by E. T. Bell
In 1838, at the age of twenty four, Sylvester got his first regular job, that of Professor of Natural Philosophy (science in general, physics in particular) at University College, London, where his old teacher De Morgan was one of his colleagues. Although he had studied chemistry at Cambridge, and retained a lifelong interest in it, Sylvester found the teaching of science thoroughly uncongenial and, after about two years, abandoned it. In the meantime he had been elected a Fellow of the Royal Society at the unusually early age of twenty five. Sylvester’s mathematical merits were so conspicuous that they could not escape recognition, but they did not help him into a suitable position.
At this point in his career Sylvester set out on one of the most singular misadventures of his life. Depending upon how we look at it, this mishap is silly, ludicrous, or tragic. Sanguine and filled with his usual enthusiasm, he crossed the Atlantic to become Professor of Mathematics at the University of Virginia in 1841—the year in which Boole published his discovery of invariants.
Sylvester endured the University only about three months. The refusal of the University authorities to discipline a young gentleman who had insulted him caused the professor to resign. For over a year after this disastrous experience Sylvester tried vainly to secure a suitable position, soliciting—unsuccessfully—both Harvard and Columbia Universities. Failing, he returned to England.
Sylvester’s experiences in America gave him his fill of teaching for the next ten years. On returning to London he became an energetic actuary for a life insurance company. Such work for a creative mathematician is poisonous drudgery, and Sylvester almost ceased to be a mathematician. However, he kept alive by taking a few private pupils, one of whom was to leave a name that is known and revered in every country of the world today. This was in the early 1850’s, the “potatoes, prunes, and prisms” era of female propriety when young women were not supposed to think of much beyond dabbling in paints and piety. So it is rather surprising to find that Sylvester’s most distinguished pupil was a young woman, Florence Nightingale, the first human being to get some decency and cleanliness into military hospitals—over the outraged protests of bull-headed military officialdom. Sylvester at the time was in his late thirties, Miss Nightingale six years younger than her teacher. Sylvester escaped from his makeshift ways of earning a living in the same year (1854) that. Miss Nightingale went out to the Crimean War.
Before this however he had taken another false step that landed him nowhere. In 1846, at the age of thirty two, he entered the Inner Temple (where he coyly refers to himself as “a dove nestling among hawks”) to prepare for a legal career, and in 1850 was called to the Bar. Thus he and Cayley came together at last.
Cayley was twenty nine, Sylvester thirty six at the time; both were out of the real jobs to which nature had called them. Lecturing at Oxford thirty five years later Sylvester paid grateful tribute to “Cayley, who, though younger than myself is my spiritual progenitor—who first opened my eyes and purged them of dross so that they could see and accept the higher mysteries of our common Mathematical faith.” In 1852, shortly after their acquaintance began, Sylvester refers to “Mr. Cayley, who habitually discourses pearls and rubies.” Mr. Cayley for his part frequently mentions Mr. Sylvester, but always in cold blood, as it were. Sylvester’s earliest outburst of gratitude in print occurs in a paper of 1851 where he says, “The theorem above enunciated [it is his relation between the minor determinants of linearly equivalent quadratic forms] was in part suggested in the course of a conversation with Mr. Cayley (to whom I am indebted for my restoration to the enjoyment of mathematical life) . . ..”
Perhaps Sylvester overstated the case, but there was a lot in what he said. If he did not exactly rise from the dead he at least got a new pair of lungs: from the hour of his meeting with Cayley he breathed and lived mathematics to the end of his days. The two friends used to tramp round the Courts of Lincoln’s Inn discussing the theory of invariants which both of them were creating and later, when Sylvester moved away, they continued their mathematical rambles, meeting about halfway between their respective lodgings. Both were bachelors at the time.
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The theory of algebraic invariants from which the various extensions of the concept of invariance have grown naturally originated in an extremely simple observation. As will be noted in the chapter on Boole, the earliest instance of the idea appears in Lagrange, from whom it passed into the arithmetical works of Gauss. But neither of these men noticed that the simple but remarkable algebraical phenomenon before them was the germ of a vast theory. Nor does Boole seem to have fully realized what he had found when he carried on and greatly extended the work of Lagrange. Except for one slight tiff, Sylvester was always just and generous to Boole in the matter of priority, and Cayley, of course, was always fair.
The simple observation mentioned above can be understood by anyone who has ever seen a quadratic equation solved, and is merely this. A necessary and sufficient condition that the equation ax2 + 2bx + c = 0 shall have two equal roots is that b2 – ac shall be zero. Let us replace the variable x by its value in terms of y obtained by the transformation y = (px + q)/(rx + s). Thus x is to be replaced by the result of solving this for x, namely x = (q – sy)/(ry – p). This transforms the given equation into another in y; say the new equation is Ay2 + 2By + C = 0. Carrying out the algebra we find that the new coefficients A, B, C are expressed in terms of the old a, b, c as follows,
A = as2 – 2bsr + cr2,
B = –aqs + b(qr -f sp) – cpr,
C = aq2 - 2bpq + cp2.
