical researches. They become more valuable, and their results clearer, in proportion as they possess this quality (of agreeing exactly in all their circumstances but one), since the question put to nature becomes thereby more pointed, and its answer more decisive.

(157.) 8th, If we cannot obtain a complete negative or opposition of the circumstance whose influence we would ascertain, we must endeavour to find cases where it varies considerably in degree. If _this_ cannot be done, we may perhaps be able to weaken or exalt its influence by the introduction of some fresh circumstance, which, abstractedly considered, seems _likely_ to produce this effect, and thus obtain indirect evidence of its influence. But then we are always to remember, that the evidence so obtained _is_ indirect, and that the new circumstance introduced _may_ have a direct influence of its own, or may exercise a modifying one on some _other_ circumstance.

(158.) 9th, Complicated phenomena, in which several causes concurring, opposing, or quite independent of each other, operate at once, so as to produce a compound effect, may be simplified by subducting the effect of all the known causes, as well as the nature of the case permits, either by deductive reasoning or by appeal to experience, and thus leaving, as it were, a _residual phenomenon_ to be explained. It is by this process, in fact, that science, in its present advanced state, is chiefly promoted. Most of the phenomena which nature presents are very complicated; and when the effects of all known causes are estimated with exactness, and subducted, the residual facts are constantly appearing in the form of phenomena altogether new, and leading to the most important conclusions.

(159.) For example: the return of the comet predicted by professor Encke, a great many times in succession, and the general good agreement of its calculated with its observed place during any one of its periods of visibility, would lead us to say that its gravitation towards the sun and planets is the sole and sufficient cause of all the phenomena of its orbitual motion; but when the effect of this cause is strictly calculated and subducted from the observed motion, there is found to remain behind a _residual phenomenon_, which would never have been otherwise ascertained to exist, which is a small anticipation of the time of its reappearances or a diminution of its periodic time, which cannot be accounted for by gravity, and whose cause is therefore to be enquired into. Such an anticipation would be caused by the resistance of a medium disseminated through the celestial regions; and as there are other good reasons for believing this to be a _vera causa_, it has therefore been ascribed to such a resistance.

(160.) This 9th observation is of such importance in science, that we shall exemplify it by another instance or two. M. Arago, having suspended a magnetic needle by a silk thread, and set it in vibration, observed, that it came much sooner to a state of rest when suspended over a plate of copper, than when no such plate was beneath it. Now, in both cases there were two _veræ causæ_ why it _should_ come at length to rest, viz. the resistance of the air, which opposes, and at length destroys, all motions performed in it; and the want of perfect mobility in the silk thread. But the effect of these causes being exactly known by the observation made in the absence of the copper, and being thus allowed for and subducted, a _residual_ phenomenon appeared, in the fact that a retarding influence was exerted by the copper itself; and this fact, once ascertained, speedily led to the knowledge of an entirely new and unexpected class of relations. To add one more instance. If it be true (as M. Fourrier considers it demonstrated to be) that the celestial regions have a temperature independent of the sun, not greatly inferior to that at which quicksilver congeals, and much superior to some degrees of cold which have been artificially produced, two causes suggest themselves: one is that assigned by the author above mentioned; the radiation of the stars; another may be proposed in the ether or elastic medium mentioned in the last section, which the phenomena of light and the resistance of comets give us reason to believe fills all space, and which, in analogy to all the elastic media known, may be supposed to possess a temperature and a specific heat of its own, which it is capable of communicating to bodies surrounded by it. Now, if we consider that the heat radiated by the sun follows the same proportion as its light, and regard it as reasonable to admit with respect to stellar heat what holds good of solar; the effect of stellar radiation in maintaining a temperature in space should be as much inferior to that of the radiation of the sun as the light of a moonless midnight is to that of an equatorial noon; that is to say, almost inconceivably smaller. Allowing, then, the full effect for this cause, there would still remain a great residuum due to the presence of the ether.

(161.) Many of the new elements of chemistry have been detected in the investigation of _residual phenomena_. Thus, Arfwedson discovered lithia by perceiving an _excess of weight_ in the sulphate produced from a small portion of what he considered as magnesia present in a mineral he had analysed. It is on this principle, too, that the _small concentrated residues of great operations_ in the arts are almost sure to be the lurking places of new chemical ingredients: witness iodine, brome, selenium, and the new metals accompanying platina in the experiments of Wollaston and Tennant. It was a happy thought of Glauber to examine what every body else threw away.

(162.) Finally, we have to observe, that the detection of a _possible_ cause, by the comparison of assembled cases, _must_ lead to one of two things: either, 1st, The detection of a real cause, and of its manner of acting, so as to furnish a complete explanation of the facts; or, 2dly, The establishment of an abstract law of nature, pointing out two phenomena of a general kind as invariably connected; and asserting, that where one is, there the other will always be found. Such invariable connection is itself a phenomenon of a higher order than any particular fact; and when many such are discovered, we may again proceed to classify, combine, and examine them, with a view to the detection of _their_ causes, or the discovery of still more general laws, and so on without end.

(163.) Let us now exemplify this inductive search for a cause by one general example: suppose _dew_ were the phenomenon proposed, whose cause we would know. In the first place, we must separate dew from rain and the moisture of fogs, and limit the application of the term to what is really meant, which is, the spontaneous appearance of moisture on substances exposed in the open air when no rain or _visible_ wet is falling. Now, here we have analogous phenomena in the moisture which bedews a cold metal or stone when we breathe upon it; that which appears on a glass of water fresh from the well in hot weather; that which appears on the _inside_ of windows when sudden rain or hail chills the external air; that which runs down our walls when, after a long frost, a warm moist thaw comes on: all these instances agree in one point (Rule 2. § 147.), the coldness of the object dewed, in comparison with the air in contact with it.

(164.) But, in the case of the night dew, is this a _real cause_--is it a fact that the object dewed _is_ colder than the air? Certainly not, one would at first be inclined to say; for what is to _make_ it so? But the analogies are cogent and unanimous; and, therefore, (pursuant to Rule 3. § 148.) we are not to discard their indications; and, besides, the experiment is easy: we have only to lay a thermometer in contact with the dewed substance, and hang one at a little distance above it out of reach of its influence. The experiment has been therefore made; the question has been asked, and the answer has been invariably in the _affirmative_. Whenever an object contracts dew, _it is_ colder than the air. Here, then, we have _an invariable concomitant_ circumstance: but is this chill an effect of dew, or its cause? That dews are accompanied with a chill is a common remark; but vulgar prejudice would make the cold the _effect_ rather than the cause. We must, therefore, collect more facts, or, which comes to the same thing, vary the circumstances; since every instance in which the circumstances differ is a fresh fact; and, especially, we must note the contrary or negative cases (Rule 4. § 150.), _i. e._ where no dew is produced.

(165.) Now, 1st, no dew is produced on the surface of _polished metals_, but it is very copiously on glass, both exposed with their faces upwards, and in some cases the under side of a horizontal plate of glass is also dewed; which last circumstance (by Rule 1. § 146.) excludes the _fall_ of moisture from the sky in an invisible form, which would naturally suggest itself as a cause. In the cases of polished metal and polished glass, the contrast shows evidently that the _substance_ has much to do with the phenomenon; therefore, let the substance _alone_ be diversified as much as possible, by exposing polished surfaces of various kinds. This done, _a scale of intensity_ becomes obvious (Rule 5. § 152.). Those polished substances are found to be most strongly dewed which conduct heat worst; while those which conduct well resist dew most effectually. Here we encounter a _law_ of the first degree of generality. But, if we expose rough surfaces, instead of polished, we sometimes find this law interfered with (Rule 5. § 152.). Thus, roughened iron, especially if painted over or blackened, becomes dewed sooner than varnished paper: the kind of _surface_ therefore has a great influence. Expose, then, the _same_ material in very diversified states as to surface (Rule 7. § 156.), and another scale of intensity becomes at once apparent; those _surfaces_ which _part with their heat_ most readily by radiation are found to contract dew most copiously: and thus we have detected another law of the same generality with the former, by a comparison of two classes of facts, one relating to dew, the other to the radiation of heat from surfaces. Again, the influence ascertained to exist of _substance_ and _surface_ leads us to consider that of _texture_: and here, again, we are presented on trial with remarkable differences, and with a third _scale of intensity_, pointing out substances of a close firm texture, such as stones, metals, &c. as unfavourable, but those of a loose one, as cloth, wool, velvet, eiderdown, cotton, &c. as eminently favourable, to the contraction of dew: and these are precisely those which are best adapted for clothing, or for impeding the free passage of heat from the skin into the air, so as to allow their outer surfaces to be very cold while they remain warm within.

(166.) Lastly, among the negative instances, (§ 150.) it is observed, that dew is never copiously deposited in situations much screened from the open sky, and not at all in _a cloudy night_; but if the clouds withdraw, even for a few minutes, and leave a clear opening, a deposition of dew presently begins, and goes on increasing. Here, then, a cause is distinctly pointed out by its antecedence to the effect in question (§ 145.). A clear view of the cloudless sky, then, is an essential condition, or, which comes to the same thing, clouds or surrounding objects act as _opposing causes_. This is so much the case, that dew formed in clear intervals will often even evaporate again when the sky becomes thickly overcast (Rule 4. § 150.).

