Scientific Culture, and Other Essays Part 3

But, if a fixed star, its position in the constellation would not vary, while, if a planet, a single night would show a perceptible change of place. Hence, you may conceive of the interest with which Galle was measuring anew its position on the evening of the 24th.

The star had moved, and in the direction which theory indicated; and for once, at least, the world rang with applause at a brilliant scientific conquest from which there was not one cent of money to be made. Yet, was that conquest any less important to the world? What had it secured? It had confirmed the theory of astronomy which Copernicus and his successors had built up, and it had clinched the last nail in the proof that those grand conceptions of modern astronomy, now household thoughts, are realities, and not dreams. Certainly no military conquest can compare with this.

Do not smile at the enthusiasm which rates so high a purely intellectual achievement? Go out with me under the heavens, in some starlight night, and, looking up into the depths of s.p.a.ce, recall the truths you have learned in regard to that immensity, and allow the imagination free scope as it stretches out into the infinitudes of time, s.p.a.ce, and power, carrying the mind on, bound by bound, through the limitless expanse, until even the imagination refuses to follow, and fairly quails before the mighty form of the Infinite, which rises to confront it!

Remember now that your forefathers, of only a few centuries back, saw there nothing but a solid dome hemming in the earth and skies, and that you are able to look upon this grand spectacle only because great minds have lived who have opened your intellectual eyes; and then answer me, is not this result worth all the labor, all the sacrifice, all the treasure it has cost?

Every educated man, who has not sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, lives a grander and n.o.bler life, because the great astronomers have thought and taught, and this elevation of human life is the greatest achievement of which man can boast. Before it all material conquests appear of little worth, and the l.u.s.tre of all military or civil glory grows dim. Cherish this intellectual life; foster it; sustain it; do what you can by your own spirit and influence, and, if you are blessed with riches, give of your abundance to support and encourage those who, by genius, talent, and devotion, will widen the intellectual kingdom. Be a.s.sured you will thus help to confer an inestimable boon on your race and on your country; and the influence for good will not be felt by the intellectual life of the nation only. That corruption which is now festering at the heart of our body politic, and threatening its destruction, can in no way be fought and conquered so effectually as by keeping constantly before the nation n.o.ble and high ideals; for, where the higher life is cherished and honored, the mercenary and sensual motives of action, which both invite and shield corruption, lose much of their force and power.

But you may tell me that there is a life higher than the intellectual life, and that I have ascribed to science and scholarship influences which come only from a source which I have forgotten, or left out of view. My friends, all truth is one and inseparable, and I have therefore made no distinction in this address between the truths of science and truths of religion. The grand old word knowledge, as I have used it, includes both, and, in just the proportion that you reverence religion, you must reverence also true science. All truth is G.o.d's truth, and, in praying for the coming of his kingdom, you certainly do not expect that Nature will be divorced from Grace. If the truths of religion required a special revelation, it must be expected that they would transcend human intelligence. These very conditions imply conflict, but the conflict comes not from the knowledge, but from the ignorance and conceit of men; and the only proper att.i.tude for the devout scholar is "to labor and to wait." And what more wonderful confirmation could we have of the essential unity of the two phases of truth than is to be found in the fact that the characteristic of science, which I have been endeavoring to ill.u.s.trate in this address, is the great prominent feature of Christianity? Christianity was revealed in a life, and ever abides a life in the soul of man, to purify, enn.o.ble, and redeem humanity.

"And so the Word had breath, and wrought, With human hands, the creed of creeds, In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought--

"Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave, In roarings round the coral reef."

III.

