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THE STORY OF THE HEAVENS




[Illustration: PLATE I.

THE PLANET SATURN, IN 1872.]




  THE

  STORY OF THE HEAVENS

  SIR ROBERT STAWELL BALL, LL.D. D.Sc.

  _Author of_ "_Star-Land_"

  FELLOW OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF LONDON, HONORARY FELLOW OF THE ROYAL
  SOCIETY OF EDINBURGH, FELLOW OF THE ROYAL ASTRONOMICAL SOCIETY,
  SCIENTIFIC ADVISER TO THE COMMISSIONERS OF IRISH LIGHTS, LOWNDEAN
  PROFESSOR OF ASTRONOMY AND GEOMETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, AND
  FORMERLY ROYAL ASTRONOMER OF IRELAND

  _WITH TWENTY-FOUR COLOURED PLATES AND NUMEROUS
  ILLUSTRATIONS_

  NEW AND REVISED EDITION

  CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED
  _LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_
  1900

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

[Illustration: LA·BELLE SAUVAGE]




PREFACE TO ORIGINAL EDITION.


I have to acknowledge the kind aid which I have received in the
preparation of this book.

Mr. Nasmyth has permitted me to use some of the beautiful drawings of
the Moon, which have appeared in the well-known work published by him in
conjunction with Mr. Carpenter. To this source I am indebted for Plates
VII., VIII., IX., X., and Figs. 28, 29, 30.

Professor Pickering has allowed me to copy some of the drawings made at
Harvard College Observatory by Mr. Trouvelot, and I have availed myself
of his kindness for Plates I., IV., XII., XV.

I am indebted to Professor Langley for Plate II., to Mr. De la Rue for
Plates III. and XIV., to Mr. T.E. Key for Plate XVII., to Professor
Schiaparelli for Plate XVIII., to the late Professor C. Piazzi Smyth for
Fig. 100, to Mr. Chambers for Fig. 7, which has been borrowed from his
"Handbook of Descriptive Astronomy," to Dr. Stoney for Fig. 78, and to
Dr. Copeland and Dr. Dreyer for Fig. 72. I have to acknowledge the
valuable assistance derived from Professor Newcomb's "Popular
Astronomy," and Professor Young's "Sun." In revising the volume I have
had the kind aid of the Rev. Maxwell Close.

I have also to thank Dr. Copeland and Mr. Steele for their kindness in
reading through the entire proofs; while I have also occasionally
availed myself of the help of Mr. Cathcart.

  ROBERT S. BALL.

  OBSERVATORY, DUNSINK, CO. DUBLIN.
  _12th May, 1886._




NOTE TO THIS EDITION.


I have taken the opportunity in the present edition to revise the work
in accordance with the recent progress of astronomy. I am indebted to
the Royal Astronomical Society for the permission to reproduce some
photographs from their published series, and to Mr. Henry F. Griffiths,
for beautiful drawings of Jupiter, from which Plate XI. was prepared.

  ROBERT S. BALL.

  CAMBRIDGE,
  _1st May, 1900_.




CONTENTS.


                                                            PAGE

  INTRODUCTION                                                 1

  CHAPTER

  I. THE ASTRONOMICAL OBSERVATORY                              9

  II. THE SUN                                                 29

  III. THE MOON                                               70

  IV. THE SOLAR SYSTEM                                       107

  V. THE LAW OF GRAVITATION                                  122

  VI. THE PLANET OF ROMANCE                                  150

  VII. MERCURY                                               155

  VIII. VENUS                                                167

  IX. THE EARTH                                              192

  X. MARS                                                    208

  XI. THE MINOR PLANETS                                      229

  XII. JUPITER                                               245

  XIII. SATURN                                               268

  XIV. URANUS                                                298

  XV. NEPTUNE                                                315

  XVI. COMETS                                                336

  XVII. SHOOTING STARS                                       372

  XVIII. THE STARRY HEAVENS                                  409

  XIX. THE DISTANT SUNS                                      425

  XX. DOUBLE STARS                                           434

  XXI. THE DISTANCES OF THE STARS                            441

  XXII. STAR CLUSTERS AND NEBULÆ                             461

  XXIII. THE PHYSICAL NATURE OF THE STARS                    477

  XXIV. THE PRECESSION AND NUTATION OF THE EARTH'S AXIS      492

  XXV. THE ABERRATION OF LIGHT                               503

  XXVI. THE ASTRONOMICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF HEAT                513

  XXVII. THE TIDES                                           531

  APPENDIX                                                   558




LIST OF PLATES.

