by E. T. Bell
Another side of Newton’s touchiness showed up in the spring of 1673 when he wrote to Oldenburg resigning his membership in the Royal Society. This petulant action has been variously interpreted. Newton gave financial difficulties and his distance from London as his reasons. Oldenburg took the huffy mathematician at his word and told him that under the rules he could retain his membership without paying. This brought Newton to his senses and he withdrew his resignation, having recovered his temper in the meantime. Nevertheless Newton thought he was about to be hard pressed. However, his finances presently straightened out and he felt better. It may be noted here that Newton was no absent-minded dreamer when it came to a question of money. He was extremely shrewd and he died a rich man for his times. But if shrewd and thrifty he was also very liberal with his money and was always ready to help a friend in need as unobtrusively as possible. To young men he was particularly generous.
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The years 1684-86 mark one of the great epochs in the history of all human thought. Skilfully coaxed by Halley, Newton at last consented to write up his astronomical and dynamical discoveries for publication. Probably no mortal has ever thought as hard and as continuously as Newton did in composing his Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy). Never careful of his bodily health, Newton seems to have forgotten that he had a body which required food and sleep when he gave himself up to the composition of his masterpiece. Meals were ignored or forgotten, and on arising from a snatch of sleep he would sit on the edge of the bed half-clothed for hours, threading the mazes of his mathematics. In 1686 the Principia was presented to the Royal Society, and in 1687 was printed at Halley’s expense.
A description of the contents of the Principia is out of the question here, but a small handful of the inexhaustible treasures it contains may be briefly exhibited. The spirit animating the whole work is Newton’s dynamics, his law of universal gravitation, and the application of both to the solar system—“the system of the world.” Although the calculus has vanished from the synthetic geometrical demonstrations, Newton states (in a letter) that he used it to discover his results and, having done so, proceeded to rework the proofs furnished by the calculus into geometrical shape so that his contemporaries might the more readily grasp the main theme—the dynamical harmony of the heavens.
First, Newton deduced Kepler’s empirical laws from his own law of gravitation, and he showed how the mass of the Sun can be calculated, also how the mass of any planet having a satellite can be determined. Second, he initiated the extremely important theory of perturbations: the Moon, for example, is attracted not only by the Earth but by the Sun also; hence the orbit of the Moon will be perturbed by the pull of the Sun. In this manner Newton accounted for two ancient observations due to Hipparchus and Ptolemy. Our own generation has seen the now highly developed theory of perturbations applied to electronic orbits, particularly for the helium atom. In addition to these ancient observations, seven other irregularities of the Moon’s motion observed by Tycho Brahe (1546-1601), Flamsteed (1646-1719), and others, were deduced from the law of gravitation.
So much for lunar perturbations. The like applies also to the planets. Newton began the theory of planetary perturbations, which in the nineteenth century was to lead to the discovery of the planet Neptune and, in the twentieth, to that of Pluto.
The “lawless” comets—still warnings from an angered heaven to superstitious eyes—were brought under the universal law as harmless members of the Sun’s family, with such precision that we now calculate and welcome their showy return (unless Jupiter or some other outsider perturbs them unduly), as we did in 1910 when Halley’s beautiful comet returned promptly on schedule after an absence of seventy four years.
He began the vast and still incomplete study of planetary evolution by calculating (from his dynamics and the universal law) the flattening of the earth at its poles due to diurnal rotation, and he proved that the shape of a planet determines the length of its day, so that if we knew accurately how flat Venus is at the poles, we could say how long it takes her to turn completely once round the axis joining her poles. He calculated the variation of weight with latitude. He proved that a hollow shell, bounded by concentric spherical surfaces, and homogeneous, exerts no force on a small body anywhere inside it. The last has important consequences in electrostatics—also in the realm of fiction, where it has been used as the motif for amusing fantasies.
The precession of the equinoxes was beautifully accounted for by the pull of the Moon and the Sun on the equatorial bulge of the Earth causing our planet to wobble like a top. The mysterious tides also fell naturally into the grand scheme—both the lunar and the solar tides were calculated, and from the observed heights of the spring and neap tides the mass of the Moon was deduced. The First Book laid down the principles of dynamics; the Second, the motion of bodies in resisting media, and fluid motion; the Third was the famous “System of the World.”
Probably no other law of nature has so simply unified any such mass of natural phenomena as has Newton’s law of universal gravitation in his Principia. It is to the credit of Newton’s contemporaries that they recognized at least dimly the magnitude of what had been done, although but few of them could follow the reasoning by which the stupendous miracle of unification had been achieved, and made of the author of the Principia a demigod. Before many years had passed the Newtonian system was being taught at Cambridge (1699) and Oxford (1704). France slumbered on for half a century, still dizzy from the whirl of Descartes’ angelic vortices. But presently mysticism gave way to reason and Newton found his greatest successor not in England but in France, where Laplace set himself the task of continuing and rounding out the Principia.