From these it is easy to show (by brute-force reductions, if necessary, although there is a simpler way of reasoning the result out, without actually calculating A, B, C) that
B2 - AC = (ps - qr)2 (b2 - ac).
Now b2 – ac is called the discriminant of the quadratic equation in x; hence the discriminant of the quadratic in y is B2 – AC, and it has been shown that the discriminant of the transformed equation is equal to the discriminant of the original equation, times the factor (ps – qr)2 which depends only upon the coefficients p, q, r, s in the transformation y = (px + q)/(rx + s) by means of which x was expressed in terms of y.
Boole was the first (in 1841) to observe something worth looking at in this particular trifle. Every algebraic equation has a discriminant, that is, a certain expression (such as b2—ac for the quadratic) which is equal to zero if, and only if, two or more roots of the equation are equal. Boole first asked, does the discriminant of every equation when its x is replaced by the related y (as was done for the quadratic) come back unchanged except for a factor depending only on the coefficients of the transformation? He found that this was true. Next he asked whether there might not be expressions other than discriminants constructed from the coefficients having this same property of invariance under transformation. He found two such for the general equation of the fourth degree. Then another man, the brilliant young German mathematician, F. M. G. Eisenstein (1823-1852) following up a result of Boole’s, in 1844, discovered that certain expressions involving both the coefficients and the x of the original equations exhibit the same sort of invariance: the original coefficients and the original x pass into the transformed coefficients and y (as for the quadratic), and the expressions in question constructed from the originals differ from those constructed from the transforms only by a factor which depends solely on the coefficients of the transformation.
Neither Boole nor Eisenstein had any general method for finding such invariant expressions. At this point Cayley entered the field in 1845 with his pathbreaking memoir, On the Theory of Linear Transformations. At the time he was twenty four. He set himself the problem of finding uniform methods which would give him all the invariant expressions of the kind described. To avoid lengthy explanations the problem has been stated in terms of equations; actually it was attacked otherwise, but this is of no importance here.
As this question of invariance is fundamental in modern scientific thought we shall give three furth
er illustrations of what it means, none of which involves any symbols or algebra. Imagine any figure consisting of intersecting straight lines and curves drawn on a sheet of paper. Crumple the paper in any way you please without tearing it, and try to think what is the most obvious property of the figure that is the same before and after crumpling. Do the same for any figure drawn on a sheet of rubber, stretching but not tearing the rubber in any complicated manner dictated by whim. In this case it is obvious that sizes of areas and angles, and lengths of lines, have not remained “invariant.” By suitably stretching the rubber the straight lines may be distorted into curves of almost any tortuosity you like, and at the same time the original curves—or at least some of them—may be transformed into straight lines. Yet something about the whole figure has remained unchanged; its very simplicity and obviousness might well cause it to be overlooked. This is the order of the points on any one of the lines of the figure which mark the places where other lines intersect the given one. Thus, if moving the pencil along a given line from A to C, we had to pass over the point B on the line before the figure was distorted, we shall have to pass over B in going from A to C after distortion. The order (as described) is an invariant under the particular transformations which crumpled the sheet of paper into a crinkly ball, say, or which stretched the sheet of rubber.
This illustration may seem trivial, but anyone who has read a non-mathematical description of the intersections of “world-lines” in general relativity, and who recalls that an intersection of two such lines marks a physical “point-event” will see that what we have been discussing is of the same stuff as one of our pictures of the physical universe. The mathematical machinery powerful enough to handle such complicated “transformations” and actually to produce the invariants was the creation of many workers, including Riemann, Christoffel, Ricci, Levi-Civita, Lie, and Einstein—all names well known to readers of popular accounts of relativity; the whole vast program was originated by the early workers in the theory of algebraic invariants, of which Cayley and Sylvester were the true founders.
As a second example, imagine a knot to be looped in a string whose ends are then tied together. Pulling at the knot, and running it along the string, we distort it into any number of “shapes.” What remains “invariant,” what is “conserved,” under all these distortions which, in this case, are our transformations? Obviously neither the shape nor the size of the knot is invariant. But the “style” of the knot itself is invariant; in a sense that need not be elaborated, it is the same sort of a knot whatever we do to the string provided we do not untie its ends. Again, in the older physics, energy was “conserved”; the total amount of energy in the universe was assumed to be an invariant, the same under all transformations from one form, such as electrical energy, into others, such as heat and light.