THE ELEMENTARY TEACHING OF PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

_An Address to the Schoolmasters of Boston, delivered February 4, 1878._

I felt a great reluctance at accepting the invitation of your excellent superintendent to address you on this occasion; for, although I could claim an unusually long experience in presenting the elements of physical science to college students, I was fully conscious that I knew little of the conditions under which such subjects must be studied, if at all, in the elementary schools, and was therefore in danger of appearing in a capacity which I should most sedulously shun, that of a babbler about impracticable theories of education. It is very easy to criticize another man's labor, and such criticisms, however plausible, do the grossest injustice when, as is often the case, they leave out of view the necessary conditions and limitations under which the work must be done. While, however, I felt most keenly my incapacity to deal with many of the practical problems which you have to solve, yet, on consideration, I concluded that it was my duty under the circ.u.mstances to state as clearly and forcibly as I could the very definite opinions which I had formed on the subject you are discussing, knowing that you will only give such weight to these opinions as your mature judgment can allow. In stating the results of my experience, I can not avoid a certain personal element, which would be wholly inexcusable were it not that the facts, as I think you will admit, form the basis of my argument.

I am a Boston boy, born in this immediate neighborhood, and fitted for college at the "Latin School." It so happened that, while I was very unsuccessfully endeavoring to commit to memory, in the old school-house on School Street, Andrews and Stoddard's Latin grammar, not one word of which I could understand, the "Lowell Inst.i.tute" lectures were opened at the "Odeon" on Congress Street. At those lectures I got my first taste of real knowledge, and that taste awakened an appet.i.te which has never yet been satisfied. As a boy, I eagerly sought the small amount of popular science which the English literature of that day afforded; and I can now distinctly recall almost every page of Mrs. Marcet's "Conversations on Chemistry," which was the first book on my science that I ever read. More to the point than this, a boy's pertinacity, favored by a kind father's indulgence, found the means of repeating, in a small way, most of the experiments first seen at the Lowell Inst.i.tute lecture; and thus it came to pa.s.s that, before I entered college, I had acquired a real, available knowledge of the facts of chemistry; although, with much labor and intense weariness, I had gained only a formal knowledge of those subjects which were then regarded as the only essential preparation for the college course. In college, my attention was almost exclusively devoted to other studies--for, in my day at Cambridge, chemistry was one of the lost arts. But when, the year after I graduated, I was most unexpectedly called upon to give my first course of lectures, the only laboratory in which I had worked was the shed of my father's house on Winthrop Place, and the only apparatus at my command was what this boy's laboratory contained. With these simple tools, or, as I should rather say, because they were so simple, I gained that measure of success which determined my subsequent career.

I feel that I owe you a constant apology for these personal details, and I should not be guilty of them did I not believe that they establish two points more conclusively than I could prove them in any other way.

First, that it is perfectly possible for a child before fifteen years of age to acquire a real and living knowledge of the fundamental facts of nature on which physical science is based. Secondly, that this knowledge can be effectually gained by the use of the simplest tools.

Let me add that this is not a question of natural endowments or special apt.i.tudes, for every one who has studied from the love of knowledge has had the same experience; and I do not believe that, if my first taste of real knowledge had been of history, nay, I will even say, of philology, instead of chemistry, the circ.u.mstance would have materially influenced my success in life, however different the direction into which it might have turned my study. My early tastes were utterly at variance with all my surroundings and all my inheritances, and were simply determined by the accident which first satisfied that natural thirst for knowledge which every child experiences to a greater or less degree--a desire most rudely repressed in our usual methods of teaching.

My bitter experience as a pupil in the Boston Latin School and my subsequent more fortunate experience of thirty years as a teacher in Harvard College have impressed me most profoundly with the conviction that the only way to arouse and sustain a love for knowledge in children is to cultivate their perceptive faculties. To present the rudiments of knowledge to immature minds in an abstract form, whether the subject be grammar or physical science, is, in my judgment, not only culpable folly, but also downright wrong. And, if, to those who have been accustomed to the long established routine of our public school, my opinions may appear revolutionary and extreme, I am, nevertheless, sure that they would receive the universal a.s.sent of the men whom all would recognize as the foremost scientific teachers of the world. I can well remember that when, many years ago, the late Professor Aga.s.siz declared in my hearing that he would have no text-books used in his museum, I thought his plan of pure object-teaching chimerical in the extreme, and yet experience has not only convinced me of the wisdom of his judgment in regard to the teaching of natural history, but brought me to a similar conclusion in regard to the elementary teaching both of natural philosophy and of chemistry.