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After the Principia the rest is anticlimax. Although the lunar theory continued to plague and “divert” him, Newton was temporarily sick of “philosophy” and welcomed the opportunity to turn to less celestial affairs. James II, obstinate Scot and bigoted Catholic that he was, had determined to force the University to grant a master’s degree to a Benedictine over the protests of the academic authorities. Newton was one of the delegates who in 1687 went to London to present the University’s case before the Court of High Commission presided over by that great and blackguardly lawyer the Lord High Chancellor George Jeffreys—“infamous Jeffreys” as he is known in history. Having insulted the leader of the delegates in masterly fashion, Jeffreys dismissed the rest with the injunction to go and sin no more. Newton apparently held his peace. Nothing was to be gained by answering a man like Jeffreys in his own kennel. But when the others would have signed a disgraceful compromise it was Newton who put backbone into them and kept them from signing. He won the day; nothing of any value was lost—not even honor. “An honest courage in these matters,” he wrote later, “will secure all, having law on our sides.”
Cambridge evidently appreciated Newton’s courage, for in January, 1689, he was elected to represent the University at the Convention Parliament after James II had fled the country to make room for William of Orange and his Mary, and the faithful Jeffreys was burrowing into dunghills to escape the ready justice of the mob. Newton sat in Parliament till its dissolution in February, 1690. To his credit he never made a speech in the place. But he was faithful to his office and not averse to politics; his diplomacy had much to do with keeping the turbulent University loyal to the decent King and Queen.
Newton’s taste of “real life” in London proved his scientific undoing. Influential and officious friends, including the philosopher John Locke (1632-1704) of Human Understanding fame, convinced Newton that he was not getting his share of the honors. The crowning imbecility of the Anglo-Saxon breed is its dumb belief in public office or an administrative position as the supreme honor for a man of intellect. The English finally (1699) made Newton Master of the Mint to reform and supervise the coinage of the Realm. For utter bathos this “elevation” of the author of the Principia is surpassed only by t
he jubilation of Sir David Brewster in his life of Newton (i860) over the “well-merited recognition” thus accorded Newton’s genius by the English people. Of course if Newton really wanted anything of the sort there is nothing to be said; he had earned the right millions of times over to do anything he desired. But his busybody friends need not have egged him on.
It did not happen all at once. Charles Montagu, later Earl of Halifax, Fellow of Trinity College and a close friend of Newton, aided and abetted by the everlastingly busy and gossipy Samuel Pepys (1633-1703) of diary notoriety, stirred up by Locke and by Newton himself, began pulling wires to get Newton some recognition “worthy” of him.
The negotiations evidently did not always run smoothly and Newton’s somewhat suspicious temperament caused him to believe that some of his friends were playing fast and loose with him—as they probably were. The loss of sleep and the indifference to food which had enabled him to compose the Principia in eighteen months took their revenge. In the autumn of 1692 (when he was nearly fifty and should have been at his best) Newton fell seriously ill. Aversion to all food and an almost total inability to sleep, aggravated by a temporary persecution mania, brought on something dangerously close to a total mental collapse. A pathetic letter of September 16, 1693 to Locke, written after his recovery, shows how ill he had been.
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SIR,
Being of opinion that you endeavored to embroil me with women and by other means,I I was so much affected with it that when one told me you were sickly and would not live, I answered, ’twere better if you were dead. I desire you to forgive me for this uncharitableness. For I am now satisfied that what you have done is just, and I beg your pardon for having hard thoughts of you for it, and for representing that you struck at the root of morality, in a principle you laid down in your book of ideas, and designed to pursue in another book, and that I took you for a Hobbist. I beg your pardon also for saying or thinking that there was a design to sell me an office, or to embroil me.
I am your most humble
And unfortunate servant,
IS. NEWTON
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The news of Newton’s illness spread to the Continent where, naturally, it was greatly exaggerated. His friends, including one who was to become his bitterest enemy, rejoiced at his recovery. Leibniz wrote to an acquaintance expressing his satisfaction that Newton was himself again. But in the very year of his recovery (1693) Newton heard for the first time that the calculus was becoming well known on the Continent and that it was commonly attributed to Leibniz.
The decade after the publication of the Principia was about equally divided between alchemy, theology, and worry, with more or less involuntary and headachy excursions into the lunar theory. Newton and Leibniz were still on cordial terms. Their respective “friends,” ignorant as Kaffirs of all mathematics and of the calculus in particular, had not yet decided to pit one against the other with charges of plagiarism in the invention of the calculus, and even grosser dishonesty, in the most shameful squabble over priority in the history of mathematics. Newton recognized Leibniz’ merits, Leibniz recognized Newton’s, and at this peaceful stage of their acquaintance neither for a moment suspected that the other had stolen so much as a single idea of the calculus from the other.
Later, in 1712, when even the man in the street—the zealous patriot who knew nothing of the facts—realized vaguely that Newton had done something tremendous in mathematics (more, probably, as Leibniz said, than had been done in all history before him), the question as to who had invented the calculus became a matter of acute national jealousy, and all educated England rallied behind its somewhat bewildered champion, howling that his rival was a thief and a liar.