PLATE

  I. The Planet Saturn                        _Frontispiece_

  II. A Typical Sun-spot                   _To face page_  9

  A. The Sun                                       "  "   44

  III. Spots and Faculæ on the Sun                 "  "   37

  IV. Solar Prominences or Flames                  "  "   57

  V. The Solar Corona                              "  "   62

  VI. Chart of the Moon's Surface                  "  "   81

  B. Portion of the Moon                           "  "   88

  VII. The Lunar Crater Triesnecker                "  "   93

  VIII. A Normal Lunar Crater                      "  "   97

  IX. The Lunar Crater Plato                       "  "  102

  X. The Lunar Crater Tycho                        "  "  106

  XI. The Planet Jupiter                           "  "  254

  XII. Coggia's Comet                              "  "  340

  C. Comet A., 1892, 1 Swift                       "  "  358

  XIII. Spectra of the Sun and of three Stars      "  "   47

  D. The Milky Way, near Messier II.               "  "  462

  XIV. The Great Nebula in Orion                   "  "  466

  XV. The Great Nebula in Andromeda                "  "  468

  E. Nebulæ in the Pleiades                        "  "  472

  F. ô Centauri                                    "  "  474

  XVI. Nebulæ observed with Lord Rosse's Telescope "  "  476

  XVII. The Comet of 1882                          "  "  357

  XVIII. Schiaparelli's Map of Mars                "  "  221




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


  FIG.                                                               PAGE

  1. Principle of the Refracting Telescope                             11

  2. Dome of the South Equatorial at Dunsink Observatory, Co. Dublin   12

  3. Section of the Dome of Dunsink Observatory                        13

  4. The Telescope at Yerkes Observatory, Chicago                      15

  5. Principle of Herschel's Reflecting Telescope                      16

  6. South Front of the Yerkes Observatory, Chicago                    17

  7. Lord Rosse's Telescope                                            18

  8. Meridian Circle                                                   20

  9. The Great Bear                                                    27

  10. Comparative Sizes of the Earth and the Sun                       30

  11. The Sun, photographed September 22, 1870                         33

  12. Photograph of the Solar Surface                                  35

  13. An ordinary Sun-spot                                             36

  14. Scheiner's Observations on Sun-spots                             38

  15. Zones on the Sun's Surface in which Spots appear                 39

  16. Texture of the Sun and a small Spot                              43

  17. The Prism                                                        45

  18. Dispersion of Light by the Prism                                 46

  19. Prominences seen in Total Eclipses                               53

  20. View of the Corona in a Total Eclipse                            62

  21. View of Corona during Eclipse of January 22, 1898                63

  22. The Zodiacal Light in 1874                                       69

  23. Comparative Sizes of the Earth and the Moon                      73

  24. The Moon's Path around the Sun                                   76

  25. The Phases of the Moon                                           76

  26. The Earth's Shadow and Penumbra                                  78

  27. Key to Chart of the Moon (Plate VI.)                             81

  28. Lunar Volcano in Activity: Nasmyth's Theory                      97

  29. Lunar Volcano: Subsequent Feeble Activity                        97

  30.    "      "     Formation of the Level Floor by Lava             98

  31. Orbits of the Four Interior Planets                             115

  32. The Earth's Movement                                            116

  33. Orbits of the Four Giant Planets                                117

  34. Apparent Size of the Sun from various Planets                   118

  35. Comparative Sizes of the Planets                                119

  36. Illustration of the Moon's Motion                               130

  37. Drawing an Ellipse                                              137

  38. Varying Velocity of Elliptic Motion                             140

  39. Equal Areas in Equal Times                                      141

  40. Transit of the Planet of Romance                                153

  41. Variations in Phase and apparent Size of Mercury                160

  42. Mercury as a Crescent                                           161

  43. Venus, May 29, 1889                                             170

  44. Different Aspects of Venus in the Telescope                     171

  45. Venus on the Sun at the Transit of 1874                         177

  46. Paths of Venus across the Sun in the Transits of 1874 and 1882  179

  47. A Transit of Venus, as seen from Two Localities                 183

  48. Orbits of the Earth and of Mars                                 210

  49. Apparent Movements of Mars in 1877                              212

  50. Relative Sizes of Mars and the Earth                            216

  51, 52. Drawings of Mars                                            217

  53. Elevations and Depressions on the Terminator of Mars            217

  54. The Southern Polar Cap on Mars                                  217

  55. The Zone of Minor Planets between Mars and Jupiter              234

  56. Relative Dimensions of Jupiter and the Earth                    246

  57-60. The Occultation of Jupiter                                   255

  61. Jupiter and his Four Satellites                                 258

  62. Disappearances of Jupiter's Satellites                          259

  63. Mode of Measuring the Velocity of Light                         264

  64. Saturn                                                          270

  65. Relative Sizes of Saturn and the Earth                          273

  66. Method of Measuring the Rotation of Saturn's Rings              288

  67. Method of Measuring the Rotation of Saturn's Rings              289

  68. Transit of Titan and its Shadow                                 295

  69. Parabolic Path of a Comet                                       339

  70. Orbit of Encke's Comet                                          346

  71. Tail of a Comet directed from the Sun                           363

  72. Bredichin's Theory of Comets' Tails                             366

  73. Tails of the Comet of 1858                                      367

  74. The Comet of 1744                                               368

  75. The Path of the Fireball of November 6, 1869                    375

  76. The Orbit of a Shoal of Meteors                                 378

  77. Radiant Point of Shooting Stars                                 381

  78. The History of the Leonids                                      385

  79. Section of the Chaco Meteorite                                  398

  80. The Great Bear and Pole Star                                    410

  81. The Great Bear and Cassiopeia                                   411

  82. The Great Square of Pegasus                                     413

  83. Perseus and its Neighbouring Stars                              415

  84. The Pleiades                                                    416

  85. Orion, Sirius, and Neighbouring Stars                           417

  86. Castor and Pollux                                               418

  87. The Great Bear and the Lion                                     419

  88. Boötes and the Crown                                            420

  89. Virgo and Neighbouring Constellations                           421

  90. The Constellation of Lyra                                       422

  91. Vega, the Swan, and the Eagle                                   423

  92. The Orbit of Sirius                                             426

  93. The Parallactic Ellipse                                         444

  94. 61 Cygni and the Comparison Stars                               447

  95. Parallax in Declination of 61 Cygni                             450

  96. Globular Cluster in Hercules                                    463

  97. Position of the Great Nebula in Orion                           466

  98. The Multiple Star th Orionis                                    467

  99. The Nebula N.G.C. 1499                                          471

  100. Star-Map, showing Precessional Movement                        493

  101. Illustration of the Motion of Precession                       495




THE

STORY OF THE HEAVENS.


"The Story of the Heavens" is the title of our book. We have indeed a
wondrous story to narrate; and could we tell it adequately it would
prove of boundless interest and of exquisite beauty. It leads to the
contemplation of grand phenomena in nature and great achievements of
human genius.

Let us enumerate a few of the questions which will be naturally asked by
one who seeks to learn something of those glorious bodies which adorn
our skies: What is the Sun--how hot, how big, and how distant? Whence
comes its heat? What is the Moon? What are its landscapes like? How does
our satellite move? How is it related to the earth? Are the planets
globes like that on which we live? How large are they, and how far off?
What do we know of the satellites of Jupiter and of the rings of Saturn?
How was Uranus discovered? What was the intellectual triumph which
brought the planet Neptune to light? Then, as to the other bodies of our
system, what are we to say of those mysterious objects, the comets? Can
we discover the laws of their seemingly capricious movements? Do we know
anything of their nature and of the marvellous tails with which they are
often decorated? What can be told about the shooting-stars which so
often dash into our atmosphere and perish in a streak of splendour? What
is the nature of those constellations of bright stars which have been
recognised from all antiquity, and of the host of smaller stars which
our telescopes disclose? Can it be true that these countless orbs are
really majestic suns, sunk to an appalling depth in the abyss of
unfathomable space? What have we to tell of the different varieties of
stars--of coloured stars, of variable stars, of double stars, of
multiple stars, of stars that seem to move, and of stars that seem at
rest? What of those glorious objects, the great star clusters? What of
the Milky Way? And, lastly, what can we learn of the marvellous nebulæ
which our telescopes disclose, poised at an immeasurable distance? Such
are a few of the questions which occur when we ponder on the mysteries
of the heavens.

The history of Astronomy is, in one respect, only too like many other
histories. The earliest part of it is completely and hopelessly lost.
The stars had been studied, and some great astronomical discoveries had
been made, untold ages before those to which our earliest historical
records extend. For example, the observation of the apparent movement of
the sun, and the discrimination between the planets and the fixed stars,
are both to be classed among the discoveries of prehistoric ages. Nor is
it to be said that these achievements related to matters of an obvious
character. Ancient astronomy may seem very elementary to those of the
present day who have been familiar from childhood with the great truths
of nature, but, in the infancy of science, the men who made such
discoveries as we have mentioned must have been sagacious philosophers.

Of all the phenomena of astronomy the first and the most obvious is that
of the rising and the setting of the sun. We may assume that in the dawn
of human intelligence these daily occurrences would form one of the
first problems to engage the attention of those whose thoughts rose
above the animal anxieties of everyday existence. A sun sets and
disappears in the west. The following morning a sun rises in the east,
moves across the heavens, and it too disappears in the west; the same
appearances recur every day. To us it is obvious that the sun, which
appears each day, is the same sun; but this would not seem reasonable to
one who thought his senses showed him that the earth was a flat plain of
indefinite extent, and that around the inhabited regions on all sides
extended, to vast distances, either desert wastes or trackless oceans.
How could that same sun, which plunged into the ocean at a fabulous
distance in the west, reappear the next morning at an equally great
distance in the east? The old mythology asserted that after the sun had
dipped in the western ocean at sunset (the Iberians, and other ancient
nations, actually imagined that they could hear the hissing of the
waters when the glowing globe was plunged therein), it was seized by
Vulcan and placed in a golden goblet. This strange craft with its
astonishing cargo navigated the ocean by a northerly course, so as to
reach the east again in time for sunrise the following morning. Among
the earlier physicists of old it was believed that in some manner the
sun was conveyed by night across the northern regions, and that darkness
was due to lofty mountains, which screened off the sunbeams during the
voyage.

In the course of time it was thought more rational to suppose that the
sun actually pursued his course below the solid earth during the course
of the night. The early astronomers had, moreover, learned to recognise
the fixed stars. It was noticed that, like the sun, many of these stars
rose and set in consequence of the diurnal movement, while the moon
obviously followed a similar law. Philosophers thus taught that the
various heavenly bodies were in the habit of actually passing beneath
the solid earth.

By the acknowledgment that the whole contents of the heavens performed
these movements, an important step in comprehending the constitution of
the universe had been decidedly taken. It was clear that the earth could
not be a plane extending to an indefinitely great distance. It was also
obvious that there must be a finite depth to the earth below our feet.
Nay, more, it became certain that whatever the shape of the earth might
be, it was at all events something detached from all other bodies, and
poised without visible support in space. When this discovery was first
announced it must have appeared a very startling truth. It was so
difficult to realise that the solid earth on which we stand reposed on
nothing! What was to keep it from falling? How could it be sustained
without tangible support, like the legendary coffin of Mahomet? But
difficult as it may have been to receive this doctrine, yet its
necessary truth in due time commanded assent, and the science of
Astronomy began to exist. The changes of the seasons and the recurrence
of seed-time and harvest must, from the earliest times, have been
associated with certain changes in the position of the sun. In the
summer at mid-day the sun rises high in the heavens, in the winter it is
always low. Our luminary, therefore, performs an annual movement up and
down in the heavens, as well as a diurnal movement of rising and
setting. But there is a third species of change in the sun's position,
which is not quite so obvious, though it is still capable of being
detected by a few careful observations, if combined with a philosophical
habit of reflection. The very earliest observers of the stars can hardly
have failed to notice that the constellations visible at night varied
with the season of the year. For instance, the brilliant figure of
Orion, though so well seen on winter nights, is absent from the summer
skies, and the place it occupied is then taken by quite different groups
of stars. The same may be said of other constellations. Each season of
the year can thus be characterised by the sidereal objects that are
conspicuous by night. Indeed, in ancient days, the time for commencing
the cycle of agricultural occupations was sometimes indicated by the
position of the constellations in the evening.