Allow me then to express my firm persuasion that it is not only useless but injurious to the education of young minds to present to them at the outset any department of physical science as a body of definitions, principles, laws, or theories; and that in elementary schools only such facts should be taught as can be verified by the experience of the pupil, or by such simple experiments as the pupils can try for themselves. The usual method of committing by heart the words of a school-book, and repeating them at the dictation of a teacher, may afford a good exercise for the memory, but it is absurd to regard such a task as a lesson in physical science, and this kind of study can be spent with vastly greater profit on the spelling-book.

There is one department of physical science which has been taught in this absurd way in our schools from time immemorial. I refer, of course, to the study of geography, and I leave for you to judge whether the result is worth the one hundredth part of the toil and drudgery spent in obtaining it. Let us suppose that your child is able to give you the names of all the rivers, bays, and capes from Greenland to Patagonia, how much more does that child know of the structure and social relations of this globe on which its lot has been cast than it did before this senseless feat was attempted, a feat, moreover, to which only a child's memory would be equal? And, when you turn to your own experience, what is the outcome of all the time and labor spent on geography? Is it not solely just that portion of your knowledge which, in spite of the system, was direct object-teaching--the images you insensibly acquired from the maps and pictures in the school-books?

But there is a very different way of teaching geography, by which the study may be made a pleasure, not a task. The teacher does not begin with abstract definitions of rivers, and bays, and oceans, which convey no definite meaning to a child, but with Charles River, Boston Harbor, and the Atlantic Ocean, which are to him real things, however imperfect his conceptions of their extent. The child is first shown, not a map of the globe, which he can not by any possibility understand, but a map of a very limited region around his own home. He is taught how to find the north and south, the east and west directions. He is encouraged to make excursions to verify the map, or to add to its details, and such excursions may be made to have for him all the zest of voyages of discovery; and when thus the rudiments of geographical science have been mastered, not in technical terms, but in substance, then the teacher may begin to expand the horizon of the pupil's knowledge, judiciously omitting details in proportion as distance increases, until at length the general survey embraces the globe. Of course, such teaching as this can only be given orally with the help of proper apparatus, such as wall maps, and globes, and photographs. It must take the interrogative form, and the questions should be directed to bring out the child's already acquired knowledge, and to lead him to observe facts which had hitherto escaped his notice. What a child reads in a book, or even what you tell him, is never one half learnt, unless his interest is aroused. But what a child observes for himself he never forgets, and when you have thus aroused his interest you can a.s.sociate a large number of facts with one observation, and these all crystallize in his memory around this nucleus.

This is no mere theory, no untried method which I am advocating. So far from it, I am describing the precise method which has been used for many years in Germany, where the science of education is far better understood than with us, and where economy both of time and labor in teaching is most carefully studied. If our school committees could attend and understand a single exercise in geography, such as are daily given in the elementary schools of Prussia, I am sure that at least one form of child torture would soon disappear from the primary schools of this country. Indeed, I already see evidence of a growing public opinion on this subject, an effect which I trace in no small measure to the influence of the Department of Education of the Exhibition at Philadelphia in 1876.

That which is true of geography applies with still greater force to such subjects as physics and chemistry, since the abstract conceptions which these sciences involve are more abstruse, and the language by which the conceptions are expressed or defined far less plain than is the case with the older and more descriptive branch of knowledge. Hence, as sciences, properly so called, that is, as philosophical systems, they have no place whatever in elementary education. But, underlying these systems, there is a great mult.i.tude of phenomena which a child can be led to observe and apprehend as readily as the facts of geography. Take that subject--mechanics--which our ordinary school-books very philosophically but most unpractically place at the beginning of what they call "Natural" Philosophy. How many of the fundamental facts of this difficult subject can be made familiar to a child? Select, as an example, Newton's "First Law of Motion." Suppose you make a boy memorize the ordinary rule, "Every body continues in a state of rest or of uniform motion in a straight line until acted upon by some external force," how much will he know about it? Suppose you make him do a lot of problems involving distances, velocities, and times, will he know any more about it? But ask him, "Can you pitch a ball as well as your playmate?" and he answers at once, "No; John is stronger than I am." And then, if again you ask, "Can you catch John's ball?" he will probably reply, "Of course, not! It requires a boy as strong as John to catch his b.a.l.l.s." And thus, by a few well-directed questions, you would bring that boy to learn a lesson which he would never forget, and which he would recall every time he played base-ball; namely, that John's swift b.a.l.l.s could not be set in motion without an expenditure of a definite amount of muscular effort, and could not be stopped without the exertion of an equal amount of what, after a while, you could get him to call _force_.