Newton at first was not to blame. Nor was Leibniz. But as the British sporting instinct presently began to assert itself, Newton acquiesced in the disgraceful attack and himself suggested or consented to shady schemes of downright dishonesty designed to win the international championship at any cost—even that of national honor. Leibniz and his backers did likewise. The upshot of it all was that the obstinate British practically rotted mathematically for all of a century after Newton’s death, while the more progressive Swiss and French, following the lead of Leibniz, and developing his incomparably better way of merely writing the calculus, perfected the subject and made it the simple, easily applied implement of research that Newton’s immediate successors should have had the honor of making it.
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In 1696, at the age of fifty four, Newton became Warden of the Mint. His job was to reform the coinage. Having done so, he was promoted in 1699 to the dignity of Master. The only satisfaction mathematicians can take in this degradation of the supreme intellect of ages is the refutation which it afforded of the silly superstition that mathematicians have no practical sense. Newton was one of the best Masters the Mint ever had. He took his job seriously.
In 1701-2 Newton again represented Cambridge University in Parliament, and in 1703 was elected President of the Royal Society, an honorable office to which he was reëlected time after time till his death in 1727. In 1705 he was knighted by good Queen Anne. Probably this honor was in recognition of his services as a money-changer rather than in acknowledgment of his preëminence in the temple of wisdom. This is all as it should be: if “a riband to stick in his coat” is the reward of a turncoat politician, why should a man of intellect and integrity feel flattered if his name appears in the birthday list of honors awarded by the King? Caesar may be rendered the things that are his, ungrudgingly; but when a man of science, as a man of science, snaps up the droppings from the table of royalty he joins the mangy and starved dogs licking the sores of the beggars at the feast of Dives. It is to be hoped that Newton was knighted for his services to the money-changers and not for his science.
Was Newton’s mathematical genius dead? Most emphatically no. He was still the equal of Archimedes. But the wiser old Greek, born aristocrat that he was—fortunately, cared nothing for the honors of a position which had always been his; to the very last minute of his long life he mathematicized as powerfully as he had in his youth. But for the accidents of preventable disease and poverty, mathematicians are a long-lived race intellectually; their creativeness outlives that of poets, artists, and even of scientists, by decades. Newton was still as virile of intellect as he had ever been. Had his officious friends but let him alone Newton might easily have created the calculus of variations, an instrument of physical and mathematical discovery second only to the calculus, instead of leaving it for the Bernoullis, Euler, and Lagrange to initiate. He had already given a hint of it in the Principia when he determined the shape of the surface of revolution which would cleave through a fluid with the least resistance. He had it in him to lay down the broad lines of the whole method. Like Pascal when he forsook this world for the mistier if more satisfying kingdom of heaven, Newton was still a mathematician when he turned his back on his Cambridge study and walked into a more impressive sanctum at the Mint.
In 1696 Johann Bernoulli and Leibniz between them concocted two devilish challenges to the mathematicians of Europe. The first is still of importance; the second is not in the same class. Suppose two points to be fixed at random in a vertical plane. What is the shape of the curve down which a particle must slide (without friction) under the influence of gravity so as to pass from the upper point to the lower in the least time? This is the problem of the brachistochrone ( = “shortest time”). After the problem had baffled the mathematicians of Europe for six months, it was proposed again, and Newton heard of it for the first time on January 29, 1696, when a friend communicated it to him. He had just come home, tired out, from a long day at the Mint. After dinner he solved the problem (and the second as well), and the following day communicated his solutions to the Royal Society anonymously. But for all his caution he could not conceal his identity—while at the Mint Newton resented the efforts of mathematicians and scientists to entice him into discussions of scientific interest. On seeing the solu
tion Bernoulli at once exclaimed, “Ah! I recognize the lion by his paw.” (This is not an exact translation of B’s Latin.) They all knew Newton when they saw him, even if he did have a moneybag over his head and did not announce his name.
A second proof of Newton’s vitality was to come in 1716 when he was seventy four. Leibniz had rashly proposed what appeared to him a difficult problem as a challenge to the mathematicians of Europe and aimed at Newton in particular.II Newton received this at five o’clock one afternoon on returning exhausted from the blessed Mint. He solved it that evening. This time Leibniz somewhat optimistically thought he had trapped the Lion. In all the history of mathematics Newton has had no superior (and perhaps no equal) in the ability to concentrate all the forces of his intellect on a difficulty at an instant’s notice.
The story of the honors that fall to a man’s lot in his lifetime makes but trivial reading to his successors. Newton got all that were worth having to a living man. On the whole Newton had as fortunate a life as any great man has ever had. His bodily health was excellent up to his last years; he never wore glasses and he lost only one tooth in all his life. His hair whitened at thirty but remained thick and soft till his death.
The record of his last days is more human and more touching. Even Newton could not escape suffering. His courage and endurance under almost constant pain during the last two or three years of his life add but another laurel to his crown as a human being. He bore the tortures of “the stone” without flinching, though the sweat rolled from him, and always with a word of sympathy for those who waited on him. At last, and mercifully, he was seriously weakened by “a persistent cough,” and finally, after having been eased of pain for some days, died peacefully in his sleep between one and two o’clock on the morning of March 20, 1727, in his eighty fifth year. He is buried in Westminster Abbey.