By reflecting on these facts the early astronomers were enabled to
demonstrate the apparent annual movement of the sun. There could be no
rational explanation of the changes in the constellations with the
seasons, except by supposing that the place of the sun was altering, so
as to make a complete circuit of the heavens in the course of the year.
This movement of the sun is otherwise confirmed by looking at the west
after sunset, and watching the stars. As the season progresses, it may
be noticed each evening that the constellations seem to sink lower and
lower towards the west, until at length they become invisible from the
brightness of the sky. The disappearance is explained by the supposition
that the sun appears to be continually ascending from the west to meet
the stars. This motion is, of course, not to be confounded with the
ordinary diurnal rising and setting, in which all the heavenly bodies
participate. It is to be understood that besides being affected by the
common motion our luminary has a slow independent movement in the
opposite direction; so that though the sun and a star may set at the
same time to-day, yet since by to-morrow the sun will have moved a
little towards the east, it follows that the star must then set a few
minutes before the sun.[1]

The patient observations of the early astronomers enabled the sun's
track through the heavens to be ascertained, and it was found that in
its circuit amid the stars and constellations our luminary invariably
followed the same path. This is called the _ecliptic_, and the
constellations through which it passes form a belt around the heavens
known as the _zodiac_. It was anciently divided into twelve equal
portions or "signs," so that the stages on the sun's great journey could
be conveniently indicated. The duration of the year, or the period
required by the sun to run its course around the heavens, seems to have
been first ascertained by astronomers whose names are unknown. The skill
of the early Oriental geometers was further evidenced by their
determination of the position of the ecliptic with regard to the
celestial equator, and by their success in the measurement of the angle
between these two important circles on the heavens.

The principal features of the motion of the moon have also been noticed
with intelligence at an antiquity more remote than history. The
attentive observer perceives the important truth that the moon does not
occupy a fixed position in the heavens. During the course of a single
night the fact that the moon has moved from west to east across the
heavens can be perceived by noting its position relatively to adjacent
stars. It is indeed probable that the motion of the moon was a discovery
prior to that of the annual motion of the sun, inasmuch as it is the
immediate consequence of a simple observation, and involves but little
exercise of any intellectual power. In prehistoric times also, the time
of revolution of the moon had been ascertained, and the phases of our
satellite had been correctly attributed to the varying aspect under
which the sun-illuminated side is turned towards the earth.

But we are far from having exhausted the list of great discoveries which
have come down from unknown antiquity. Correct explanations had been
given of the striking phenomenon of a lunar eclipse, in which the
brilliant surface is plunged temporarily into darkness, and also of the
still more imposing spectacle of a solar eclipse, in which the sun
itself undergoes a partial or even a total obscuration. Then, too, the
acuteness of the early astronomers had detected the five wandering stars
or planets: they had traced the movements of Mercury and Venus, Mars,
Jupiter, and Saturn. They had observed with awe the various
configurations of these planets: and just as the sun, and in a lesser
degree the moon, were intimately associated with the affairs of daily
life, so in the imagination of these early investigators the movements
of the planets were thought to be pregnant with human weal or human woe.
At length a certain order was perceived to govern the apparently
capricious movements of the planets. It was found that they obeyed
certain laws. The cultivation of the science of geometry went hand in
hand with the study of astronomy: and as we emerge from the dim
prehistoric ages into the historical period, we find that the theory of
the phenomena of the heavens possessed already some degree of coherence.

Ptolemy, following Pythagoras, Plato, and Aristotle, acknowledged that
the earth's figure was globular, and he demonstrated it by the same
arguments that we employ at the present day. He also discerned how this
mighty globe was isolated in space. He admitted that the diurnal
movement of the heavens could be accounted for by the revolution of the
earth upon its axis, but unfortunately he assigned reasons for the
deliberate rejection of this view. The earth, according to him, was a
fixed body; it possessed neither rotation round an axis nor translation
through space, but remained constantly at rest in what he supposed to be
the centre of the universe. According to Ptolemy's theory the sun and
the moon moved in circular orbits around the earth in the centre. The
explanation of the movements of the planets he found to be more
complicated, because it was necessary to account for the fact that a
planet sometimes advanced and that it sometimes retrograded. The ancient
geometers refused to believe that any movement, except revolution in a
circle, was possible for a celestial body: accordingly a contrivance was
devised by which each planet was supposed to revolve in a circle, of
which the centre described another circle around the earth.

Although the Ptolemaic doctrine is now known to be framed on quite an
extravagant estimate of the importance of the earth in the scheme of the
heavens, yet it must be admitted that the apparent movements of the
celestial bodies can be thus accounted for with considerable accuracy.
This theory is described in the great work known as the "Almagest,"
which was written in the second century of our era, and was regarded for
fourteen centuries as the final authority on all questions of astronomy.

Such was the system of Astronomy which prevailed during the Middle Ages,
and was only discredited at an epoch nearly simultaneous with that of
the discovery of the New World by Columbus. The true arrangement of the
solar system was then expounded by Copernicus in the great work to which
he devoted his life. The first principle established by these labours
showed the diurnal movement of the heavens to be due to the rotation of
the earth on its axis. Copernicus pointed out the fundamental difference
between real motions and apparent motions; he proved that the
appearances presented in the daily rising and setting of the sun and the
stars could be accounted for by the supposition that the earth rotated,
just as satisfactorily as by the more cumbrous supposition of Ptolemy.
He showed, moreover, that the latter supposition must attribute an
almost infinite velocity to the stars, so that the rotation of the
entire universe around the earth was clearly a preposterous supposition.
The second great principle, which has conferred immortal glory on
Copernicus, assigned to the earth its true position in the universe.
Copernicus transferred the centre, about which all the planets revolve,
from the earth to the sun; and he established the somewhat humiliating
truth, that our earth is merely a planet pursuing a track between the
paths of Venus and of Mars, and subordinated like all the other planets
to the supreme sway of the Sun.

This great revolution swept from astronomy those distorted views of the
earth's importance which arose, perhaps not unnaturally, from the fact
that we happen to be domiciled on that particular planet. The
achievements of Copernicus were soon to be followed by the invention of
the telescope, that wonderful instrument by which the modern science of
astronomy has been created. To the consideration of this important
subject we shall devote the first chapter of our book.

[Illustration: PLATE II.

A TYPICAL SUN-SPOT.

(AFTER LANGLEY.)]




CHAPTER I.

THE ASTRONOMICAL OBSERVATORY.


     Early Astronomical Observations--The Observatory of Tycho
     Brahe--The Pupil of the Eye--Vision of Faint Objects--The
     Telescope--The Object-Glass--Advantages of Large Telescopes--The
     Equatorial--The Observatory--The Power of a Telescope--Reflecting
     Telescopes--Lord Rosse's Great Reflector at Parsonstown--How the
     mighty Telescope is used--Instruments of Precision--The Meridian
     Circle--The Spider Lines--Delicacy of pointing a
     Telescope--Precautions necessary in making Observations--The Ideal
     Instrument and the Practical One--The Elimination of
     Error--Greenwich Observatory--The ordinary Opera-Glass as an
     Astronomical Instrument--The Great Bear--Counting the Stars in the
     Constellation--How to become an Observer.

The earliest rudiments of the Astronomical Observatory are as little
known as the earliest discoveries in astronomy itself. Probably the
first application of instrumental observation to the heavenly bodies
consisted in the simple operation of measuring the shadow of a post cast
by the sun at noonday. The variations in the length of this shadow
enabled the primitive astronomers to investigate the apparent movements
of the sun. But even in very early times special astronomical
instruments were employed which possessed sufficient accuracy to add to
the amount of astronomical knowledge, and displayed considerable
ingenuity on the part of the designers.

Professor Newcomb[2] thus writes: "The leader was Tycho Brahe, who was
born in 1546, three years after the death of Copernicus. His attention
was first directed to the study of astronomy by an eclipse of the sun on
August 21st, 1560, which was total in some parts of Europe. Astonished
that such a phenomenon could be predicted, he devoted himself to a study
of the methods of observation and calculation by which the prediction
was made. In 1576 the King of Denmark founded the celebrated observatory
of Uraniborg, at which Tycho spent twenty years assiduously engaged in
observations of the positions of the heavenly bodies with the best
instruments that could then be made. This was just before the invention
of the telescope, so that the astronomer could not avail himself of that
powerful instrument. Consequently, his observations were superseded by
the improved ones of the centuries following, and their celebrity and
importance are principally due to their having afforded Kepler the means
of discovering his celebrated laws of planetary motion."

The direction of the telescope to the skies by Galileo gave a wonderful
impulse to the study of the heavenly bodies. This extraordinary man is
prominent in the history of astronomy, not alone for his connection with
this supreme invention, but also for his achievements in the more
abstract parts of astronomy. He was born at Pisa in 1564, and in 1609
the first telescope used for astronomical observation was constructed.
Galileo died in 1642, the year in which Newton was born. It was Galileo
who laid with solidity the foundations of that science of Dynamics, of
which astronomy is the most splendid illustration; and it was he who, by
promulgating the doctrines taught by Copernicus, incurred the wrath of
the Inquisition.

