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 Journal35 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.