(167.) When we now come to assemble these partial inductions so as to raise from them a general conclusion, we consider, 1st, That all the conclusions we have come to have a reference to that first general fact--the cooling of the exposed surface of the body dewed below the temperature of the air. Those surfaces which part with their heat outwards most readily, and have it supplied from within most slowly, will, of course, become coldest if there be an opportunity for their heat to escape, and not be restored to them from without. Now, a clear sky affords such an opportunity. It is a law well known to those who are conversant with the nature of heat, that heat is constantly escaping from _all bodies_ in rays, or by _radiation_, but is as constantly restored to them by the similar radiation of others surrounding them. Clouds and surrounding objects therefore act as opposing causes by replacing the whole or a great part of the heat so radiated away, which can escape effectually, without being replaced, only through openings into infinite space. Thus, at length, we arrive at the general proximate cause of dew, in the cooling of the dewed surface by radiation faster than its heat can be restored to it, by communication with the ground, or by counter-radiation; so as to become colder than the air, and thereby to cause a condensation of its moisture.

(168.) We have purposely selected this theory of dew, first developed by the late Dr. Wells, as one of the most beautiful specimens we can call to mind of inductive experimental enquiry lying within a moderate compass. It is not possible in so brief a space to do it justice; but we earnestly recommend his work[43] (a short and very entertaining one) for perusal to the student of natural philosophy, as a model with which he will do well to become familiar.

(169.) In the analysis above given, the formation of dew is referred to two more general phenomena; the radiation of heat, and the condensation of invisible vapour by cold. The cause of the former is a much higher enquiry, and may be said, indeed, to be totally unknown; that of the latter actually forms a most important branch of physical enquiry. In such a case, when we reason upwards till we reach an ultimate fact, we regard a phenomenon as fully explained; as we consider the branch of a tree to terminate when traced to its insertion in the trunk, or a twig to its junction with the branch; or rather, as a rivulet retains its importance and its name till lost in some larger tributary, or in the main river which delivers it into the ocean. This, however, always supposes that, on a reconsideration of the case, we see clearly how the admission of such a fact, with all its attendant laws, will perfectly account for _every particular_--as well those which, in the different stages of the induction, have led us to a knowledge of it, as those which we had neglected, or considered less minutely than the rest. But, had we no previous knowledge of the radiation of heat, this same induction would have made it known to us, and, duly considered, might have led to the knowledge of many of its laws.

(170.) In the study of nature, we must not, therefore, be scrupulous as to _how_ we reach to a knowledge of such general facts: provided only we verify them carefully when once detected, we must be content to seize them wherever they are to be found. And this brings us to consider the _verification_ of inductions.

(171.) If, in our induction, every individual case has actually been present to our minds, we are sure that it will find itself duly _represented_ in our final conclusion: but this is impossible for such cases as were _unknown_ to us, and hardly ever happens even with all the known cases; for such is the tendency of the human mind to speculation, that on the least idea of an analogy between a few phenomena, it leaps forward, as it were, to a cause or law, to the temporary neglect of all the rest; so that, in fact, almost all our principal inductions must be regarded as a series of ascents and descents, and of conclusions from a few cases, verified by trial on many.

(172.) Whenever, therefore, we think we have been led by induction to the knowledge of the proximate cause of a phenomenon or of a law of nature, our next business is to examine deliberately and _seriatim_ all the cases we have collected of its occurrence, in order to satisfy ourselves that they are explicable by our cause, or fairly included in the expression of our law: and in case any exception occurs, it must be carefully noted and set aside for re-examination at a more advanced period, when, possibly, the cause of exception may appear, and the exception itself, by allowing for the effect of that cause, be brought over to the side of our induction; but should exceptions prove numerous and various in their features, our faith in the conclusion will be proportionally shaken, and at all events its importance lessened by the destruction of its universality.

(173.) In the conduct of this verification, we are to consider whether the cause or law to which we are conducted be one already known and recognised as a more general one, whose nature is well understood, and of which the phenomenon in question is but one more case in addition to those already known, or whether it be one less general, less known, or altogether new. In the latter case, our verification will suffice, if it merely shows that all the cases considered are plainly cases in point. But in the former, the process of verification is of a much more severe and definite kind. We must trace the action of our cause with distinctness and precision, as modified by all the circumstances of each case; we must estimate its effects, and show that nothing unexplained remains behind; at least, in so far as the presence of unknown modifying causes is not concerned.

(174.) Now, this is precisely the sort of process in which _residual phenomena_ (such as spoken of in art. 158.) may be expected to occur. If our induction be really a valid and a comprehensive one, _whatever_ remains unexplained in the comparison of its conclusion with particular cases, under all their circumstances, _is_ such a phenomenon, and comes in its turn to be a subject of inductive reasoning to discover its cause or laws. It is thus that we may be said to witness facts with the eyes of reason; and it is thus that we are continually attaining a knowledge of new phenomena and new laws which lie beneath the surface of things, and give rise to the creation of fresh branches of science more and more remote from common observation.

(175.) Physical astronomy affords numerous and splendid instances of this. The law, for example, which asserts that the planets are retained in their orbits about the sun, and satellites about their primaries, by an attractive force, decreasing as the square of the distances increases, comes to be verified in each particular case by deducing from it the exact motions which, under the circumstances, ought to take place, and comparing them with fact. This comparison, while it verifies in general the existence of the law of gravitation as supposed, and its adequacy to explain all the principal motions of every body in the system, yet leaves some small deviations in those of the planets, and some very considerable ones in that of the moon and other satellites, still unaccounted for; residual phenomena, which still remain to be traced up to causes. By further examining these, their causes have at length been ascertained, and found to consist in the mutual actions of the planets on each other, and the disturbing influence of the sun on the motions of the satellites.

(176.) But a law of nature has not that degree of generality which fits it for a stepping-stone to greater inductions, unless it be _universal_ in its application. We cannot rely on its enabling us to extend our views beyond the circle of instances from which it was obtained, unless we have already had experience of its power to do so; unless it actually _has_ enabled us before trial to say what will take place in cases analogous to those originally contemplated; unless, in short, we have studiously placed ourselves in the situation of its antagonists, and even perversely endeavoured to find exceptions to it without success. It is in the precise proportion that a law once obtained endures this extreme severity of trial, that its value and importance are to be estimated; and our next step in the verification of an induction must therefore consist in _extending_ its application to cases not originally contemplated; in studiously varying the circumstances under which our causes act, with a view to ascertain whether their effect is general; and in pushing the application of our laws to extreme cases.

(177.) For example, a fair induction from a great number of facts led Galileo to conclude that the accelerating power of gravity is the same on all sorts of bodies, and on great and small masses indifferently; and this he exemplified by letting bodies of very different natures and weights fall at the same instant from a high tower, when it was observed that they struck the ground at the same moment, abating a certain trifling difference, due, as he justly believed it to be, to the greater proportional resistance of the air to light than to heavy bodies. The experiment could not, at that time, be fairly tried with extremely light substances, such as cork, feathers, cotton, &c. because of the great resistance experienced by these in their fall; no means being then known of removing this cause of disturbance. It was not, therefore, till after the invention of the air-pump that this law could be put to the severe test of an extreme case. A guinea and a downy feather were let drop at once from the upper part of a tall exhausted glass, and struck the bottom at the same moment. Let any one make the trial _in the air_, and he will perceive the force of an _extreme case_.

(178.) In the verification of a law whose expression is _quantitative_, not only must its generality be established by the trial of it in as various circumstances as possible, but every such trial must be one of precise measurement. And in such cases the means taken for subjecting it to trial ought to be so devised as to repeat and multiply a great number of times any deviation (if any exist); so that, let it be ever so small, it shall at last become sensible.

(179.) For instance, let the law to be verified be, that _the gravity of every material body is in the direct proportion of its mass_, which is only another mode of expressing Galileo’s law above mentioned. The time of falling from any moderate height cannot be measured with precision enough for our purpose: but if it can be repeated a very great multitude of times _without any loss or gain_ in the intervals, and the whole amount of the times of fall so repeated measured by a clock; and if at the same time the resistance of the air can be rendered _exactly alike_ for all the bodies tried, we have here Galileo’s trial in a much more refined state; and it is evident that almost unlimited exactness may be obtained. Now, all this Newton accomplished by the simple and elegant contrivance of enclosing in a hollow pendulum the same weights of a great number of substances the most different that could be found in all respects, as gold, glass, wood, water, wheat, &c.[44], and ascertaining the time required for the pendulum so charged to make a great number of oscillations; in each of which it is clear the weights had to fall, and be raised again successively, without loss of time, through the same _identical_ spaces. Thus any difference, however inconsiderable, that might exist in the time of one such fall and rise would be multiplied and accumulated till they became sensible. And none having been discovered by so delicate a process in any case, the law was considered verified both in respect of generality and exactness. This, however, is nothing to the verifications afforded by astronomical phenomena, where the deviations, if any, accumulate for thousands of years instead of a few hours.

(180.) The surest and best characteristic of a well-founded and extensive induction, however, is when verifications of it spring up, as it were, spontaneously, into notice, from quarters where they might be least expected, or even among instances of that very kind which were at first considered hostile to them. Evidence of this kind is irresistible, and compels assent with a weight which scarcely any other possesses. To give an example: M. Mitscherlich had announced a law to this effect--_that_ the chemical elements of which all bodies consist are susceptible of being classified in distinct groups, which he termed _isomorphous_ groups; and _that_ these groups are so related, that when similar combinations are formed of individuals belonging to two, three, or more of them, such combinations will crystallize in the same geometrical forms. To this curious and important law there appeared a remarkable exception. According to professor Mitscherlich, the arsenic and phosphoric acids _are_ similar combinations coming under the meaning of his law, and their combinations with soda and water, forming the salts known to chemists under the names of arseniate and phosphate of soda, ought, if the law were general, to crystallize in identical shapes. The fact, however, was understood to be otherwise. But lately, Mr. Clarke, a British chemist, having examined the two salts attentively, ascertained the fact that their compositions deviate essentially from that similarity which M. Mitscherlich’s law requires; and that, therefore, the exception in question disappears. This was something: but, pursuing the subject further, the same ingenious enquirer happily succeeded in producing a _new_ phosphate of soda, differing from that generally known in containing a different proportion of water, and agreeing in composition exactly with the arseniate. The crystals of this new salt, when examined, were found by him to be precisely identical in form with those of the arseniate: thus verifying, in a most striking and totally unexpected manner, the law in question, or, as it is called, the law of isomorphism.