The structure of the human eye in so far as the exquisite adaptation of
the pupil is concerned presents us with an apt illustration of the
principle of the telescope. To see an object, it is necessary that the
light from it should enter the eye. The portal through which the light
is admitted is the pupil. In daytime, when the light is brilliant, the
iris decreases the size of the pupil, and thus prevents too much light
from entering. At night, or whenever the light is scarce, the eye often
requires to grasp all it can. The pupil then expands; more and more
light is admitted according as the pupil grows larger. The illumination
of the image on the retina is thus effectively controlled in accordance
with the requirements of vision.

A star transmits to us its feeble rays of light, and from those rays
the image is formed. Even with the most widely-opened pupil, it may,
however, happen that the image is not bright enough to excite the
sensation of vision. Here the telescope comes to our aid: it catches all
the rays in a beam whose original dimensions were far too great to allow
of its admission through the pupil. The action of the lenses
concentrates those rays into a stream slender enough to pass through the
small opening. We thus have the brightness of the image on the retina
intensified. It is illuminated with nearly as much light as would be
collected from the same object through a pupil as large as the great
lenses of the telescope.

[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Principle of the Refracting Telescope.]

In astronomical observatories we employ telescopes of two entirely
different classes. The more familiar forms are those known as
_refractors_, in which the operation of condensing the rays of light is
conducted by refraction. The character of the refractor is shown in Fig.
1. The rays from the star fall upon the object-glass at the end of the
telescope, and on passing through they become refracted into a
converging beam, so that all intersect at the focus. Diverging from
thence, the rays encounter the eye-piece, which has the effect of
restoring them to parallelism. The large cylindrical beam which poured
down on the object-glass has been thus condensed into a small one, which
can enter the pupil. It should, however, be added that the composite
nature of light requires a more complex form of object-glass than the
simple lens here shown. In a refracting telescope we have to employ what
is known as the achromatic combination, consisting of one lens of flint
glass and one of crown glass, adjusted to suit each other with extreme
care.

[Illustration: Fig. 2.--The Dome of the South Equatorial at Dunsink
Observatory Co Dublin.]

[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Section of the Dome of Dunsink Observatory.]

The appearance of an astronomical observatory, designed to accommodate
an instrument of moderate dimensions, is shown in the adjoining figures.
The first (Fig. 2) represents the dome erected at Dunsink Observatory
for the equatorial telescope, the object-glass of which was presented to
the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, by the late Sir James South. The
main part of the building is a cylindrical wall, on the top of which
reposes a hemispherical roof. In this roof is a shutter, which can be
opened so as to allow the telescope in the interior to obtain a view of
the heavens. The dome is capable of revolving so that the opening may be
turned towards that part of the sky where the object happens to be
situated. The next view (Fig. 3) exhibits a section through the dome,
showing the machinery by which the attendant causes it to revolve, as
well as the telescope itself. The eye of the observer is placed at the
eye-piece, and he is represented in the act of turning a handle, which
has the power of slowly moving the telescope, in order to adjust the
instrument accurately on the celestial body which it is desired to
observe. The two lenses which together form the object-glass of this
instrument are twelve inches in diameter, and the quality of the
telescope mainly depends on the accuracy with which these lenses have
been wrought. The eye-piece is a comparatively simple matter. It
consists merely of one or two small lenses; and various eye-pieces can
be employed, according to the magnifying power which may be desired. It
is to be observed that for many purposes of astronomy high magnifying
powers are not desirable. There is a limit, too, beyond which the
magnification cannot be carried with advantage. The object-glass can
only collect a certain quantity of light from the star; and if the
magnifying power be too great, this limited amount of light will be
thinly dispersed over too large a surface, and the result will be found
unsatisfactory. The unsteadiness of the atmosphere still further limits
the extent to which the image may be advantageously magnified, for every
increase of power increases in the same degree the atmospheric
disturbance.

A telescope mounted in the manner here shown is called an _equatorial_.
The convenience of this peculiar style of supporting the instrument
consists in the ease with which the telescope can be moved so as to
follow a star in its apparent journey across the sky. The necessary
movements of the tube are given by clockwork driven by a weight, so
that, once the instrument has been correctly pointed, the star will
remain in the observer's field of view, and the effect of the apparent
diurnal movement will be neutralised. The last refinement in this
direction is the application of an electrical arrangement by which the
driving of the instrument is controlled from the standard clock of the
observatory.

[Illustration: Fig. 4.--The Telescope at Yerkes Observatory, Chicago.

(_From the Astrophysical Journal, Vol. vi., No. 1._)]

The power of a refracting telescope--so far as the expression has any
definite meaning--is to be measured by the diameter of its object-glass.
There has, indeed, been some honourable rivalry between the various
civilised nations as to which should possess the greatest refracting
telescope. Among the notable instruments that have been successfully
completed is that erected in 1881 by Sir Howard Grubb, of Dublin, at the
splendid observatory at Vienna. Its dimensions may be estimated from the
fact that the object-glass is two feet and three inches in diameter.
Many ingenious contrivances help to lessen the inconvenience incident to
the use of an instrument possessing such vast proportions. Among them we
may here notice the method by which the graduated circles attached to
the telescope are brought within view of the observer. These circles are
necessarily situated at parts of the instrument which lie remote from
the eye-piece where the observer is stationed. The delicate marks and
figures are, however, easily read from a distance by a small auxiliary
telescope, which, by suitable reflectors, conducts the rays of light
from the circles to the eye of the observer.

[Illustration: Fig. 5.--Principle of Herschel's Refracting Telescope.]

Numerous refracting telescopes of exquisite perfection have been
produced by Messrs. Alvan Clark, of Cambridgeport, Boston, Mass. One of
their most famous telescopes is the great Lick Refractor now in use on
Mount Hamilton in California. The diameter of this object-glass is
thirty-six inches, and its focal length is fifty-six feet two inches. A
still greater effort has recently been made by the same firm in the
refractor of forty inches aperture for the Yerkes Observatory of the
University of Chicago. The telescope, which is seventy-five feet in
length, is mounted under a revolving dome ninety feet in diameter, and
in order to enable the observer to reach the eye-piece without using
very large step-ladders, the floor of the room can be raised and lowered
through a range of twenty-two feet by electric motors. This is shown in
Fig. 4, while the south front of the Yerkes Observatory is represented
in Fig. 6.

[Illustration: Fig. 6.--South Front of the Yerkes Observatory, Chicago.

(_From the Astrophysical Journal, Vol. vi., No. 1._)]

[Illustration: Fig. 7.--Lord Rosse's Telescope.]

Within the last few years two fine telescopes have been added to the
instrumental equipment of the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, both by Sir
H. Grubb. One of these, containing a 28-inch object-glass, has been
erected on a mounting originally constructed for a smaller instrument by
Sir G. Airy. The other, presented by Sir Henry Thompson, is of 26 inches
aperture, and is adapted for photographic work.

There is a limit to the size of the refractor depending upon the
material of the object-glass. Glass manufacturers seem to experience
unusual difficulties in their attempts to form large discs of optical
glass pure enough and uniform enough to be suitable for telescopes.
These difficulties are enhanced with every increase in the size of the
discs, so that the cost has a tendency to increase at a very much
greater rate. It may be mentioned in illustration that the price paid
for the object-glass of the Lick telescope exceeded ten thousand pounds.

There is, however, an alternative method of constructing a telescope, in
which the difficulty we have just mentioned does not arise. The
principle of the simplest form of _reflector_ is shown in Fig. 5, which
represents what is called the Herschelian instrument. The rays of light
from the star under observation fall on a mirror which is both carefully
shaped and highly polished. After reflection, the rays proceed to a
focus, and diverging from thence, fall on the eye-piece, by which they
are restored to parallelism, and thus become adapted for reception in
the eye. It was essentially on this principle (though with a secondary
flat mirror at the upper end of the tube reflecting the rays at a right
angle to the side of the tube, where the eye-piece is placed) that Sir
Isaac Newton constructed the little reflecting telescope which is now
treasured by the Royal Society. A famous instrument of the Newtonian
type was built, half a century ago, by the late Earl of Rosse, at
Parsonstown. It is represented in Fig. 7. The colossal aperture of this
instrument has never been surpassed; it has, indeed, never been
rivalled. The mirror or speculum, as it is often called, is a thick
metallic disc, composed of a mixture of two parts of copper with one of
tin. This alloy is so hard and brittle as to make the necessary
mechanical operations difficult to manage. The material admits, however,
of a brilliant polish, and of receiving and retaining an accurate
figure. The Rosse speculum--six feet in diameter and three tons in
weight--reposes at the lower end of a telescope fifty-five feet long.
The tube is suspended between two massive castellated walls, which form
an imposing feature on the lawn at Birr Castle. This instrument cannot
be turned about towards every part of the sky, like the equatorials we
have recently been considering. The great tube is only capable of
elevation in altitude along the meridian, and of a small lateral
movement east and west of the meridian. Every star or nebula visible in
the latitude of Parsonstown (except those very near the pole) can,
however, be observed in the great telescope, if looked for at the right
time.