From the ball you would naturally pa.s.s to the railroad train or the steamboat, and I should not wonder if, with a little patience, you could bring even a boy to understand that motion can not be maintained against a resistance, in other words, that work can not be done without a constant expenditure of muscular effort, or of some other source of power; and it is a fond hope of mine that by the time these boys grow into men our intelligent New England community might become so far educated in the elementary principles of mechanics that no self-sustained motors, nor other mechanical nostrums which claim to have superseded the primeval curse--if that law was a curse, which compels man to earn his bread with the sweat of his brow--will receive the sanction of our respectable journals; and then--if they have not previously learned the lesson by dire experience--we may hope to persuade our people of the parallel and equally elementary principle of political economy, that value can not be legislated into rags.

But, my friends, our subject gives no occasion for banter, and presents aspects too serious to be treated lightly or in jests. As inhabitants of a not over-fruitful land, and, therefore, members of a community which must excel, if at all, solely by its enterprise and intelligence, we have a duty to our children which we can not avoid, if we would, and for which we shall be held responsible by our posterity. These children are entering life surrounded not only by all the wonders and glories of nature, but, also, by giant conditions, which, whether stationed on their path as a blessing or a curse, will inevitably strike if their behests are not obeyed. So far as science has been able to define these giant forms, it is our duty, as it is our privilege, to point them out to those we are bound to protect and guide; and in many cases it is in our power to change the curse into a blessing, and to transform the destructive demon into a guardian angel. After that command of language which the necessities of civilized life imperatively require, there is no acquisition which we can give our children that will exert so important an influence on their material welfare as a knowledge of the laws of nature, under which they must live and to which they must conform; and throughout whose universal dominion the only question is whether men shall grovel as ignorant slaves or shall rule as intelligent servants. Yes; rule by obeying. "Ich Dien"; for only under that motto, which, five hundred years ago, the great Black Prince bore so victoriously through the fields of Cressy and Poitiers, can man ever rule in Nature's kingdom.

I regard it, therefore, as the highest duty and the most enlightened self-interest of a community like this to provide the best means for the instruction of its children in the elements of physical science; and I was, therefore, most anxious to do all in my power to second the enlightened efforts of your eminent Superintendent in this direction.

You must remember, however, that the best tools are worthless in themselves, and can secure no valuable results unless judiciously used.

Indeed, there is danger in too many tools, and I have a great horror of that array of bra.s.s-work which is usually miscalled "philosophical"

apparatus. The greater part of this is, in my opinion, a mere hindrance to the teacher, because it at once erects a barrier between the scholar and the simple facts of nature, and the child inevitably a.s.sociates with the phenomenon ill.u.s.trated some legerdemain, and looks on your experiments very much as he would on the exhibition of a Houdin or a Signor Blitz. The secret of success in teaching physical science is to use the simplest and most familiar means to ill.u.s.trate your point.