(181.) Unexpected and peculiarly striking confirmations of inductive laws frequently occur in the form of residual phenomena, in the course of investigations of a widely different nature from those which gave rise to the inductions themselves. A very elegant example may be cited in the unexpected confirmation of the law of the developement of heat in elastic fluids by compression, which is afforded by the phenomena of sound. The enquiry into the cause of sound had led to conclusions respecting its mode of propagation, from which its velocity in the air could be precisely calculated. The calculations were performed; but, when compared with fact, though the agreement was quite sufficient to show the general correctness of the cause and mode of propagation assigned, _yet_ the _whole_ velocity could not be shown to arise from this theory. There was still a _residual_ velocity to be accounted for, which placed dynamical philosophers for a long time in a great dilemma. At length Laplace struck on the happy idea, that this might arise from the _heat_ developed in the act of that condensation which necessarily takes place at every vibration by which sound is conveyed. The matter was subjected to exact calculation, and the result was at once the complete explanation of the residual phenomenon, and a striking confirmation of the general law of the developement of heat by compression, under circumstances beyond artificial imitation.

(182.) In extending our inductions to cases not originally contemplated, there is one step which always strikes the mind with peculiar force, and with such a sensation of novelty and surprise, as often gives it a weight beyond its due philosophic value. It is the transition from the little to the great, and _vice versâ_, but especially the former. It is so beautiful to see, for instance, an experiment performed in a watch-glass, or before a blowpipe, succeed, in a great manufactory, on many tons of matter, or, in the bosom of a volcano, upon millions of cubic fathoms of lava, that we almost forget that these great masses are made up of watch-glassfuls, and blowpipe-beads. We see the enormous intervals between the stars and planets of the heavens, which afford room for innumerable processes to be carried on, for light and heat to circulate, and for curious and complicated motions to go forward among them: we look more attentively, and we see sidereal systems, probably not less vast and complicated than our own, crowded apparently into a small space (from the effect of their distance from us), and forming groups resembling bodies of a substantial appearance, having form and outline: yet we recoil with incredulous surprise when we are asked _why_ we cannot conceive the atoms of a grain of sand to be as remote from each other (proportionally to their sizes) as the stars of the firmament; and why there may not be going on, in that little microcosm, processes as complicated and wonderful as those of the great world around us. Yet the student who makes any progress in natural philosophy will encounter numberless cases in which this transfer of ideas from the one extreme of magnitude to the other will be called for: he will find, for instance, the phenomena of the propagation of winds referred to the same laws which regulate the propagation of motions through the smallest masses of air; those of lightning assimilated to the mere communication of an electric spark, and those of earthquakes to the tremors of a stretched wire: in short, he must lay his account to finding the distinction of great and little altogether annihilated in nature: and it is well for man that such is the case, and that the same laws, which he can discover and verify in his own circumscribed sphere of power, should prove available to him when he comes to apply them on the greatest scale; since it is thus only that he is enabled to become an exciting cause in operations of any considerable magnitude, and to vindicate his importance in creation.

(183.) But the business of induction does not end here: its final result must be followed out into all its consequences, and applied to all those cases which seem even remotely to bear upon the subject of enquiry. Every new addition to our stock of causes becomes a means of fresh attack with new vantage ground upon all those unexplained parts of former phenomena which have resisted previous efforts. It can hardly be pressed forcibly enough on the attention of the student of nature, that there is scarcely any natural phenomenon which can be fully and completely explained in all its circumstances, without a union of several, perhaps of all, the sciences. The great phenomena of astronomy, indeed, may be considered exceptions; but this is merely because their scale is so vast that one only of the most widely extending forces of nature takes the lead, and all those agents whose sphere of action is limited to narrower bounds, and which determine the production of phenomena nearer at hand, are thrown into the back ground, and become merged and lost in comparative insignificance. But in the more intimate phenomena which surround us it is far otherwise. Into what a complication of different branches of science are we not led by the consideration of such a phenomenon as rain, for instance, or flame, or a thousand others, which are constantly going on before our eyes? Hence, it is hardly possible to arrive at the knowledge of a law of any degree of generality in any branch of science, but it immediately furnishes us with a means of extending our knowledge of innumerable others, the most remote from the point we set out from; so that, when once embarked in any physical research, it is impossible for any one to predict where it may ultimately lead him.

(184.) This remark rather belongs to the inverse or _deductive_ process, by which we pursue laws into their remote consequences. But it is very important to observe, that the successful process of scientific enquiry demands continually the alternate use of both the _inductive_ and _deductive_ method. The path by which we rise to knowledge must be made smooth and beaten in its lower steps, and often ascended and descended, before we can scale our way to any eminence, much less climb to the summit. The achievement is too great for a single effort; stations must be established, and communications kept open with all below. To quit metaphor; there is nothing so instructive, or so likely to lead to the acquisition of general views, as this pursuit of the consequences of a law once arrived at into every subject where it may seem likely to have an influence. The discovery of a new law of nature, a new ultimate fact, or one that even temporarily puts on that appearance, is like the discovery of a new element in chemistry. Thus, selenium was hardly discovered by Berzelius in the vitriol works of Fahlun, when it presently made its appearance in the sublimates of Stromboli, and the rare and curious products of the Hungarian mines. And thus it is with every new law, or general fact. It is hardly announced before its traces are found every where, and every one is astonished at its having so long remained concealed. And hence it happens that unexpected lights are shed at length over parts of science that had been abandoned in despair, and given over to hopeless obscurity.

(185.) The verification of _quantitative_ laws has been already spoken of (178.); but their importance in physical science is so very great, inasmuch as they alone afford a handle to strict mathematical deductive application, that something ought to be said of the nature of the inductions by which they are to be arrived at. In their simplest or least general stages (of which alone we speak at present) they usually express some numerical relation between two quantities dependent on each other, either as collateral effects of a common cause, or as the amount of its effect under given numerical circumstances or _data_. For example, the law of refraction before noticed (§ 22.) expresses, by a very simple relation, the amount of angular deviation of a ray of light from its course, when the _angle_ at which it is inclined to the refracting surface is known, viz. that the _sine_ of the angle which the incident ray makes with a perpendicular to the surface is always to that of the angle made by the refracted ray with the same perpendicular, in a constant proportion, so long as the refracting substance is the same. To arrive inductively at laws of this kind, where one quantity _depends_ on or _varies with_ another, all that is required is a series of careful and exact measures in every different state of the _datum_ and _quæsitum_. Here, however, the mathematical form of the law being of the highest importance, the greatest attention must be given to the _extreme cases_ as well as to all those points where the one quantity changes rapidly with a small change of the other.[45] The results must be set down in a table in which the _datum_ gradually increases in magnitude from the lowest to the highest limit of which it is susceptible. It will depend then entirely on our habit of treating mathematical subjects, how far we may be able to include such a table in the distinct statement of a mathematical law. The discovery of such laws is often remarkably facilitated by the contemplation of a class of phenomena to be noticed further on, under the head of Collective Instances, (see § 194.) in which the nature of the mathematical expression in which the law sought is comprehended, is pointed out by the figure of some curve brought under inspection by a proper mode of experimenting.

(186.) After all, unless our induction embraces a series of cases which absolutely include the whole scale of variation of which the quantities in question admit, the mathematical expression so obtained cannot be depended upon as the true one, and if the scale actually embraced be small, the extension of laws so derived to extreme cases will in all probability be exceedingly fallacious. For example, air is an elastic fluid, and as such, if enclosed in a confined space and squeezed, its bulk diminishes: now, from a great number of trials made in cases where the air has been compressed into a half, a third, &c. even as far as a fiftieth of its bulk, or less, it has been concluded that “the density of air is proportional to the compressing force,” or the bulk it occupies _inversely_ as that force; and when the air is rarefied by taking off part of its natural pressure, the same is found to be the case, within very extensive limits. Yet it is impossible that this should be, strictly or mathematically speaking, the true law; for, if it were so, there could be no limit to the condensation of air, while yet we have the strongest analogies to show that long before it had reached any very enormous pitch the air would be reduced into a liquid, and even, perhaps, if pressed yet more violently, into a solid form.

(187.) Laws thus derived, by the direct process of including in mathematical formulæ the results of a greater or less number of measurements, are called “empirical laws.” A good example of such a law is that given by Dr. Young (Phil. Trans. 1826,) for the decrement of life, or the law of mortality. Empirical laws in this state are evidently _unverified inductions_, and are to be received and reasoned on with the utmost reserve. No confidence can ever be placed in them beyond the limits of the data from which they are derived; and even within those limits they require a special and severe scrutiny to examine _how nearly_ they do represent the observed facts; that is to say, whether, in the comparison of their results with the observed quantities, the differences are such as may fairly be attributed to error of observation. When so carefully examined, they become, however, most valuable; and frequently, when afterwards verified theoretically by a deductive process (as will be explained in our next chapter), turn out to be rigorous laws of nature, and afford the noblest and most convincing supports of which theories themselves are susceptible. The finest instances of this kind are the great laws of the planetary motions deduced by Kepler, entirely from a comparison of observations with each other, with no assistance from theory. These laws, viz. that the planets move in ellipses round the sun; that each describes about the sun’s centre equal areas in equal times; and that in the orbits of different planets the squares of the periodical times are proportional to the cubes of the distances; were the results of inconceivable labour of calculation and comparison: but they amply repaid the labour bestowed on them, by affording afterwards the most conclusive and unanswerable proofs of the Newtonian system. On the other hand, when empirical laws are unduly relied on beyond the limits of the observations from which they were deduced, there is no more fertile source of fatal mistakes. The formulæ which have been empirically deduced for the elasticity of steam (till very recently), and those for the resistance of fluids, and other similar subjects, have almost invariably failed to support the theoretical structures which have been erected on them.