[Illustration: Fig. 8.--Meridian Circle.]

Before the object reaches the meridian, the telescope must be adjusted
at the right elevation. The necessary power is transmitted by a chain
from a winch at the northern end of the walls to a point near the upper
end of the tube. By this contrivance the telescope can be raised or
lowered, and an ingenious system of counterpoises renders the movement
equally easy at all altitudes. The observer then takes his station in
one of the galleries which give access to the eye-piece; and when the
right moment has arrived, the star enters the field of view. Powerful
mechanism drives the great instrument, so as to counteract the diurnal
movement, and thus the observer can retain the object in view until he
has made his measurements or finished his drawing.

Of late years reflecting telescopes have been generally made with
mirrors of glass covered with a thin film of silver, which is capable of
reflecting much more light than the surface of a metallic mirror. Among
great reflectors of this kind we may mention two, of three and five feet
aperture respectively, with which Dr. Common has done valuable work.

We must not, however, assume that for the general work in an observatory
a colossal instrument is the most suitable. The mighty reflector, or
refractor, is chiefly of use where unusually faint objects are being
examined. For work in which accurate measurements are made of objects
not particularly difficult to see, telescopes of smaller dimensions are
more suitable. The fundamental facts about the heavenly bodies have been
chiefly learned from observations obtained with instruments of moderate
optical power, specially furnished so as to enable precise measures of
position to be secured. Indeed, in the early stages of astronomy,
important determinations of position were effected by contrivances
which showed the direction of the object without any telescopic aid.

Perhaps the most valuable measurements obtained in our modern
observatories are yielded by that instrument of precision known as the
_meridian circle_. It is impossible, in any adequate account of the
Story of the Heavens, to avoid some reference to this indispensable aid
to astronomical research, and therefore we shall give a brief account of
one of its simpler forms, choosing for this purpose a great instrument
in the Paris Observatory, which is represented in Fig. 8.

The telescope is attached at its centre to an axis at right angles to
its length. Pivots at each extremity of this axis rotate upon fixed
bearings, so that the movements of the telescope are completely
restricted to the plane of the meridian. Inside the eye-piece of the
telescope extremely fine vertical fibres are stretched. The observer
watches the moon, or star, or planet enter the field of view; and he
notes by the clock the exact time, to the fraction of a second, at which
the object passes over each of the lines. A silver band on the circle
attached to the axis is divided into degrees and subdivisions of a
degree, and as this circle moves with the telescope, the elevation at
which the instrument is pointed will be indicated. For reading the
delicately engraved marks and figures on the silver, microscopes are
necessary. These are shown in the sketch, each one being fixed into an
aperture in the wall which supports one end of the instrument. At the
opposite side is a lamp, the light from which passes through the
perforated axis of the pivot, and is thence ingeniously deflected by
mirrors so as to provide the requisite illumination for the lines at the
focus.

The fibres which the observer sees stretched over the field of view of
the telescope demand a few words of explanation. We require for this
purpose a material which shall be very fine and fairly durable, as well
as somewhat elastic, and of no appreciable weight. These conditions
cannot be completely fulfilled by any metallic wire, but they are
exquisitely realised in the beautiful thread which is spun by the
spider. The delicate fibres are stretched with nice skill across the
field of view of the telescope, and cemented in their proper places.
With instruments so beautifully appointed we can understand the
precision attained in modern observations. The telescope is directed
towards a star, and the image of the star is a minute point of light.
When that point coincides with the intersection of the two central
spider lines the telescope is properly sighted. We use the word sighted
designedly, because we wish to suggest a comparison between the sighting
of a rifle at the target and the sighting of a telescope at a star.
Instead of the ordinary large bull's-eye, suppose that the target only
consisted of a watch-dial, which, of course, the rifleman could not see
at the distance of any ordinary range. But with the telescope of the
meridian circle the watch-dial would be visible even at the distance of
a mile. The meridian circle is indeed capable of such precision as a
sighting instrument that it could be pointed separately to each of two
stars which subtend at the eye an angle no greater than that subtended
by an adjoining pair of the sixty minute dots around the circumference
of a watch-dial a mile distant from the observer.

This power of directing the instrument so accurately would be of but
little avail unless it were combined with arrangements by which, when
once the telescope has been pointed correctly, the position of the star
can be ascertained and recorded. One element in the determination of the
position is secured by the astronomical clock, which gives the moment
when the object crosses the central vertical wire; the other element is
given by the graduated circle which reads the angular distance of the
star from the zenith or point directly overhead.

Superb meridian instruments adorn our great observatories, and are
nightly devoted to those measurements upon which the great truths of
astronomy are mainly based. These instruments have been constructed with
refined skill; but it is the duty of the painstaking astronomer to
distrust the accuracy of his instrument in every conceivable way. The
great tube may be as rigid a structure as mechanical engineers can
produce; the graduations on the circle may have been engraved by the
most perfect of dividing machines; but the conscientious astronomer will
not be content with mere mechanical precision. That meridian circle
which, to the uninitiated, seems a marvellous piece of workmanship,
possessing almost illimitable accuracy, is viewed in a very different
light by the astronomer who makes use of it. No one can appreciate more
fully than he the skill of the artist who has made that meridian circle,
and the beautiful contrivances for illumination and reading off which
give to the instrument its perfection; but while the astronomer
recognises the beauty of the actual machine he is using, he has always
before his mind's eye an ideal instrument of absolute perfection, to
which the actual meridian circle only makes an approximation.

Contrasted with the ideal instrument, the finest meridian circle is
little more than a mass of imperfections. The ideal tube is perfectly
rigid, the actual tube is flexible; the ideal divisions of the circle
are perfectly uniform, the actual divisions are not uniform. The ideal
instrument is a geometrical embodiment of perfect circles, perfect
straight lines, and perfect right angles; the actual instrument can only
show approximate circles, approximate straight lines, and approximate
right angles. Perhaps the spider's part of the work is on the whole the
best; the stretched web gives us the nearest mechanical approach to a
perfectly straight line; but we mar the spider's work by not being able
to insert those beautiful threads with perfect uniformity, while our
attempts to adjust two of them across the field of view at right angles
do not succeed in producing an angle of exactly ninety degrees.

Nor are the difficulties encountered by the meridian observer due solely
to his instrument. He has to contend against his own imperfections; he
has often to allow for personal peculiarities of an unexpected nature;
the troubles that the atmosphere can give are notorious; while the
levelling of his instrument warns him that he cannot even rely on the
solid earth itself. We learn that the earthquakes, by which the solid
ground is sometimes disturbed, are merely the more conspicuous
instances of incessant small movements in the earth which every night in
the year derange the delicate adjustment of the instrument.

When the existence of these errors has been recognised, the first great
step has been taken. By an alliance between the astronomer and the
mathematician it is possible to measure the discrepancies between the
actual meridian circle and the instrument that is ideally perfect. Once
this has been done, we can estimate the effect which the irregularities
produce on the observations, and finally, we succeed in purging the
observations from the grosser errors by which they are contaminated. We
thus obtain results which are not indeed mathematically accurate, but
are nevertheless close approximations to those which would be obtained
by a perfect observer using an ideal instrument of geometrical accuracy,
standing on an earth of absolute rigidity, and viewing the heavens
without the intervention of the atmosphere.

In addition to instruments like those already indicated, astronomers
have other means of following the motions of the heavenly bodies. Within
the last fifteen years photography has commenced to play an important
part in practical astronomy. This beautiful art can be utilised for
representing many objects in the heavens by more faithful pictures than
the pencil of even the most skilful draughtsman can produce. Photography
is also applicable for making charts of any region in the sky which it
is desired to examine. When repeated pictures of the same region are
made from time to time, their comparison gives the means of ascertaining
whether any star has moved during the interval. The amount and direction
of this motion may be ascertained by a delicate measuring apparatus
under which the photographic plate is placed.