When a very young man I was favored with an introduction to Michael Faraday, and had the privilege of attending a portion of a course of lectures which this n.o.ble man was then in the habit of giving every Christmas season to a juvenile auditory at the Royal Inst.i.tution of London. As a boy, I had become familiar with lectures on chemistry at the Lowell Inst.i.tute, where they did not lack the pomp of circ.u.mstance or the display of apparatus, and I had come to a.s.sociate these elements with the conditions of success in lectures of this kind. What, then, was my surprise to find Faraday, the acknowledged leader of the world in his science, and who had every means of ill.u.s.tration at his command, using the plainest language and the simplest tools. When, in my youthful admiration at the result, I expressed, after one of the lectures, my surprise at the simplicity of the means employed, the great master replied: "That is the whole secret of interesting these young people. I always use the simplest means, but I never leave a point not ill.u.s.trated. If I mention the force of gravitation I take up a stone and let it drop." At this distance of time, I can not be sure that I quote his exact language, but the lesson and the ill.u.s.tration I could not forget; and to this lesson, more than to any other one thing, I owe whatever success I have had as a teacher of physical science.

I repeat, therefore, it is not only useless but injurious in the education of young minds to present any department of physical science as a body of definitions, principles, laws, or theories; and that in elementary schools such facts only should be taught as can be verified either by the experience of the pupils or by the simplest experiments, which the pupils can repeat by themselves; and now, after this discussion, I add, that the teacher must depend on his own ingenuity for his experiments, and on his intercourse with his pupils for his instruction.

But you will tell me all this involves grave difficulties, and conditions incompatible with our ordinary school life. I freely admit the difficulties, but I am none the less sure that, unless science can be taught on the principles I have endeavored to ill.u.s.trate, it had better not be taught at all. I know very well that the proper teaching of physical science is wholly incompatible with our usual school methods. But this only proves to me that these methods ought to be changed, and I am persuaded that the changes required will benefit the literary and cla.s.sical as well as the scientific courses of study. For do not the same general principles apply to the acquisition of knowledge in all subjects? And when a child's perceptive faculties have been duly stimulated, and his intelligence fully awakened, he will find interest in grammar, in literature, or in history, as well as in science.

In repelling the reproach of narrowness, to which our elective system at Cambridge undoubtedly frequently leads, how often have I urged the self-evident proposition that to arouse a love of study in any subject, I care not how subordinate its importance or how limited its scope, is to take the first step toward making your man a scholar; while to fail to gain his interest in any study is to lose the whole end of education--and what is true of the man is still more true of the child.

Cla.s.sical culture on the one hand and scientific culture on the other are excellent things, but, if your boy can not be made to take an interest either in cla.s.sics or in science, how plain it is that such treasures are not for him, and, in the absence of the one condition which can give value to any study, how idle and inconsequent all questions in regard to the relative merits of these studies appear! On the other hand, a love of study once gained, all studies are alike good.

And as with the pupil, so with the teacher. No teaching is of any real value that does not come directly from the intelligence, and heart of the teacher, and thus appeals to the intelligence and heart of the pupil. It, of course, implies more acquisition, and it requires far more energy to teach from one's own knowledge than to teach from a book, but then, just in proportion to the difficulties overcome, does the teacher raise his profession and enn.o.ble himself. There is no n.o.bler service than the life of a true teacher; but the mere task-master has no right to the teacher's name, and can never attain the teacher's reward.

IV.

THE RADIOMETER: A FRESH EVIDENCE OF A MOLECULAR UNIVERSE.

_A Lecture delivered in the Sanders Theatre of Harvard University, March 6, 1878._

No one who is not familiar with the history of physical science can appreciate how very modern are those grand conceptions which add so much to the loftiness of scientific studies; and, of the many who, on one of our starlit nights, look up into the depths of s.p.a.ce, and are awed by the thoughts of that immensity which come crowding upon the mind, there are few, I imagine, who realize the fact that almost all the knowledge which gives such great sublimity to that sight is the result of comparatively recent scientific investigation; and that the most elementary student can now gain conceptions of the immensity of the universe of which the fathers of astronomy never dreamed. And how very grand are the familiar astronomical facts which the sight of the starry heavens suggests!

