Among the figures that stand out sharply upon the dim background of old-time science, there is none that excites a keener interest than Galileo. Most people know him only as a distinguished man of learning; one who carried on a vigorous controversy with the Church on matters scientific. It requires some little study, some careful reading between the lines of astronomical history, to gain acquaintance with the man himself. He had a brilliant, incisive wit; was a genuine humorist; knew well and loved the amusing side of things; and could not often forego a sarcastic pleasantry, or deny himself the pleasure of argument. Yet it is more than doubtful if he ever intended impertinence, or gave willingly any cause of quarrel to the Church.

His acute understanding must have seen that there exists no real conflict between science and religion; for time, in passing, has made common knowledge of this truth, as it has of many things once hidden. When we consider events that occurred three centuries ago, it is easy to replace excited argument with cool judgment; to remember that those were days of violence and cruelty; that public ignorance was of a density difficult to imagine to-day; and that it was universally considered the duty of the Church to assume an authoritative attitude upon many questions with which she is not now required to concern herself in the least. Charlatans, unbalanced theorists, purveyors of scientific marvels, were all liable to be passed upon definitely by the Church, not in a spirit of impertinent interference, but simply as part of her regular duties.

If the Church's judgment in such matters was sometimes erroneous; if her interference now and again was cruel, the cause must be sought in the manners and customs of the time, when persecution rioted in company with ignorance, and violence was the law. Perhaps even to-day it would not be amiss to have a modern scientific board pass authoritatively upon novel discoveries and inventions, so as to protect the public against impostors as the Church tried to do of old.

Galileo was born at Pisa in 1564, and his long life lasted until 1642, the very year of Newton's birth. His most important scientific discoveries may be summed up in a few words; he was the first to use a telescope for examining the heavenly bodies; he discovered mountains on the moon; the satellites of Jupiter; the peculiar appearance of Saturn which Huygens afterward explained as a ring surrounding the ball of the planet; and, finally, he found black spots on the sun's disk. These discoveries, together with his remarkable researches in mechanical science, constitute Galileo's claim to immortality as an investigator. But, as we have said, it is not our intention to consider his work as a series of scientific discoveries. We shall take a more interesting point of view, and deal with him rather as a human being who had contracted the habit of making scientific researches.

What must have been his feelings when he first found with his "new" telescope the satellites of Jupiter? They were seen on the night of January 7, 1610. He had already viewed the planet through his earlier and less powerful glass, and was aware that it possessed a round disk like the moon, only smaller. Now he saw also three objects that he took to be little stars near the planet. But on the following night, as he says, "drawn by what fate I know not," the tube was again turned upon the planet. The three small stars had changed their positions, and were now all situated to the west of Jupiter, whereas on the previous night two had been on the eastern side. He could not explain this phenomenon, but he recognized that there was something peculiar at work. Long afterward, in one of his later works, translated into quaint old English by Salusbury, he declared that "one sole experiment sufficeth to batter to the ground a thousand probable Arguments." This was already the guiding principle of his scientific activity, a principle of incomparable importance, and generally credited to Bacon. Needless to say, Jupiter was now examined every night.

The 9th was cloudy, but on the 10th he again saw his little stars, their number now reduced to two. He guessed that the third was behind the planet's disk. The position of the two visible ones was altogether different from either of the previous observations. On the 11th he became sure that what he saw was really a series of satellites accompanying Jupiter on his journey through space, and at the same time revolving around him. On the 12th, at 3 A.M., he actually saw one of the small objects emerge from behind the planet; and on the 13th he finally saw four satellites. Two hundred and eighty-two years were destined to pass away before any human eye should see a fifth. It was Barnard in 1892 who followed Galileo.

To understand the effect of this discovery upon Galileo requires a person who has himself watched the stars, not, as a dilettante, seeking recreation or amusement, but with that deep reverence that comes only to him who feels—nay, knows—that in the moment of observation just passed he too has added his mite to the great fund of human knowledge. Galileo's mummied forefinger still points toward the stars from its little pedestal of wood in the Museo at Florence, a sign to all men that he is unforgotten. But Galileo knew on that 11th of January, 1610, that the memory of him would never fade; that the very music of the spheres would thenceforward be attuned to a truer note, if any would but hearken to the Jovian harmony. For he recognized at once that the visible revolution of these moons around Jupiter, while that planet was himself visibly travelling through space, must deal its death-blow to the old Ptolemaic system of the universe. Here was a great planet, the centre of a system of satellites, and yet not the centre of the universe. Surely, then, the earth, too, might be a mere planet like Jupiter, and not the supposed motionless centre of all things.