(188.) It is a remarkable and happy fact, that the shortest and most direct of all inductions should be that which has led at once, or by very few steps, to the highest of all natural laws,--we mean those of motion and force. Nothing can be more simple, precise, and general, than the enunciation of these laws; and, as we have once before observed, their application to particular facts in the descending or deductive method is limited by nothing but the limited extent of our mathematics. It would seem, then, that dynamical science were taken thenceforward out of the pale of induction, and transformed into a matter of absolute _à priori_ reasoning, as much as geometry; and so it would be, were our mathematics perfect, and all the _data_ known. Unhappily, the first is so far from being the case, that in many of the most interesting branches of dynamical enquiry they leave us completely at a loss. In what relates to the motions of fluids, for instance, this is severely felt. We can include our problems, it is true, in algebraical equations, and we can demonstrate that they _contain_ the solutions; but the equations themselves are so intractable, and present such insuperable difficulties, that they often leave us quite as much in the dark as before. But even were these difficulties overcome, recourse to experience must still be had, to establish the _data_ on which particular applications are to depend; and although mathematical analysis affords very powerful means of _representing_ in general terms the data of any proposed case, and _afterwards_, by comparison of its results with fact, determining _what_ those data must be to explain the observed phenomena, still, in any mode of considering the matter, an appeal to experience in every particular instance of application is unavoidable, even when the general principles are regarded as sufficiently established without it. Now, in all such cases of difficulty we must recur to our inductive processes, and regard the branches of dynamical science where this takes place as purely experimental. By this we gain an immense advantage, viz. that in all those points of them where the abstract dynamical principles _do_ afford distinct conclusions, we obtain verifications for our inductions of the highest and finest possible kind. When we work our way up inductively to one of these results, we cannot help feeling the strongest assurance of the validity of the induction.

(189.) The necessity of this appeal to experiment in every thing relating to the motions of fluids on the large scale has long been felt. Newton himself, who laid the first foundations of hydrodynamical science (so this branch of dynamics is called), distinctly perceived it, and set the example of laborious and exact experiments on their resistance to motion, and other particulars. Venturi, Bernoulli, and many others, have applied the method of experiment to the motions of fluids in pipes and canals; and recently the brothers Weber have published an elaborate and excellent experimental enquiry into the phenomena of waves. One of the greatest and most successful attempts, however, to bring an important, and till then very obscure, branch of dynamical enquiry back to the dominion of experiment, has been made by Chladni and Savart in the case of sound and vibratory motion in general; and it is greatly to be wished that the example may be followed in many others hardly less abstruse and impracticable when theoretically treated. In such cases the inductive and deductive methods of enquiry may be said to go hand in hand, the one verifying the conclusions deduced by the other; and the combination of experiment and theory, which may thus be brought to bear in such cases, forms an engine of discovery infinitely more powerful than either taken separately. This state of any department of science is perhaps of all others the most interesting, and that which promises the most to research.

(190.) It can hardly be expected that we should terminate this division of our subject without some mention of the “prerogatives of instances” of Bacon, by which he understands characteristic phenomena, selected from the great miscellaneous mass of facts which occur in nature, and which, by their number, indistinctness, and complication, tend rather to confuse than to direct the mind in its search for causes and general heads of induction. Phenomena so selected on account of some peculiarly forcible way in which they strike the reason, and impress us with a kind of sense of causation, or a particular aptitude for generalization, he considers, and justly, as holding a kind of prerogative dignity, and claiming our first and especial attention in physical enquiries.

(191.) We have already observed that, in forming inductions, it will most commonly happen that we are led to our conclusions by the especial force of some two or three strongly impressive facts, rather than by affording the whole mass of cases a regular consideration; and hence the need of cautious verification. Indeed, so strong is this propensity of the human mind, that there is hardly a more common thing than to find persons ready to assign a cause for every thing they see, and, in so doing, to join things the most incongruous, by analogies the most fanciful. This being the case, it is evidently of great importance that these first ready impulses of the mind should be made on the contemplation of the cases most likely to lead to good inductions. The misfortune, however, is, in natural philosophy, that the choice does not rest with us. We must take the instances as nature presents them. Even if we are furnished with a list of them in tabular order, we must understand and compare them with each other, before we can tell which _are_ the instances thus deservedly entitled to the highest consideration. And, after all, after much labour in vain, and groping in the dark, accident or casual observation will present a case which strikes us at once with a full insight into a subject, before we can even have time to determine to what class its _prerogative_ belongs. For example, the laws of crystallography were obscure, and its causes still more so, till Haüy fortunately dropped a beautiful crystal of calcareous spar on a stone pavement, and broke it. In piecing together the fragments, he observed their facets not to correspond with those of the crystal in its entire state, but to belong to another form; and, following out the hint offered by a “_glaring instance_” thus casually obtruded on his notice, he discovered the beautiful laws of the cleavage, and the primitive forms of minerals.

(192.) It has always appeared to us, we must confess, that the help which the classification of instances, under their different titles of prerogative, affords to inductions, however just such classification may be in itself, is yet more apparent than real. The force of the instance must be felt in the mind, before it can be referred to its place in the system; and, before it can be either referred or appretiated, it must be known; and when it _is_ appretiated, we are ready enough to interweave it in our web of induction, without greatly troubling ourselves with enquiring whence it derives the weight we acknowledge it to have in our decisions. However, since much importance is usually attached to this part of Bacon’s work, we shall here give a few examples to illustrate the nature of some of his principal cases. One, of what he calls “glaring instances,” has just been mentioned. In these, the _nature_ or cause enquired into, (which in this case is the cause of the assumption of a peculiar external form, or the internal _structure_ of a crystal,) “stands naked and alone, and this in an eminent manner, or in the highest degree of its power.” No doubt, such instances as these are highly instructive; but the difficulty in physics is to find such, not to perceive their force when found.

(193.) The contrary of glaring are “clandestine instances,” where “the nature sought is exhibited in its weakest and most imperfect state.” Of this, Bacon himself has given an admirable example in the cohesion of fluids, as a _clandestine instance_ of the “_nature_ or quality of consistence, or solidity.” Yet here, again, the same acute discrimination which enabled Bacon to perceive the analogy which connects fluids with solids, through the common property of cohesive attraction, would, at the same time, have enabled him to draw from it, if properly supported, every consequence necessary to forming just notions of the cohesive force; nor does its reference to the class of clandestine instances at all assist in bringing forward and maturing the final results. When, however, the final result is obtained,--when our induction is complete, and we would verify it,--this class of instances is of great use, being, in fact, frequently no other than that of _extreme cases_, such as we have already spoken of (in § 177.); which, by placing our conclusions, as it were, in violent circumstances, try their temper, and bring their vigour to the test.

(194.) Bacon’s “collective instances” (_instantiæ unionis_), are no other than general facts, or laws of some degree of generality, and are themselves the results of induction. But there is a species of collective instance which Bacon does not seem to have contemplated, of a peculiarly instructive character; and that is, where particular cases are offered to our observation in such numbers at once as to make the induction of their law a matter of ocular inspection. For example, the parabolic form assumed by a jet of water spouted from a round hole, is a _collective instance_ of the velocities and directions of the motions of all the particles which compose it _seen at once_, and which thus leads us, without trouble, to recognize the law of the motion of a projectile. Again, the beautiful figures exhibited by sand strewed on regular plates of glass or metal set in vibration, are _collective instances_ of an infinite number of points which remain at rest while the remainder of the plate vibrates; and in consequence afford us, as it were, a sight of the law which regulates their arrangement and sequence throughout the whole surface. The beautifully coloured lemniscates seen around the optic axes of crystals exposed to polarized light afford a superb example of the same kind, pointing at once to the general mathematical expression of the law which regulates their production.[46] Of such collective instances as these, it is easy to see the importance, and its reason. They lead us to a general law by an induction which offers itself spontaneously, and thus furnish advanced points in our enquiries; and when we start from these, already “a thousand steps are lost.”

(195.) A fine example of a collective instance is that of the system of Jupiter or Saturn with its satellites. We have here, in miniature, and seen at one view, a system similar to that of the planets about the sun; of which, from the circumstance of our being involved in it, and unfavourably situated for seeing it otherwise than in detail, we are incapacitated from forming a general idea but by slow progressive efforts of reason. Accordingly, the contemplation of the _circumjovial planets_ (as they were called) most materially assisted in securing the admission of the Copernican system.