If a refracting telescope is to be used for taking celestial
photographs, the lenses of the object-glass must be specially designed
for this purpose. The rays of light which imprint an image on the
prepared plate are not exactly the same as those which are chiefly
concerned in the production of the image on the retina of the human eye.
A reflecting mirror, however, brings all the rays, both those which are
chemically active and those which are solely visual, to one and the
same focus. The same reflecting instrument may therefore be used either
for looking at the heavens or for taking pictures on a photographic
plate which has been substituted for the observer's eye.

A simple portrait camera has been advantageously employed for obtaining
striking photographs of larger areas of the sky than can be grasped in a
long telescope; but for purposes of accurate measurement those taken
with the latter are incomparably better.

It is needless to say that the photographic apparatus, whatever it may
be, must be driven by delicately-adjusted clockwork to counteract the
apparent daily motion of the stars caused by the rotation of the earth.
The picture would otherwise be spoiled, just as a portrait is ruined if
the sitter does not remain quiet during the exposure.

Among the observatories in the United Kingdom the Royal Observatory at
Greenwich is of course the most famous. It is specially remarkable among
all the similar institutions in the world for the continuity of its
labours for several generations. Greenwich Observatory was founded in
1675 for the promotion of astronomy and navigation, and the observations
have from the first been specially arranged with the object of
determining with the greatest accuracy the positions of the principal
fixed stars, the sun, the moon, and the planets. In recent years,
however, great developments of the work of the Observatory have been
witnessed, and the most modern branches of the science are now
assiduously pursued there.

The largest equatorial at Greenwich is a refractor of twenty-eight
inches aperture and twenty-eight feet long, constructed by Sir Howard
Grubb. A remarkable composite instrument from the same celebrated
workshop has also been recently added to our national institution. It
consists of a great refractor specially constructed for photography, of
twenty-six inches aperture (presented by Sir Henry Thompson) and a
reflector of thirty inches diameter, which is the product of Dr.
Common's skill. The huge volume published annually bears witness to the
assiduity with which the Astronomer Royal and his numerous staff of
assistant astronomers make use of the splendid means at their disposal.

The southern part of the heavens, most of which cannot be seen in this
country, is watched from various observatories in the southern
hemisphere. Foremost among them is the Royal Observatory at the Cape of
Good Hope, which is furnished with first-class instruments. We may
mention a great photographic telescope, the gift of Mr. M'Clean.
Astronomy has been greatly enriched by the many researches made by Dr.
Gill, the director of the Cape Observatory.

[Illustration: Fig. 9.--The Great Bear.]

It is not, however, necessary to use such great instruments to obtain
some idea of the aid the telescope will afford. The most suitable
instrument for commencing astronomical studies is within ordinary reach.
It is the well-known binocular that a captain uses on board ship; or if
that cannot be had, then the common opera-glass will answer nearly as
well. This is, no doubt, not so powerful as a telescope, but it has some
compensating advantages. The opera-glass will enable us to survey a
large region of the sky at one glance, while a telescope, generally
speaking, presents a much smaller field of view.

Let us suppose that the observer is provided with an opera-glass and is
about to commence his astronomical studies. The first step is to become
acquainted with the conspicuous group of seven stars represented in Fig.
9. This group is often called the Plough, or Charles's Wain, but
astronomers prefer to regard it as a portion of the constellation of the
Great Bear (Ursa Major). There are many features of interest in this
constellation, and the beginner should learn as soon as possible to
identify the seven stars which compose it. Of these the two marked
a and b, at the head of the Bear, are generally called the
"pointers." They are of special use, because they serve to guide the eye
to that most important star in the whole sky, known as the "pole star."

Fix the attention on that region in the Great Bear, which forms a sort
of rectangle, of which the stars a b g d are the corners. The next fine
night try to count how many stars are visible within that rectangle. On
a very fine night, without a moon, perhaps a dozen might be perceived,
or even more, according to the keenness of the eyesight. But when the
opera-glass is directed to the same part of the constellation an
astonishing sight is witnessed. A hundred stars can now be seen with the
greatest ease.

But the opera-glass will not show nearly all the stars in this region.
Any good telescope will reveal many hundreds too faint for the feebler
instrument. The greater the telescope the more numerous the stars: so
that seen through one of the colossal instruments the number would have
to be reckoned in thousands.

We have chosen the Great Bear because it is more generally known than
any other constellation. But the Great Bear is not exceptionally rich in
stars. To tell the number of the stars is a task which no man has
accomplished; but various estimates have been made. Our great telescopes
can probably show at least 50,000,000 stars.

The student who uses a good refracting telescope, having an object-glass
not less than three inches in diameter, will find occupation for many a
fine evening. It will greatly increase the interest of his work if he
have the charming handbook of the heavens known as Webb's "Celestial
Objects for Common Telescopes."




CHAPTER II.

THE SUN.


     The vast Size of the Sun--Hotter than Melting Platinum--Is the Sun
     the Source of Heat for the Earth?--The Sun is 92,900,000 miles
     distant--How to realise the magnitude of this distance--Day and
     Night--Luminous and Non-Luminous Bodies--Contrast between the Sun
     and the Stars--The Sun a Star--Granulated Appearance of the
     Sun--The Spots on the Sun--Changes in the Form of a Spot--The
     Faculæ--The Rotation of the Sun on its Axis--View of a Typical
     Sun-Spot--Periodicity of the Sun-Spots--Connection between the
     Sun-Spots and Terrestrial Magnetism--Principles of Spectrum
     Analysis--Substances present in the Sun--Spectrum of a Spot--The
     Prominences surrounding the Sun--Total Eclipse of the Sun--Size and
     Movement of the Prominences--Their connection with the
     Spots--Spectroscopic Measurement of Motion on the Sun--The Corona
     surrounding the Sun--Constitution of the Sun.

In commencing our examination of the orbs which surround us, we
naturally begin with our peerless sun. His splendid brilliance gives him
the pre-eminence over all other celestial bodies.

The dimensions of our luminary are commensurate with his importance.
Astronomers have succeeded in the difficult task of ascertaining the
exact figures, but they are so gigantic that the results are hard to
realise. The diameter of the orb of day, or the length of the axis,
passing through the centre from one side to the other, is 866,000 miles.
Yet this bare statement of the dimensions of the great globe fails to
convey an adequate idea of its vastness. If a railway were laid round
the sun, and if we were to start in an express train moving sixty miles
an hour, we should have to travel for five years without intermission
night or day before we had accomplished the journey.

When the sun is compared with the earth the bulk of our luminary becomes
still more striking. Suppose his globe were cut up into one million
parts, each of these parts would appreciably exceed the bulk of our
earth. Fig. 10 exhibits a large circle and a very small one, marked S
and E respectively. These circles show the comparative sizes of the two
bodies. The mass of the sun does not, however, exceed that of the earth
in the same proportion. Were the sun placed in one pan of a mighty
weighing balance, and were 300,000 bodies as heavy as our earth placed
in the other, the luminary would turn the scale.

[Illustration: Fig. 10.--Comparative Size of the Earth and the Sun.]

The sun has a temperature far surpassing any that we artificially
produce, either in our chemical laboratories or our metallurgical
establishments. We can send a galvanic current through a piece of
platinum wire. The wire first becomes red hot, then white hot; then it
glows with a brilliance almost dazzling until it fuses and breaks. The
temperature of the melting platinum wire could hardly be surpassed in
the most elaborate furnaces, but it does not attain the temperature of
the sun.

It must, however, be admitted that there is an apparent discrepancy
between a fact of common experience and the statement that the sun
possesses the extremely high temperature that we have just tried to
illustrate. "If the sun were hot," it has been said, "then the nearer we
approach to him the hotter we should feel; yet this does not seem to be
the case. On the top of a high mountain we are nearer to the sun, and
yet everybody knows that it is much colder up there than in the valley
beneath. If the mountain be as high as Mont Blanc, then we are certainly
two or three miles nearer the glowing globe than we were at the
sea-level; yet, instead of additional warmth, we find eternal snow." A
simple illustration may help to lessen this difficulty. In a greenhouse
on a sunshiny day the temperature is much hotter than it is outside. The
glass will permit the hot sunbeams to enter, but it refuses to allow
them out again with equal freedom, and consequently the temperature
rises. The earth may, from this point of view, be likened to a
greenhouse, only, instead of the panes of glass, our globe is enveloped
by an enormous coating of air. On the earth's surface, we stand, as it
were, inside the greenhouse, and we benefit by the interposition of the
atmosphere; but when we climb very high mountains, we gradually pass
through some of the protecting medium, and then we suffer from the cold.
If the earth were deprived of its coat of air, it seems certain that
eternal frost would reign over whole continents as well as on the tops
of the mountains.