Those brilliant points are all suns like the one which forms the center of our system, and around which our earth revolves; yet so inconceivably remote, that, although moving through s.p.a.ce with an incredible velocity, they have not materially changed their relative position since recorded observations began. Compared with their distance, the distance of our own sun--92,000,000 miles--seems as nothing; yet how inconceivable even that distance is when we endeavor to mete it out with our terrestrial standards! For if, when Copernicus--the great father of modern astronomy--died, in 1543, just at the close of the Protestant Reformation, a messenger had started for the sun, and traveled ever since with the velocity of a railroad train--thirty miles an hour--he would not yet have reached his destination!

Evidently, then, no standards, which, like our ordinary measures, bear a simple or at least a conceivable relation to the dimensions of our own bodies, can help us to stretch a line in such a universe. We must seek for some magnitude which is commensurate with these immensities of s.p.a.ce; and, in the wonderfully rapid motion of light, astronomy furnishes us with a suitable standard. By the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites the astronomers have determined that this mysterious effluence reaches us from the sun in eight minutes and a half, and therefore must travel through s.p.a.ce with the incredible velocity--shall I dare to name it?--of 186,000 miles in a second of time! Yet, inconceivably rapid as this motion is, capable of girdling the earth nearly eight times in a single second, the very nearest of the fixed stars, [alpha] Centauri, is so remote that the light by which it will be seen in the southern heavens to-night, near that magnificent constellation, the Southern Cross, must have started on its journey three years and a half ago. But this light comes from merely the threshold of the stellar universe; and the telescope reveals to us stars so distant that, had they been blotted out of existence when history began, the tidings of the event could not yet have reached the earth!

Compare now with these grand conceptions the popular belief of only a few centuries back. Where we look into the infinite depths, our Puritan forefathers saw only a solid dome hemming in the earth and skies, and through whose opened doors the rain descended. They regarded the sun and moon merely as great luminaries set in this firmament to rule the day and night, and to their understandings the stars served no better purpose than the spangles which glitter on the azure ceiling of many a modern church. The great work of Copernicus, "De Orbium Coelestium Revolutionibus," which was destined, ultimately, to overthrow the crude cosmography which Christianity had inherited from Judaism, was not published until just at the close of the author's life in 1543, the date before mentioned. The telescope, which was required to fully convince the world of its previous error, was not invented until more than half a century later, and it was not until 1835 that Struve detected the parallax of [alpha] Lyrae. The measurement of this parallax, together with Bessel's determination of the parallax of 61 Cygni, and Henderson's that of [alpha] Centauri, at about the same time, gave us our first accurate knowledge of the distances of the fixed stars.

To the thought I have endeavored to express, I must add another, before I can draw the lesson which I wish to teach. Great scientific truths become popularized very slowly, and, after they have been thoroughly worked out by the investigators, it is often many years before they become a part of the current knowledge of mankind. It was fully a century after Copernicus died, with his great volume--still wet from the press of Nuremberg--in his hands, before the Copernican theory was generally accepted even by the learned; and the intolerant spirit with which this work was received and the persecution which Galileo encountered more than half a century later were due solely to the circ.u.mstance that the new theory tended to subvert the popular faith in the cosmography of the Church. In modern times, with the many popular expositors of science, the diffusion of new truth is more rapid; but even now there is always a long interval after any great discovery in abstract science before the new conception is translated into the language of common life, so that it can be apprehended by the ma.s.s even of educated men.

I have thus dwelt on what must be familiar facts in the past history of astronomy, because they ill.u.s.trate and will help you to realize the present condition of a much younger branch of physical science; for, in the transition period I have described, there exists now a conception which opens a vision into the microcosmos beneath us as extensive and as grand as that which the Copernican theory revealed into the macrocosmos above us.

The conception to which I refer will be at once suggested to every scientific scholar by the word _molecule_. This word is a Latin diminutive, which means, primarily, a small ma.s.s of matter; and, although heretofore often applied in mechanics to the indefinitely small particles of a body between which the attractive or repulsive forces might be supposed to act, it has only recently acquired the exact significance with which we now use it.