The satellite discovery was published in 1610 in a little book called "Sidereus Nuncius," usually translated "The Sidereal Messenger." It seems to us, however, that the word "messenger" is not strong enough; surely in Papal Italy a nuncius was more than a mere messenger. He was clothed with the very highest authority, and we think it probable that Galileo's choice of this word in the title of his book means that he claimed for himself similar authority in science. At all events, the book made him at once a great reputation and numerous enemies.

But it was not until 1616 that the Holy Office (Inquisition) issued an edict ordering Galileo to abandon his opinion that the earth moved, and at the same time placed Copernicus's De Revolutionibus and two other books advocating that doctrine on the "Index Librorum Prohibitorum," or list of books forbidden by the Church. These volumes remained in subsequent editions of the "Index" down to 1821, but they no longer appear in the edition in force to-day.

Galileo's most characteristic work is entitled the "Dialogue on the Two Chief Systems of the World." It was not published until 1632, although the idea of the book was conceived many years earlier. In it he gave full play to his extraordinary powers as a true humorist, a fine lame among controversialists, and a genuine man of science, valuing naked truth above all other things. As may be imagined, it was no small matter to obtain the authorities' consent to this publication. Galileo was already known to hold heretical opinions, and it was suspected that he had not laid them aside when commanded to do so by the edict of 1616. But perhaps Galileo's introduction to the "Dialogue" secured the censor's imprimatur; it is even suspected that the Roman authorities helped in the preparation of this introduction. Fortunately, we have a delightful contemporary translation into English, by Thomas Salusbury, printed at London by Leybourne in 1661. We have already quoted from this translation, and now add from the same work part of Galileo's masterly preface to the "Dialogue":

"Judicious reader, there was published some years since in Rome a salutiferous Edict, that, for the obviating of the dangerous Scandals of the Present Age, imposed a reasonable Silence upon the Pythagorean (Copernican) opinion of the Mobility of the Earth. There want not such as unadvisedly affirm, that the Decree was not the production of a sober Scrutiny, but of an ill-formed passion; and one may hear some mutter that Consultors altogether ignorant of Astronomical observations ought not to clipp the wings of speculative wits with rash prohibitions."

Galileo first states his own views, and then pretends that he will oppose them. He goes on to say that he believes in the earth's immobility, and takes "the contrary only for a mathematical Capriccio," as he calls it; something to be considered, because possessing an academical interest, but on no account having a real existence. Of course any one (even a censor) ought to be able to see that it is the Capriccio, and not its opposite, that Galileo really advocates. Three persons appear in the "Dialogue": Salviati, who believes in the Copernican system; Simplicio, of suggestive name, who thinks the earth cannot move; and, finally, Sagredus, a neutral gentleman of humorous propensities, who usually begins by opposing Salviati, but ends by being convinced. He then helps to punish poor Simplicio, who is one of those persons apparently incapable of comprehending a reasonable argument. Here is an interesting specimen of the "Dialogue" taken from Salusbury's translation: Salviati refers to the argument, then well known, that the earth cannot rotate on its axis, "because of the impossibility of its moving long without wearinesse." Sagredus replies: "There are some kinds of animals which refresh themselves after wearinesse by rowling on the earth; and that therefore there is no need to fear that the Terrestrial Globe should tire, nay, it may be reasonably affirmed that it enjoyeth a perpetual and most tranquil repose, keeping itself in an eternal rowling." Salviati's comment on this sally is, "You are too tart and satyrical, Sagredus."

There is no doubt that the "Dialogue" finished the Ptolemaic theory, and made that of Copernicus the only possible one. At all events, it brought about the well-known attack upon Galileo from the authorities of the Holy Office. We shall not recount the often-told tale of his recantation. He was convicted (very rightly) of being a Copernican, and was forced to abjure that doctrine. Galileo's life may be summed up as one of those through which the world has been made richer. A clean-cutting analytic wit, never becoming dull: heated again and again in the fierce blaze of controversy, it was allowed to cool only that it might acquire a finer temper, to pierce with fatal certainty the smallest imperfections in the armor of his adversaries.