The actual distance of the sun from the earth is about 92,900,000 miles;
but by merely reciting the figures we do not receive a vivid impression
of the real magnitude. It would be necessary to count as quickly as
possible for three days and three nights before one million was
completed; yet this would have to be repeated nearly ninety-three times
before we had counted all the miles between the earth and the sun.

Every clear night we see a vast host of stars scattered over the sky.
Some are bright, some are faint, some are grouped into remarkable forms.
With regard to this multitude of brilliant points we have now to ask an
important question. Are they bodies which shine by their own light like
the sun, or do they only shine with borrowed light like the moon? The
answer is easily stated. Most of those bodies shine by their own light,
and they are properly called _stars_.

Suppose that the sun and the multitude of stars, properly so called, are
each and all self-luminous brilliant bodies, what is the great
distinction between the sun and the stars? There is, of course, a vast
and obvious difference between the unrivalled splendour of the sun and
the feeble twinkle of the stars. Yet this distinction does not
necessarily indicate that our luminary has an intrinsic splendour
superior to that of the stars. The fact is that we are nestled up
comparatively close to the sun for the benefit of his warmth and light,
while we are separated from even the nearest of the stars by a mighty
abyss. If the sun were gradually to retreat from the earth, his light
would decrease, so that when he had penetrated the depths of space to a
distance comparable with that by which we are separated from the stars,
his glory would have utterly departed. No longer would the sun seem to
be the majestic orb with which we are familiar. No longer would he be a
source of genial heat, or a luminary to dispel the darkness of night.
Our great sun would have shrunk to the insignificance of a star, not so
bright as many of those which we see every night.

Momentous indeed is the conclusion to which we are now led. That myriad
host of stars which studs our sky every night has been elevated into
vast importance. Each one of those stars is itself a mighty sun,
actually rivalling, and in many cases surpassing, the splendour of our
own luminary. We thus open up a majestic conception of the vast
dimensions of space, and of the dignity and splendour of the myriad
globes by which that space is tenanted.

There is another aspect of the picture not without its utility. We must
from henceforth remember that our sun is only a star, and not a
particularly important star. If the sun and the earth, and all which it
contains, were to vanish, the effect in the universe would merely be
that a tiny star had ceased its twinkling. Viewed simply as a star, the
sun must retire to a position of insignificance in the mighty fabric of
the universe. But it is not as a star that we have to deal with the sun.
To us his comparative proximity gives him an importance incalculably
transcending that of all the other stars. We imagined ourselves to be
withdrawn from the sun to obtain his true perspective in the universe;
let us now draw near, and give him that attention which his supreme
importance to us merits.

[Illustration: Fig. 11.--The Sun, photographed on September 22, 1870.]

To the unaided eye the sun appears to be a flat circle. If, however, it
be examined with the telescope, taking care of course to interpose a
piece of dark-coloured glass, or to employ some similar precaution to
screen the eye from injury, it will then be perceived that the sun is
not a flat surface, but a veritable glowing globe.

The first question which we must attempt to answer enquires whether the
glowing matter which forms the globe is a solid mass, or, if not solid,
which is it, liquid or gaseous? At the first glance we might think that
the sun cannot be fluid, and we might naturally imagine that it was a
solid ball of some white-hot substance. But this view is not correct;
for we can show that the sun is certainly not a solid body in so far at
least as its superficial parts are concerned.

A general view of the sun as shown by a telescope of moderate dimensions
may be seen in Fig. 11, which is taken from a photograph obtained by Mr.
Rutherford at New York on the 22nd of September, 1870. It is at once
seen that the surface of the luminary is by no means of uniform texture
or brightness. It may rather be described as granulated or mottled. This
appearance is due to the luminous clouds which float suspended in a
somewhat less luminous layer of gas. It is needless to say that these
solar clouds are very different from the clouds which we know so well in
our own atmosphere. Terrestrial clouds are, of course, formed from
minute drops of water, while the clouds at the surface of the sun are
composed of drops of one or more chemical elements at an exceedingly
high temperature.

The granulated appearance of the solar surface is beautifully shown in
the remarkable photographs on a large scale which M. Janssen, of Meudon,
has succeeded in obtaining during the last twenty years. We are enabled
to reproduce one of them in Fig. 12. It will be observed that the
interstices between the luminous dots are of a greyish tint, the general
effect (as remarked by Professor Young) being much like that of rough
drawing paper seen from a little distance. We often notice places over
the surface of such a plate where the definition seems to be
unsatisfactory. These are not, however, the blemishes that might at
first be supposed. They arise neither from casual imperfections of the
photographic plate nor from accidents during the development; they
plainly owe their origin to some veritable cause in the sun itself, nor
shall we find it hard to explain what that cause must be. As we shall
have occasion to mention further on, the velocities with which the
glowing gases on the sun are animated must be exceedingly great. Even in
the hundredth part of a second (which is about the duration of the
exposure of this plate) the movements of the solar clouds are
sufficiently great to produce the observed indistinctness.

[Illustration: Fig. 12.--Photograph of the Solar Surface. (_By
Janssen._)]

Irregularly dispersed over the solar surface small dark objects called
sun-spots are generally visible. These spots vary greatly both as to
size and as to number. Sun-spots were first noticed in the beginning of
the seventeenth century, shortly after the invention of the telescope.
Their general appearance is shown in Fig. 13, in which the dark central
nucleus appears in sharp contrast with the lighter margin or penumbra.
Fig. 16 shows a small spot developing out of one of the pores or
interstices between the granules.

[Illustration: Fig. 13.--An Ordinary Sun-spot.]

The earliest observers of these spots had remarked that they seem to
have a common motion across the sun. In Fig. 14 we give a copy of a
remarkable drawing by Father Scheiner, showing the motion of two spots
observed by him in March, 1627. The figure indicates the successive
positions assumed by the spots on the several days from the 2nd to the
16th March. Those marks which are merely given in outline represent the
assumed positions on the 11th and the 13th, on which days it happened
that the weather was cloudy, so that no observations could be made. It
is invariably found that these objects move in the same
direction--namely, from the eastern to the western limb[3] of the sun.
They complete the journey across the face of the sun in twelve or
thirteen days, after which they remain invisible for about the same
length of time until they reappear at the eastern limb. These early
observers were quick to discern the true import of their discovery. They
deduced from these simple observations the remarkable fact that the sun,
like the earth, performs a rotation on its axis, and in the same
direction. But there is the important difference between these rotations
that whereas the earth takes only twenty-four hours to turn once round,
the solar globe takes about twenty-six days to complete one of its much
more deliberate rotations.

[Illustration: PLATE III.

SPOTS AND FACULÆ ON THE SUN.

(FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY MR. WARREN DE LA RUE, 20TH SEPT., 1861.)]

If we examine sun-spots under favourable atmospheric conditions and
with a telescope of fairly large aperture, we perceive a great amount of
interesting detail which is full of information with regard to the
structure of the sun. The penumbra of a spot is often found to be made
up of filaments directed towards the middle of the spot, and generally
brighter at their inner ends, where they adjoin the nucleus. In a
regularly formed spot the outline of the penumbra is of the same general
form as that of the nucleus, but astronomers are frequently deeply
interested by witnessing vast spots of very irregular figure. In such
cases the bright surface-covering of the sun (the photosphere, as it is
called) often encroaches on the nucleus and forms a peninsula stretching
out into, or even bridging across, the gloomy interior. This is well
shown in Professor Langley's fine drawing (Plate II.) of a very
irregular spot which he observed on December 23-24, 1873.

The details of a spot vary continually; changes may often be noticed
even from day to day, sometimes from hour to hour. A similar remark may
be made with respect to the bright streaks or patches which are
frequently to be observed especially in the neighbourhood of spots.
These bright marks are known by the name of _faculæ_ (little torches).
They are most distinctly seen near the margin of the sun, where the
light from its surface is not so bright as it is nearer to the centre of
the disc. The reduction of light at the margin is due to the greater
thickness of absorbing atmosphere round the sun, through which the light
emitted from the regions near the margin has to pass in starting on its
way towards us.

None of the markings on the solar disc constitute permanent features on
the sun. Some of these objects may no doubt last for weeks. It has,
indeed, occasionally happened that the same spot has marked the solar
globe for many months; but after an existence of greater or less
duration those on one part of the sun may disappear, while as frequently
fresh marks of the same kind become visible in other places. The
inference from these various facts is irresistible. They tell us that
the visible surface of the sun is not a solid mass, is not even a liquid
mass, but that the globe, so far as we can see it, consists of matter in
the gaseous, or vaporous, condition.

[Illustration: Fig. 14.--Scheiner's Observations on Sun-spots.]