In attempting to discover the original usage of the word molecule, I was surprised to find that it was apparently first introduced into science by the great French naturalist, Buffon, who employed the term in a very peculiar sense. Buffon does not seem to have been troubled with the problem which so engrosses our modern naturalists--how the vegetable and animal kingdoms were developed into their present condition--but he was greatly exercised by an equally difficult problem, which seems to have been lost sight of in the present controversy, and which is just as obscure to-day as it was in Buffon's time, at the close of the last century, and that is, Why species are so persistent in Nature; why the acorn always grows into the oak, and why every creature always produces of its kind. And, if you will reflect upon it, I am sure you will conclude that this last is by far the more fundamental problem of the two, and one which necessarily includes the first. That, of two eggs, in which no anatomist can discover any structural difference, the one should, in a few short years, _develop_ an intelligence like Newton's, while the other soon ends in a Guinea-pig, is certainly a greater mystery than that, in the course of unnumbered ages, monkeys, by insensible gradations, should _grow_ into men.

In order to explain the remarkable constancy of species, Buffon advanced a theory which, when freed from a good deal that was fanciful, may be expressed thus: The attributes of every species, whether of plants or of animals, reside in their ultimate particles, or, to use a more philosophical but less familiar word, _inhere_ in these particles, which Buffon names _organic molecules_. According to Buffon, the oak owes all the peculiarities of its organization to the special oak molecules of which it consists; and so all the differences in the vegetable or animal kingdom, from the lowest to the highest species, depend on fundamental peculiarities with which their respective molecules were primarily endowed. There must, of course, be as many kinds of molecules as there are different species of living beings; but, while the molecules of the same species were supposed to be exactly alike, and to have a strong affinity or attraction for each other, those of different species were a.s.sumed to be inherently distinct and to have no such affinities. Buffon further a.s.sumed that these molecules of organic nature were diffused more or less widely through the atmosphere and through the soil, and that the acorn grew to the oak simply because, consisting itself of oak molecules, it could draw only oak molecules from the surrounding media.

With our present knowledge of the chemical const.i.tution of organic beings, we can find a great deal that is both fantastic and absurd in this theory of Buffon; but it must be remembered that the science of chemistry is almost wholly a growth of the present century, while Buffon died in 1788; and, if we look at the theory solely from the standpoint of his knowledge, we shall find in it much that was worthy of this great man. Indeed, in our time, the essential features of the theory of Buffon have been transferred from natural history to chemistry almost unchanged.

According to our modern chemistry, the qualities of every substance reside or inhere in its molecules. Take this lump of sugar. It has certain qualities with which every one is familiar. Are those qualities attributes of the lump or of its parts? Certainly of its parts; for, if we break up the lump, the smallest particles will still taste sweet and show all the characteristics of sugar. Could we, then, carry on this subdivision indefinitely, provided only we had senses or tests delicate enough to recognize the qualities of sugar in the resulting particles?

To this question, modern chemistry answers decidedly, No! You would before long reach the smallest ma.s.s that can have the qualities of sugar. You would have no difficulty in breaking up these ma.s.ses, but you would then obtain, not smaller particles of sugar, but particles of those utterly different substances which we call carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen--in a word, particles of the elementary substances of which sugar consists. These ultimate particles of sugar we call the molecules of sugar, and thus we come to the present chemical definition of a molecule, "_The smallest particles of a substance in which its qualities inhere_," which, as you see, is a reproduction of Buffon's idea, although applied to matter and not to organism.

A lump of sugar, then, has its peculiar qualities because it is an aggregate of molecules which have those qualities, and a lump of salt differs from a lump of sugar simply because the molecules of salt differ from those of sugar, and so with every other substance. There are as many kinds of molecules in Nature as there are different substances, but all the molecules of the same substance are absolutely alike in every respect.

Thus far, as you see, we are merely reviving in a different a.s.sociation the old ideas of Buffon. But just at this point comes in a new conception, which gives far greater grandeur to our modern theory: for we conceive that those smallest particles in which the qualities of a substance inhere are definite bodies or systems of bodies moving in s.p.a.ce, and that _a lump of sugar is a universe of moving worlds_.