Our third illustration of invariance need be little more than an allusion to physical science. An observer fixes his “position” in space and time with reference to three mutually perpendicular axes and a standard timepiece. Another observer, moving relatively to the first, wishes to describe the same physical event that the first describes. He also has his space-time reference system; his movement relatively to the first-observer can be expressed as a transformation of his own coordinates (or of the other observer’s). The descriptions given by the two may or may not differ in mathematical form, according to the particular kind of transformation concerned. If their descriptions do differ, the difference is not, obviously, inherent in the physical event they are both observing, but in their reference systems and the transformation. The problem then arises to formulate only those mathematical expressions of natural phenomena which shall be independent, mathematically, of any particular reference system and therefore be expressed by all observers in the same form. This is equivalent to finding the invariants of the transformation which expresses the most general shift in “space-time” of one reference system with respect to any other. Thus the problem of finding the mathematical expressions for the intrinsic laws of nature is replaced by an attackable one in the theory of invariants. More will be said on this when we come to Riemann.
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In 1863 Cambridge University established a new professorship of mathematics (the Sadlerian) and offered the post to Cayley, who promptly accepted. The same year, at the age of forty two, he married Susan Moline. Although he made less money as a professor of mathematics than he had at the law, Cayley did not regret the change. Some years later the affairs of the University were reorganized and Cayley’s salary was raised. His duties also were increased from one course of lectures during one term to two. His life was now devoted almost entirely to mathematical research and university administration. In the latter his sound business training, even temper, impersonal judgment, and legal experience proved invaluable. He never had a great deal to say, but what he said was usually accepted as final, for he never gave an opinion without having reasoned the matter through. His marriage and home life were happy; he had two children, a son and a daughter. As he gradually aged his mind remained as vigorous as ever and his nature became, if anything, gentler. No harsh judgment uttered in his presence was allowed to pass without a quiet protest. To younger men and beginners in mathematical careers he was always generous with his help, encouragement, and sound advice.
During his professorship the higher education of women was a hotly contested issue. Cayley threw all his quiet, persuasive influence on the side of civilization and largely through his efforts women were at last admitted as students (in their own nunneries of course)to the monkish seclusion of medieval Cambridge.
While Cayley was serenely mathematicizing at Cambridge his friend Sylvester was still fighting the world. Sylvester never married. In 1854, at the age of forty, he applied for the professorship of mathematics at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich. He did not get it. Nor did he get another position for which he applied at Gresham College, London. His trial lecture was too good for the governing board. However, the successful Woolwich candidate died the following year and Sylvester was appointed. Among his not too generous emoluments was the right of pasturage on the common. As Sylvester kept neither horse, cow, nor goat, and did not eat grass himself, it is difficult to see what particular benefit he got out of this inestimable boon.
Sylvester held the position at Woolwich for sixteen years, till he was forcibly retired as “superannuated” in 1870 at the age of fifty six. He was still full of vigor but could do nothing against the hidebound officialdom against him. Much of his great work was still in the future, but his superiors took it for granted that a man of his age must be through.
Another aspect of his forced retirement roused all his fighting instincts. To put the matter plainly, the authorities attempted to swindle Sylvester out of part of the pension which was legitimately his. Sylvester did not take it lying down. To their chagrin the would-be gyppers learned that they were not browbeating some meek old professor but a man who could give them a little better than he took. They came through with the full pension.
While all these disagreeable things were happening in his material affairs Sylvester had no cause to complain on the scientific side. Honors frequently came his way, among them one of those most highly prized by scientific men, foreign correspondent of the French Academy of Sciences. Sylvester was elected in 1863 to the vacancy in the section of geometry caused by the death of Steiner.
After his retirement from Woolwich Sylvester lived in London, versifying, reading the classics, playing chess, and enjoying himself generally, but not doing much mathematics. In 1870 he published his pamphlet, The Laws of Verse, by which he set great store. Then, in 1876, he suddenly came to mathematical life again at the age of sixty two. The “old” man was simple inextinguishable.
The Johns Hopkins University had been founded at Baltimore in 1875 under the brilliant leadership of President Gilman. Gilman had been advised to start off with an outstanding classicist and the best mathematician he could afford as the nucleus of his facult
y. All the rest would follow, he was told, and it did. Sylvester at last got a job where he might do practically as he pleased and in which he could do himself justice. In 1876 he again crossed the Atlantic and took up his professorship at Johns Hopkins. His salary was generous for those days, five thousand dollars a year. In accepting the call Sylvester made one curious stipulation; his salary was “to be paid in gold.” Perhaps he was thinking of Woolwich, which gave him the equivalent of $2750.00 (plus pasturage), and wished to be sure that this time he really got what was coming to him, pension or no pension.
The years from 1876 to 1883 spent at Johns Hopkins were probably the happiest and most tranquil Sylvester had thus far known. Although he did not have to “fight the world” any longer he did not recline on his honors and go to sleep. Forty years seemed to fall from his shoulders and he became a vigorous young man again, blazing with enthusiasm and scintillating with new ideas. He was deeply grateful for the opportunity Johns Hopkins gave him to begin his second mathematical career at the age of sixty three, and he was not backward in expressing his gratitude publicly, in his address at the Commemoration Day Exercises of 1877.