(196.) Of “Crucial instances” we have also already spoken, as affording the readiest and securest means of eliminating extraneous causes, and deciding between rival hypotheses. Owing to the disposition of the mind to form hypotheses, and to prejudge cases, it constantly happens that, among all the possible suppositions which may occur, two or three principal ones occupy us, to the exclusion of the rest; or it may be that, if we have been less precipitate, out of a great multitude rejected for obvious inapplicability to some one or other case, two or three of better claims remain for decision; and this such instances enable us to do. One of the instances cited by Bacon in illustration of his crucial class is very remarkable, being neither more nor less than the proposal of a direct experiment to determine whether the tendency of heavy bodies downwards is a result of some peculiar mechanism in themselves, or of the attraction of the earth “by the corporeal mass thereof, as by a collection of bodies of the same nature.” If it be so, he says, “it will follow that the nearer all bodies approach to the earth, the stronger and with the greater force and velocity they will tend to it; but the farther they are, the weaker and slower:” and his experiment consists in comparing the effect of a spring and a weight in keeping up the motions of two “clocks,” regulated together, and removed alternately to the tops of high buildings and into the deepest mines. By _clocks_ he could not have meant pendulum clocks, which were not then known, (the first made in England was in 1662,) _fly_-clocks, so that the comparison, though too coarse, was not contrary to sound mechanical principles. In short, its principle was the comparison of the effect of a spring with that of a weight, in producing certain motions in certain times, on heights and in mines. Now, this is the very same thing that has really been done in the recent experiments of professors Airy and Whewell in Dolcoath mine: a pendulum (a weight moved by gravity) has been compared with a chronometer balance, moved and regulated by a spring. In his 37th aphorism, Bacon also speaks of gravity as an incorporeal power, acting at a distance, and _requiring time for its transmission_; a consideration which occurred at a later period to Laplace, in one of his most delicate investigations.

(197.) A well chosen and strongly marked crucial instance is, sometimes, of the highest importance; when two theories, which run parallel to each other (as is sometimes the case) in their explanation of great classes of phenomena, at length come to be placed at issue upon a single fact. A beautiful instance of this will be cited in the next section. We may add to the examples above given of such instances, that of the application of chemical tests, which are almost universally crucial experiments.

(198.) Bacon’s “travelling instances” are those in which the _nature_ or quality under investigation “travels,” or varies in degree; and thus (according to § 152.) afford an indication of a cause by a gradation of intensity in the effect. One of his instances is very happy, being that of “paper, which is white when dry, but proves less so when wet, and comes nearer to the state of transparency upon the exclusion of the air, and admission of water.” In reading this, and many other instances in the Novum Organum, one would almost suppose (had it been written) that its author had taken them from Newton’s Optics.

(199.) The travelling instances, as well as what Bacon terms “frontier instances,” are cases in which we are enabled to trace that general law which seems to pervade all nature--the law, as it is termed, of continuity, and which is expressed in the well known sentence, “Natura non agit per saltum.” The pursuit of this law into cases where its application is not at first sight obvious, has proved a fertile source of physical discovery, and led us to the knowledge of an analogy and intimate connection of phenomena between which at first we should never have expected to find any.

(200.) For example, the transparency of gold leaf, which permits a bluish-green light to pass through it, is a frontier instance between the transparency of pellucid bodies and the opacity of metals, and it prevents a breach of the law of continuity between transparent and opake bodies, by exhibiting a body of the class generally regarded the most opake in nature, as still possessed of some slight degree of transparency. It thus proves that the quality of opacity is not a _contrary_ or _antagonist_ quality to that of transparency, but only its extreme lowest degree.

CHAP. VII.

OF THE HIGHER DEGREES OF INDUCTIVE GENERALIZATION, AND OF THE FORMATION AND VERIFICATION OF THEORIES.

(201.) As particular inductions and laws of the first degree of generality are obtained from the consideration of individual facts, so Theories result from a consideration of these laws, and of the proximate causes brought into view in the previous process, regarded all together as constituting a new set of phenomena, the creatures of reason rather than of sense, and each representing under general language innumerable particular facts. In raising these higher inductions, therefore, more scope is given to the exercise of pure reason than in slowly groping out our first results. The mind is more disencumbered of matter, and moves as it were in its own element. What is now before it, it perceives more intimately, and less through the medium of sense, or at least not in the same manner as when actually at work on the immediate objects of sense. But it must not be therefore supposed that, in the formation of theories, we are abandoned to the unrestrained exercise of imagination, or at liberty to lay down arbitrary principles, or assume the existence of mere fanciful causes. The liberty of speculation which we possess in the domains of theory is not like the wild licence of the slave broke loose from his fetters, but rather like that of the freeman who has learned the lessons of self-restraint in the school of just subordination. The ultimate objects we pursue in the highest theories are the same as those of the lowest inductions; and the means by which we can most securely attain them bear a close analogy to those which we have found successful in such inferior cases.

(202.) The immediate object we propose to ourselves in physical theories is the analysis of phenomena, and the knowledge of the hidden processes of nature in their production, so far as they can be traced by us. An important part of this knowledge consists in a discovery of the actual structure or mechanism of the universe and its parts, through which, and by which, those processes are executed; and of the agents which are concerned in their performance. Now, the mechanism of nature is for the most part either on too large or too small a scale to be immediately cognizable by our senses; and her agents in like manner elude direct observation, and become known to us only by their effects. It is in vain therefore that we desire to become witnesses to the processes carried on with such means, and to be admitted into the secret recesses and laboratories where they are effected. Microscopes have been constructed which magnify more than a thousand times in _linear_ dimension, so that the smallest visible grain of sand may be enlarged to the appearance of one a thousand million times more bulky; yet the only impression we receive by viewing it through such a magnifier is, that it reminds us of some vast fragment of a rock, while the intimate structure on which depend its colour, its hardness, and its chemical properties, remains still concealed: we do not seem to have made even an approach to a closer analysis of it by any such scrutiny.

(203.) On the other hand, the mechanism of the great system of which our planet forms a part escapes immediate observation by the immensity of its scale, nay, even by the slowness of its evolutions. The motion of the minute hand of a watch can hardly be perceived without the closest attention, and that of the hour hand not at all. But what are these, in respect of the impression of slowness they produce in our minds, compared with a revolving movement which takes a whole year, or twelve, thirty, or eighty years to complete, as is the case with the planets in their revolutions round the sun. Yet no sooner do we come to reflect on the linear dimensions of these orbs, (which however we do not _see_, nor can we measure them but by a long, circuitous, and difficult process,) than we are lost in astonishment at the swiftness of the very motions which before seemed so slow.[47] The motion of the sails of a windmill offers (on a small scale) an illustrative case. At a distance the rotation seems slow and steady--but when we stand close to one of the sails in its sweep, we are surprised at the swiftness with which it rushes by us.

(204.) Again, the agents employed by nature to act on material structures are invisible, and only to be traced by the effects they produce. Heat dilates matter with an irresistible force; but what heat is, remains yet a problem. A current of electricity passing along a wire moves a magnetized needle at a distance; but except from this effect we perceive no difference between the condition of the wire when it conveys and when it does not convey the stream: and we apply the terms current, or stream, to the electricity only because in some of its relations it reminds us of something we have observed in a stream of air or water. In like manner we see that the moon circulates about the earth; and because we believe it to be a solid mass, and have never seen one solid substance revolve round another within our reach to handle and examine unless retained by a force or united by a tie, we conclude that there _is_ a force, and a mode of connection, between the moon and the earth; though, what that mode can be, we have no conception, nor can imagine _how_ such a force can be exerted at a distance, and with empty space, or at most an invisible fluid, between. (See § 148.)

(205.) Yet are we not to despair, since we see regular and beautiful results brought about in human works by means which nobody would, at first sight, think could have any thing to do with them. A sheet of blank paper is placed upon a frame, and shoved forwards, and after winding its way successively over and under half a dozen rollers, and performing many other strange evolutions, comes out printed on both sides. And, after all, the acting cause in this process is nothing more than a few gallons of water boiled in an iron vessel, at a distance from the scene of operations. But _why_ the water so boiled should be capable of producing the active energy which sets the whole apparatus in motion is, and will probably long remain, a secret to us.

(206.) This, however, does not at all prevent our having a very perfect comprehension of the whole subsequent process. We might frequent printing-houses, and form a theory of printing, and having worked our way up to the point where the mechanical action commenced (the boiler of the steam-engine), and verified it by taking to pieces, and putting together again, the train of wheels and the presses, and by sound theoretical examination of all the transfers of motion from one part to another; we should, at length, pronounce our theory good, and declare that we understood printing thoroughly. Nay, we might even go away and apply the principles of mechanism we had learned in this enquiry to other widely different purposes; construct other machines, and put them in motion by the same moving power, and all without arriving at any correct idea as to the ultimate source of the force employed. But, if we were inclined to theorize farther, we might do so; and it is easy to imagine how two theorists might form very different _hypotheses_ as to the origin of the power which alternately raised and depressed the piston-rod of the engine. One, for example, might maintain that the boiler (whose contents we will suppose that neither theorist has been permitted to examine) was the den of some powerful unknown animal, and he would not be without plausible analogies in the warmth, the supply of fuel and water, the breathing noises, the smoke, and above all, the mechanical power exerted. He would say (not without a show of reason), that where there is a positive and wonderful effect, and many strong analogies, such as materials consumed, and all the usual signs of life maintained, we are not to deny the existence of animal life because we know no animal that consumes such food. Nay, he might observe with truth, that the fuel actually consists of the chemical ingredients which constitute the chief food of all animals, &c.; while, on the other hand, his brother theorist, who caught a glimpse of the fire, and detected the peculiar sounds of ebullition, might acquire a better notion of the case, and form a theory more in consonance with fact.

(207.) Now, nothing is more common in physics than to find two, or even many, _theories_ maintained as to the origin of a natural phenomenon. For instance, in the case of heat itself, one considers it as a really existing material fluid, of such exceeding subtlety as to penetrate all bodies, and even to be capable of combining with them chemically; while another regards it as nothing but a rapid vibratory or rotatory motion in the ultimate particles of the bodies heated; and produces a singularly ingenious train of mechanical reasoning to show, that there is nothing contradictory to sound dynamical principles in such a doctrine. Thus, again, with light: one considers it as consisting in actual particles darted forth from luminous bodies, and acted upon in their progress by forces of extreme intensity residing in the substances on which they strike; another, in the vibratory motion of the particles of luminous bodies, communicated to a peculiar subtle and highly elastic ethereal medium, filling all space, and conveyed through it into our eyes, as sounds are to our ears, by the undulations of the air.

(208.) Now, are we to be deterred from framing hypotheses and constructing theories, because we meet with such dilemmas, and find ourselves frequently beyond our depth? Undoubtedly not. _Est quodam prodire tenus si non datur ultra._ Hypotheses, with respect to theories, are what presumed proximate causes are with respect to particular inductions: they afford us motives for searching into analogies; grounds of citation to bring before us all the cases which seem to bear upon them, for examination. A well imagined hypothesis, if it have been suggested by a fair inductive consideration of general laws, can hardly fail at least of enabling us to generalize a step farther, and group together several such laws under a more universal expression. But this is taking a very limited view of the value and importance of hypotheses: it may happen (and it has happened in the case of the undulatory doctrine of light) that such a weight of analogy and probability may become accumulated on the side of an hypothesis, that we are compelled to admit one of two things; either that it is an actual statement of what really passes in nature, or that the reality, whatever it be, must run so close a parallel with it, as to admit of some mode of expression common to both, at least in so far as the phenomena actually known are concerned. Now, this is a very great step, not only for its own sake, as leading us to a high point in philosophical speculation, but for its applications; because whatever conclusions we deduce from an hypothesis so supported must have at least a strong presumption in their favour: and we may be thus led to the trial of many curious experiments, and to the imagining of many useful and important contrivances, which we should never otherwise have thought of, and which, at all events, if verified in practice, are real additions to our stock of knowledge and to the arts of life.

(209.) In framing a theory which shall render a rational account of any natural phenomenon, we have _first_ to consider the agents on which it depends, or the causes to which we regard it as ultimately referable. These agents are not to be arbitrarily assumed; they must be such as we have good inductive grounds to believe do exist in nature, and do perform a part in phenomena analogous to those we would render an account of; or such, whose presence in the actual case can be demonstrated by unequivocal signs. They must be _veræ causæ_, in short, which we can not only show to exist and to act, but the laws of whose action we can derive independently, by direct induction, from experiments purposely instituted; or at least make such suppositions respecting them as shall not be contrary to our experience, and which will remain to be verified by the coincidence of the conclusions we shall deduce from them, with facts. For example, in the theory of gravitation we suppose an agent,--_viz._ force, or mechanical power,--to act on _any_ material body which is placed in the presence of _any_ other, and to urge the two mutually towards each other. This is a _vera causa_; for heavy bodies (that is, all bodies, but some more, some less,) tend to, or endeavour to reach, the earth, and require the exertion of force to counteract this endeavour, or to keep them up. Now, that which opposes and neutralizes force _is_ force. And again, a plumb-line, which, when allowed to hang freely, always hangs perpendicularly; is found to hang observably aside from the perpendicular when in the neighbourhood of a considerable mountain; thereby proving that a force is exerted upon it, which draws it towards the mountain. Moreover, since it is a fact that the moon does circulate about the earth, it must be drawn towards the earth by a force; for if there were no force acting upon it, it would go on in a straight line without turning aside to circulate in an orbit, and would, therefore, soon go away and be lost in space. This force, then, which we call the _force_ of gravity, is a real cause.

(210.) We have next to consider the laws which regulate the action of these our primary agents; and these we can only arrive at in three ways: 1st, By inductive reasoning; that is, by examining all the cases in which we know them to be exercised, inferring, as well as circumstances will permit, its amount or intensity in each particular case, and then piecing together, as it were, these _disjecta membra_, generalizing from them, and so arriving at the laws desired; 2dly, By forming at once a bold hypothesis, particularizing the law, and trying the truth of it by following out its consequences and comparing them with facts; or, 3dly, By a process partaking of both these, and combining the advantages of both without their defects, viz. by assuming indeed the laws we would discover, but so generally expressed, that they shall include an unlimited variety of particular laws;--following out the consequences of this assumption, by the application of such general principles as the case admits;--comparing them in succession with all the particular cases within our knowledge; and, lastly, _on this comparison_, so modifying and restricting the general enunciation of our laws as to _make the results agree_.

(211.) All these three processes for the discovery of those general elementary laws on which the higher theories are grounded are applicable with different advantage in different circumstances. We might exemplify their successive application to the case of gravitation: but as this would rather lead into a disquisition too particular for the objects of this discourse, and carry us too much into the domain of technical mathematics, we shall content ourselves with remarking, that the method last mentioned is that which mathematicians (especially such as have a considerable command of those general modes of representing and reasoning on quantity, which constitute the higher analysis,) find the most universally applicable, and the most efficacious; and that it is applicable with especial advantage in cases where subordinate inductions of the kind described in the last section have already led to laws of a certain generality admitting of mathematical expression. Such a case, for instance, is the elliptic motion of a planet, which is a general proposition including the statement of an infinite number of particular _places_, in which the laws of its motion allow it to be some time or other found, and for which, of course, the law of force must be so assumed as to account.

(212.) With regard to the first process of the three above enumerated, it is in fact an induction of the kind described in § 185.; and all the remarks we there made on that kind of induction apply to it in this stage. The direct assumption of a particular hypothesis has been occasionally practised very successfully. As examples, we may mention Coulomb’s and Poisson’s theories of electricity and magnetism, in both which, phenomena of a very complicated and interesting nature are referred to the actions of attractive and repulsive forces, following a law similar in its expression to the law of gravitation. But the difficulty and labour, which, in the greater theories, always attends the pursuit of a fundamental law into its remote consequences, effectually precludes this method from being commonly resorted to as a means of discovery, unless we have some good reason, from analogy or otherwise, for believing that the attempt will prove successful, or have been first led by partial inductions to particular laws which naturally point it out for trial.

(213.) In this case the law assumes all the characters of a general phenomenon resulting from an induction of particulars, but not yet verified by comparison with _all_ the particulars, nor extended to all that it is capable of including. (See § 171.) It is the verification of such inductions which constitutes theory in its largest sense, and which embraces an estimation of the influence of all such circumstances as may modify the effect of the cause whose laws of action we have arrived at and would verify. To return to our example: particular inductions drawn from the motions of the several planets about the sun, and of the satellites round their primaries, &c. having led us to the general conception of an attractive force exerted by every particle of matter in the universe on every other according to the law to which we attach the name of gravitation; when we would verify this induction, we must set out with assuming this law, considering the whole system as subjected to its influence and implicitly obeying it, and nothing interfering with its action; we then, for the first time, perceive a train of modifying circumstances which had not occurred to us when reasoning upwards from particulars to obtain the fundamental law; we perceive that _all the planets_ must attract _each other_, must therefore draw each other out of the orbits which they would have if acted on only by the sun; and as this was never contemplated in the inductive process, its validity becomes a question, which can only be determined by ascertaining precisely how great a deviation this new class of mutual actions will produce. To do this is no easy task, or rather, it is the most difficult task which the genius of man has ever yet accomplished: still, it _has_ been accomplished by the mere application of the general laws of dynamics; and the result (undoubtedly a most beautiful and satisfactory one) is, that all those observed deviations in the motions of our system which stood out as exceptions (§ 154.), or were noticed as residual phenomena and reserved for further enquiry (§ 158.), in that imperfect view of the subject which we got in the subordinate process by which we rose to our general conclusion, prove to be the immediate consequences of the above-mentioned mutual actions. As such, they are neither exceptions nor residual facts, but fulfilments of general rules, and essential features in the statement of the case, _without_ which our induction would be invalid, and the law of gravitation positively untrue.

(214.) In the theory of gravitation, the law is all in all, applying itself at once to the materials, and directly producing the result. But in many other cases we have to consider not merely the laws which regulate the actions of our ultimate causes, but a system of mechanism, or a structure of parts, through the intervention of which their effects become sensible to us. Thus, in the delicate and curious electro-dynamic theory of Ampere, the mutual attraction or repulsion of two magnets is referred to a more universal phenomenon, the mutual action of electric currents, according to a certain fundamental law. But, in order to bring the case of a magnet within the range of this law, he is obliged to make a supposition of a peculiar structure or mechanism, which constitutes a body a magnet, viz. that around each particle of the body there shall be constantly circulating, in a certain stated direction, a small current of electric fluid.

(215.) This, we may say, is too complex; it is artificial, and cannot be granted: yet, if the admission of this or any other structure tenfold more artificial and complicated will enable any one to present in a general point of view a great number of particular facts,--to make them a part of one system, and enable us to reason from the known to the unknown, and actually to _predict facts before trial_,--we would ask, why should it _not_ be granted? When we examine those instances of nature’s workmanship which we can take to pieces and understand, we find them in the highest degree artificial in our own sense of the word. Take, for example, the structure of an eye, or of the skeleton of an animal,--what complexity and what artifice! In the one, a _pellucid muscle_; a lens formed with elliptical surfaces; a circular aperture capable of enlargement or contraction without loss of form. In the other, a framework of the most curious carpentry; in which occurs not a single straight line, nor any known geometrical curve, yet all evidently systematic, and constructed by rules which defy our research. Or examine a crystallized mineral, which we can in some measure dissect, and thus obtain direct evidence of an internal structure. Neither artifice nor complication are here wanting; and though it is easy to assert that these appearances are, after all, produced by something which would be very simple, if we did but know it, it is plain that the same might be _said_ of a steam-engine executing the most complicated movements, previous to any investigation of its nature, or any knowledge of the source of its power.

(216.) In estimating, however, the value of a theory, we are not to look, _in the first instance_, to the question, whether it establishes satisfactorily, or not, a particular process or mechanism; for of this, after all, we can never obtain more than that indirect evidence which consists in its leading to the same results. What, in the actual state of science, is far more important for us to know, is whether our theory truly represent _all_ the facts, and include _all_ the laws, to which observation and induction lead. A theory which did this would, no doubt, go a great way to establish any hypothesis of mechanism or structure, which might form an essential part of it: but this is very far from being the case, except in a few limited instances; and, till it is so, to lay any great stress on hypotheses of the kind, except in as much as they serve as a scaffold for the erection of general laws, is to “quite mistake the scaffold for the pile.” Regarded in this light, hypotheses have often an eminent use: and a facility in framing them, if attended with an equal facility in laying them aside when they have served their turn, is one of the most valuable qualities a philosopher can possess; while, on the other hand, a bigoted adherence to them, or indeed to peculiar views of any kind, in opposition to the tenor of facts as they arise, is the bane of all philosophy.

(217.) There is no doubt, however, that the safest course, when it can be followed, is to rise by inductions carried on among laws, as among facts, from law to law, perceiving, as we go on, how laws which we have looked upon as unconnected become particular cases, either one of the other, or all of one still more general, and, at length, blend altogether in the point of view from which we learn to regard them. An example will illustrate what we mean. It is a general law, that all hot bodies throw out or _radiate_ heat in all directions, (by which we mean, not that heat is an actual substance darted out from hot bodies, but only that the laws of the transmission of heat to distant objects are similar to those which would regulate the distribution of particles thrown forth in all directions,) and that other colder bodies placed in their neighbourhood become hot, _as if_ they received the heat so radiated. Again, all solid bodies which become heated in one part _conduct_, or diffuse, the heat from that part through their whole substance. Here we have two modes of communicating heat,--by radiation, and by conduction; and both these have their peculiar, and, to all appearance, very different laws. Now, let us bring a hot and a cold body (of the same substance) gradually nearer and nearer together,--as they approach, the heat will be communicated from the hot to the cold one by the _laws of radiation_; and from the nearer to the farther part of the colder one, as it gradually grows warm, by _those of conduction_. Let their distance be diminished till they just lightly touch. How does the heat _now_ pass from one to the other? Doubtless, by radiation; for it may be proved, that in such a contact there is yet an interval. Let them then be _forced_ together, and it will seem clear that it must now be by _conduction_. Yet their _interval_ must diminish gradually, as the force by which they are pressed together increases, till they actually cohere, and form one. The law of continuity, then, of which we have before spoken (§ 199.), forbids us to suppose that the intimate nature of the process of communication is changed in this transition from light to violent contact, and from that to actual union. If so, we might ask, at what point does the change happen? Especially since it is also demonstrable, that the particles of the most solid body are not, really, in contact. _Therefore_, the laws of conduction and radiation have a mutual dependence, and the former are only extreme cases of the latter. If, then, we would rightly understand what passes, or what is the process of nature in the slow communication of heat through the substance of a solid, we must ground our enquiries upon what takes place at a distance, and then urge the laws to which we have arrived, up to their extreme case.

(218.) When two theories run parallel to each other, and each explains a great many facts in common with the other, any experiment which affords a crucial instance to decide between them, or by which one or other must fall, is of great importance. In thus verifying theories, since they are grounded on general laws, we may appeal, not merely to particular cases, but to whole classes of facts; and we therefore have a great range among the individuals of these for the selection of some particular effect which ought to take place oppositely in the event of one of the two suppositions at issue being right and the other wrong. A curious example is given by M. Fresnel, as decisive, in his mind, of the question between the two great opinions on the nature of light, which, since the time of Newton and Huyghens, have divided philosophers. (See § 207.) When two very clean glasses are laid one on the other, if they be not perfectly flat, but one or both in an almost imperceptible degree convex or prominent, beautiful and vivid colours will be seen between them; and if these be viewed through a red glass, their appearance will be that of alternate dark and bright stripes. These stripes are formed _between_ the two surfaces in apparent contact, as any one may satisfy himself by using, instead of a flat _plate_ of glass for the upper one, a triangular-shaped piece, called a prism, like a three-cornered stick, and looking through the inclined side of it next the eye, by which arrangement the reflection of light from the upper surface is prevented from intermixing with that from the surfaces in contact. Now, the coloured stripes thus produced are explicable on both theories, and are appealed to by both as strong confirmatory facts; but there is a difference in one circumstance according as one or the other theory is employed to explain them. In the case of the Huyghenian doctrine, the intervals between the bright stripes ought to appear _absolutely black_; in the other, _half bright_, when so viewed through a prism. This curious case of difference was tried as soon as the opposing consequences of the two theories were noted by M. Fresnel, and the result is stated by him to be decisive in favour of that theory which makes light to consist in the vibrations of an elastic medium.

(219.) Theories are best arrived at by the consideration of general laws; but most securely verified by comparing them with particular facts, because this serves as a verification of the whole train of induction, from the lowest term to the highest. But then, the comparison must be made with facts purposely selected so as to include every variety of case, not omitting extreme ones, and in sufficient number to afford every reasonable probability of detecting error. A single numerical coincidence in a final conclusion, however striking the coincidence or important the subject, is not sufficient. Newton’s theory of sound, for example, leads to a numerical expression for the actual velocity of sound, differing but little from that afforded by the correct theory afterwards explained by Lagrange, and (when certain considerations not contemplated by him are allowed for) agreeing with fact; yet this coincidence is no verification of Newton’s view of the general subject of sound, which is defective in an essential point, as the great geometer last named has very satisfactorily shown. This example is sufficient to inspire caution in resting the verification of theories upon any thing but a very extensive comparison with a great mass of observed facts.

(220.) But, on the other hand, when a theory will bear the test of such extensive comparison, it matters little how it has been originally framed. However strange and, at first sight, inadmissible its postulates may appear, or however singular it may seem that such postulates should have been fixed upon,--if they only lead us, by legitimate reasonings, to conclusions in exact accordance with numerous observations purposely made under such a variety of circumstances as fairly to embrace the whole range of the phenomena which the theory is intended to account for, we cannot refuse to admit them; or if we still hesitate to regard them as demonstrated truths, we cannot, at least, object to receive them as temporary substitutes for such truths, until the latter shall become known. If they suffice to explain all the phenomena known, it becomes highly improbable that they will not explain more; and if all their conclusions we have tried have proved correct, it is probable that others yet untried will be found so too; so that _in rejecting them altogether, we should reject all the discoveries to which they may lead_.

(221.) In all theories which profess to give a true account of the process of nature in the production of any class of phenomena, by referring them to general laws, or to the action of general causes, through a train of modifying circumstances; before we can apply those laws, or trace the action of those causes in any assigned case, we require to know the circumstances: we must have data whereon to ground their application. Now, these can be learned only from observation; and it may seem to be arguing in a vicious circle to have recourse to observation for any part of those theoretical conclusions, by whose comparison with fact the theory itself is to be tried. The consideration of an example will enable us to remove this difficulty. The most general law which has yet been discovered in chemistry is this, that all the elementary substances in nature are susceptible of entering into combination with each other only in fixed or _definite proportions_ by weight, and not arbitrarily; so that when any two substances are put together with a view to unite them, if their weights are not in some certain determinate proportion, a complete combination will not take place, but some part of one or the other ingredient will remain over and above, and uncombined. Suppose, now, we have found a substance having all the outward characters of a homogeneous or unmixed body, but which, on analysis, we discover to consist of sulphur, and lead in the proportion of 20 parts of the former to 130 of the latter ingredient; and we would know whether this is to be regarded as a verification of the law of definite proportions or an exception to it. The question is reduced to this, whether the proportion 20 to 130 be or be not _that_ fixed and definite proportion, (or one of them, if there be more than one proportion possible,) in which, according to the law in question, sulphur and lead can combine; now, this can never be decided by merely looking at the law in all its generality. It is clear, that when particularized by restricting its expression to sulphur and lead, the law should state _what are_ those particular fixed proportions in which these bodies can combine. That is to say, there must be certain data or numbers, by which these are distinguished from all other bodies in nature, and which require to be known before we can apply the general law to the particular case. To determine such data, observation must be consulted; and if we were to have recourse to that of the combination of the two substances in question with each other, no doubt there would be ground for the logical objection of a vicious circle: but this is not done; the determination of these numerical data is derived from experiments purposely made on a great variety of different combinations, among which that under consideration does not of necessity occur, and all these being found, independently of each other, to agree in giving the same results, they are therefore safely assumed as part of the system. Thus, the law of definite proportions, when applied to the actual state of nature, requires two separate statements, the one announcing the general law of combination, the other particularizing the numbers appropriate to the several elements of which natural bodies consist, or the data of nature. Among these data, if arranged in a list, there will be found opposite to the element sulphur the number 16, and opposite to lead, 104[48]; and since 20 is to 130 in the exact proportion of 16 to 104, it appears that the combination in question affords a satisfactory verification of the law.

(222.) The great importance of physical data of this description, and the advantage of having them well determined, will be obvious, if we consider, that a list of them, when taken in combination with the general law, affords the means of determining at once the exact proportion of the ingredients of all natural compounds, if we only know the place they hold in the system. In chemistry, the number of admitted elements is between fifty and sixty, and new ones are added continually as the science advances. Now, the moment the number corresponding to any new substance added to the list is determined, we have, in fact, ascertained all the proportions in which it can enter into combination with all the others, so that a careful experiment made with the object of determining this number is, in fact, equivalent to as many different experiments as there are binary, ternary, or yet more complicated combinations capable of existing, into which the new substance may enter, as an ingredient.

(223.) The importance of obtaining exact physical data can scarcely be too much insisted on, for without them the most elaborate theories are little better than mere inapplicable forms of words. It would be of little consequence to be informed, abstractedly, that the sun and planets attract each other, with forces proportional to their masses, and inversely as the squares of their distances: but, as soon as we know the data of our system, as soon as we have an accurate statement (no matter how obtained) of the distances, masses, and actual motions of the several bodies which compose it, we need no more to enable us to predict all the movements of its several parts, and the changes that will happen in it for thousands of years to come; and even to extend our views backwards into time, and recover from the past, phenomena, which no observation has noted, and no history recorded, and which yet (it is possible) may have left indelible traces of their existence in their influence on the state of nature in our own globe, and those of the other planets.

(224.) The proof, too, that our data _are_ correctly assumed, is involved in the general verification of the whole theory, of which, when once assumed, they form a part; and the same comparison with observation which enables us to decide on the truth of the abstract principle, enables us, at the same time, to ascertain whether we have fixed the values of our data in accordance with the actual state of nature. If not, it becomes an important question, whether the assumed values can be corrected, so as to bring the results of theory to agree with facts? Thus it happens, that as theories approach to their perfection, a more and more exact determination of data becomes requisite. Deviations from observed fact, which, in a first or approximative verification, may be disregarded as trifling, become important when a high degree of precision is attained. A difference between the calculated and observed places of a planet, which would have been disregarded by Kepler in his verification of the law of elliptic motion, would now be considered fatal to the theory of gravity, unless it could be shown to arise from an erroneous assumption of some of the numerical data of our system.

(225.) The observations most appropriate for the ready and exact determination of physical data are, therefore, those which it is most necessary to have performed with exactness and perseverance. Hence it is, that their performance, in many cases, becomes a national concern, and observatories are erected and maintained, and expeditions despatched to distant regions, at an expense which, to a superficial view, would appear most disproportioned to their objects. But it may very reasonably be asked why the direct assistance afforded by governments to the execution of continued series of observations adapted to this especial end should continue to be, as it has hitherto almost exclusively been, confined to astronomy.

(226.) Physical data intended to be employed as elements of calculation in extensive theories, require to be known with a much greater degree of exactness than any single observation possesses, not only on account of their dignity and importance, as affording the means of representing an indefinite multitude of facts; but because, in the variety of combinations that may arise, or in the changes that circumstances may undergo, cases will occur when any trifling error in one of the data may become enormously magnified in the final result to be compared with observation. Thus, in the case of an eclipse of the sun, when the moon enters very obliquely upon the sun’s disc, a trifling error in the diameter of either the sun or moon may make a great one in the time when the eclipse shall be announced to commence. It ought to be remarked, that these are, of all others, the conjunctures where observations are most available for the determination of data; for, by the same rule that a small change in the data will, in such cases, produce a great one in the thing to be observed; so, _vice versâ_, any moderate amount of error, committed in an observation undertaken for ascertaining its value, can produce but a very trifling one in the _reverse_ calculation from which the data come to be determined by observation. This remark extends to every description of physical data in every department of science, and is never to be overlooked when the object in view is the determination of data with the last degree of precision.

(227.) But how, it may be asked, are we to ascertain _by_ observation, data more precise than observation itself? How are we to conclude the value of that which we do not see, with greater certainty than that of quantities which we actually see and measure? It is the number of observations which may be brought to bear on the determination of data that enables us to do this. Whatever error we may commit in a single determination, it is highly improbable that we should always err the same way, so that, when we come to take an average of a great number of determinations, (unless there be some constant cause which gives a bias one way or the other,) we cannot fail, at length, to obtain a very near approximation to the truth, and, even allowing a bias, to come much nearer to it than can fairly be expected from any single observation, liable to be influenced by the same bias.

(228.) This useful and valuable property of the average of a great many observations, that it brings us nearer to the truth than any single observation can be relied on as doing, renders it the most constant resource in all physical enquiries where accuracy is desired. And it is surprising what a rapid effect, in equalizing fluctuations and destroying deviations, a moderate multiplication of individual observations has. A better example can hardly be taken than the average height of the quicksilver in the common barometer, which measures the pressure of the air, and whose fluctuations are proverbial. Nevertheless, if we only observe it regularly every day, and, at the end of each month, take an average of the observed heights, we shall find the fluctuations surprisingly diminished in amount; and if we go on for a whole year, or for many years in succession, the annual averages will be found to agree with still greater exactness. This equalizing power of averages, by destroying all such fluctuations as are irregular or accidental, frequently enables us to obtain evidence of fluctuations really regular, periodic in their recurrence, and so much smaller in their amount than the accidental ones, that, but for this mode of proceeding, they never would have become apparent. Thus, if the height of the barometer be observed four times a day, constantly, for a few months, and the averages taken, it will be seen that a regular _daily_ fluctuation, of very small amount, takes place, the quicksilver rising and falling twice in the four-and-twenty hours. It is by such observations that we are enabled to ascertain--what no single measure (unless by a fortunate coincidence), could give us any idea, and never any certain knowledge of--the true _sea level_ at any part of the coast, or the height at which the water of the ocean would stand, if perfectly undisturbed by winds, waves, or tides: a subject of very great importance, and upon which it would be highly desirable to possess an extensive series of observations, at a great many points on the coasts of the principal continents and islands over the whole globe.

(229.) In all cases where there is a direct and simple relation between the phenomenon observed and a single _datum_ on which it depends, every single observation will give a value of this quantity, and the average of all (under certain restrictions) will be its exact value. We say, under certain restrictions; for, if the circumstances under which the observations are made be not alike, they may not all be equally favourable to exactness, and it would be doing injustice to those most advantageous, to class them with the rest. In such cases as these, as well as in cases where the _data_ are numerous and complicated together, so as not to admit of single, separate determination (a thing of continual occurrence), we have to enter into very nice, and often not a little intricate, considerations respecting the _probable_ accuracy of our results, or the limits of error within which it is _probable_ they lie. In so doing we are obliged to have recourse to a refined and curious branch of mathematical enquiry, called the doctrine of probabilities, the object of which (as its name imports) is to reduce our estimation of the probability of any conclusion to calculation, so as to be able to give more than a mere guess at the degree of reliance which ought to be placed in it.

(230.) To give some general idea of the considerations which such computations involve, let us imagine a person firing with a pistol at a wafer on a wall ten yards distant: we might, in a general way, take it for granted, that he would hit the wall, but not the wafer, at the first shot; but if we would form any thing like a probable conjecture of _how near_ he would come to it, we must first have an idea of his skill. No better way of judging could be devised than by letting him fire a hundred shots at it, and marking where they all struck. Suppose this done,--suppose the wafer has been hit once or twice, that a certain number of balls have hit the wall within an inch of it, a certain number between one and two inches, and so on, and that one or two have been some feet wide of the mark. Still the question arises, what estimate are we thence to form of his skill? how _near_ (or nearer) may we, after this experience, safely, or at least not unfairly, bet that he will come to the mark the next subsequent shot? This the laws of probability enable us on such data to say. Again, suppose, _before_ we were allowed to measure the distances, the wafer were to have been taken away, and we were called upon, on the mere evidence of the marks on the wall, to say where it had been placed; it is clear that no reasoning would enable any one to say with certainty; yet there is assuredly one place which we may fix on with greater probability of being right than any other. Now, this is a very similar case to that of an observer--an astronomer for example--who would determine the exact place of a heavenly body. He points to it his telescope, and obtains a series of results disagreeing among themselves, but yet all agreeing within certain limits, and only a comparatively small number of them deviating considerably from the mean of all; and from these he is called upon to say, definitively, what he shall consider to have been the most probable place of his star at the moment. Just so in the calculation of physical _data_; where no two results agree exactly, and where all come within limits, some wide, some close, what have we to guide us when we would make up our minds what to conclude respecting them? It is evident that any system of calculation that can be shown to lead of necessity to the most probable conclusion where certainty is not to be had must be valuable. However, as this doctrine is one of the most difficult and delicate among the applications of mathematics to natural philosophy, this slight mention of it must suffice at present.

(231.) In the foregoing pages we have endeavoured to explain the spirit of the methods to which, since the revival of philosophy, natural science has been indebted for the great and splendid advances it has made. What we have all along most earnestly desired to impress on the student is, that natural philosophy is essentially united in all its departments, through all which one spirit reigns and one method of enquiry applies. It cannot, however, be studied as a whole, without subdivision into parts; and, in the remainder of this discourse, we shall therefore take a summary view of the progress which has been made in the different branches into which it may be most advantageously so subdivided, and endeavour to give a general idea of the nature of each, and of its relations to the rest. In the course of this, we shall have frequent opportunity to point out the influence of those general principles we have above endeavoured to explain, on the progress of discovery. But this we shall only do as cases arise, without entering into any regular analysis of the history of each department with that view. Such an analysis would, indeed, be a most useful and valuable work, but would far exceed our present limits. We are not, however, without a hope that this great desideratum in science will, ere long, be supplied from a quarter every way calculated to do it justice.