It often happens that a large spot divides into two or more separate
portions, and these have been sometimes seen to fly apart with a
velocity in some cases not less than a thousand miles an hour. "At
times, though very rarely" (I quote here Professor Young,[4] to whom I
am frequently indebted), "a different phenomenon of the most surprising
and startling character appears in connection with these objects:
patches of intense brightness suddenly break out, remaining visible for
a few minutes, moving, while they last, with velocities as great as one
hundred miles _a second_."

[Illustration: Fig. 15.--Zones on the Sun's Surface in which Spots
appear.]

"One of these events has become classical. It occurred on the forenoon
(Greenwich time) of September 1st, 1859, and was independently witnessed
by two well-known and reliable observers--Mr. Carrington and Mr.
Hodgson--whose accounts of the matter may be found in the Monthly
Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society for November, 1859. Mr.
Carrington at the time was making his usual daily observations upon the
position, configuration, and size of the spots by means of an image of
the solar disc upon a screen--being then engaged upon that eight years'
series of observations which lie at the foundation of so much of our
present solar science. Mr. Hodgson, at a distance of many miles, was at
the same time sketching details of sun-spot structure by means of a
solar eye-piece and shade-glass. They simultaneously saw two luminous
objects, shaped something like two new moons, each about eight thousand
miles in length and two thousand wide, at a distance of some twelve
thousand miles from each other. These burst suddenly into sight at the
edge of a great sun-spot with a dazzling brightness at least five or six
times that of the neighbouring portions of the photosphere, and moved
eastward over the spot in parallel lines, growing smaller and fainter,
until in about five minutes they disappeared, after traversing a course
of nearly thirty-six thousand miles."

The sun-spots do not occur at all parts of the sun's surface
indifferently. They are mainly found in two zones (Fig. 15) on each side
of the solar equator between the latitudes of 10° and 30°. On the
equator the spots are rare except, curiously enough, near the time when
there are few spots elsewhere. In high latitudes they are never seen.
Closely connected with these peculiar principles of their distribution
is the remarkable fact that spots in different latitudes do not indicate
the same values for the period of rotation of the sun. By watching a
spot near the sun's equator Carrington found that it completed a
revolution in twenty-five days and two hours. At a latitude of 20° the
period is about twenty-five days and eighteen hours, at 30° it is no
less than twenty-six days and twelve hours, while the comparatively few
spots observed in the latitude of 45° require twenty-seven and a half
days to complete their circuit.

As the sun, so far at least as its outer regions are concerned, is a
mass of gas and not a solid body, there would be nothing incredible in
the supposition that spots are occasionally endowed with movements of
their own like ships on the ocean. It seems, however, from the facts
before us that the different zones on the sun, corresponding to what we
call the torrid and temperate zones on the earth, persist in rotating
with velocities which gradually decrease from the equator towards the
poles. It seems probable that the interior parts of the sun do not
rotate as if the whole were a rigidly connected mass. The mass of the
sun, or at all events its greater part, is quite unlike a rigid body,
and the several portions are thus to some extent free for independent
motion. Though we cannot actually see how the interior parts of the sun
rotate, yet here the laws of dynamics enable us to infer that the
interior layers of the sun rotate more rapidly than the outer layers,
and thus some of the features of the spot movements can be accounted
for. But at present it must be confessed that there are great
difficulties in the way of accounting for the distribution of spots and
the law of rotation of the sun.

In the year 1826 Schwabe, a German astronomer, commenced to keep a
regular register of the number of spots visible on the sun. After
watching them for seventeen years he was able to announce that the
number of spots seemed to fluctuate from year to year, and that there
was a period of about ten years in their changes. Subsequent
observations have confirmed this discovery, and old books and
manuscripts have been thoroughly searched for information of early
date. Thus a more or less complete record of the state of the sun as
regards spots since the beginning of the seventeenth century has been
put together. This has enabled astronomers to fix the period of the
recurring maximum with greater accuracy.

The course of one of the sun-spot cycles may be described as follows:
For two or three years the spots are both larger and more numerous than
on the average; then they begin to diminish, until in about six or seven
years from the maximum they decline to a minimum; the number of the
spots then begins to increase, and in about four and a half years the
maximum is once more attained. The length of the cycle is, on an
average, about eleven years and five weeks, but both its length and the
intensity of the maxima vary somewhat. For instance, a great maximum
occurred in the summer of 1870, after which a very low minimum occurred
in 1879, followed by a feeble maximum at the end of 1883; next came an
average minimum about August, 1889, followed by the last observed
maximum in January, 1894. It is not unlikely that a second period of
about sixty or eighty years affects the regularity of the eleven-year
period. Systematic observations carried on through a great many years to
come will be required to settle this question, as the observations of
sun-spots previous to 1826 are far too incomplete to decide the issues
which arise.

A curious connection seems to exist between the periodicity of the spots
and their distribution over the surface of the sun. When a minimum is
about to pass away the spots generally begin to show themselves in
latitudes about 30° north and south of the sun's equator; they then
gradually break out somewhat nearer to the equator, so that at the time
of maximum frequency most of them appear at latitudes not greater than
16°. This distance from the sun's equator goes on decreasing till the
time of minimum. Indeed, the spots linger on very close to the equator
for a couple of years more, until the outbreak signalising the
commencement of another period has commenced in higher latitudes.

We have still to note an extraordinary feature which points to an
intimate connection between the phenomena of sun-spots and the purely
terrestrial phenomena of magnetism. It is of course well known that the
needle of a compass does not point exactly to the north, but diverges
from the meridian by an angle which is different in different places and
is not even constant at the same place. For instance, at Greenwich the
needle at present points in a direction 17° West of North, but this
amount is subject to very slow and gradual changes, as well as to very
small daily oscillations. It was found about fifty years ago by Lamont
(a Bavarian astronomer, but a native of Scotland) that the extent of
this daily oscillation increases and decreases regularly in a period
which he gave as 10-1/3 years, but which was subsequently found to be
11-1/10 years, exactly the same as the period of the spots on the sun.
From a diligent study of the records of magnetic observations it has
been found that the time of sun-spot maximum always coincides almost
exactly with that of maximum daily oscillation of the compass needle,
while the minima agree similarly. This close relationship between the
periodicity of sun-spots and the daily movements of the magnetic needle
is not the sole proof we possess that there is a connection of some sort
between solar phenomena and terrestrial magnetism. A time of maximum
sun-spots is a time of great magnetic activity, and there have even been
special cases in which a peculiar outbreak on the sun has been
associated with remarkable magnetic phenomena on the earth. A very
interesting instance of this kind is recorded by Professor Young, who,
when observing at Sherman on the 3rd August, 1872, perceived a very
violent disturbance of the sun's surface. He was told the same day by a
member of his party, who was engaged in magnetic observations and who
was quite in ignorance of what Professor Young had seen, that he had
been obliged to desist from his magnetic work in consequence of the
violent motion of his magnet. It was afterwards found from the
photographic records at Greenwich and Stonyhurst that the magnetic
"storm" observed in America had simultaneously been felt in England. A
similar connection between sun-spots and the aurora borealis has also
been noticed, this fact being a natural consequence of the well-known
connection between the aurora and magnetic disturbances. On the other
hand, it must be confessed that many striking magnetic storms have
occurred without any corresponding solar disturbance,[5] but even those
who are inclined to be sceptical as to the connection between these two
classes of phenomena in particular cases can hardly doubt the remarkable
parallelism between the general rise and fall in the number of sun-spots
and the extent of the daily movements of the compass needle.

[Illustration: Fig. 16.--The Texture of the Sun and a small Spot.]

We have now described the principal solar phenomena with which the
telescope has made us acquainted. But there are many questions connected
with the nature of the sun which not even the most powerful telescope
would enable us to solve, but which the spectroscope has given us the
means of investigating.

What we receive from the sun is warmth and light. The intensely heated
mass of the sun radiates forth its beams in all directions with
boundless prodigality. Each beam we feel to be warm, and we see to be
brilliantly white, but a more subtle analysis than mere feeling or mere
vision is required. Each sunbeam bears marks of its origin. These marks
are not visible until a special process has been applied, but then the
sunbeam can be made to tell its story, and it will disclose to us much
of the nature of the constitution of the great luminary.

We regard the sun's light as colourless, just as we speak of water as
tasteless, but both of those expressions relate rather to our own
feelings than to anything really characteristic of water or of sunlight.
We regard the sunlight as colourless because it forms, as it were, the
background on which all other colours are depicted. The fact is, that
white is so far from being colourless that it contains every known hue
blended together in certain proportions. The sun's light is really
extremely composite; Nature herself tells us this if we will but give
her the slightest attention. Whence come the beautiful hues with which
we are all familiar? Look at the lovely tints of a garden; the red of
the rose is not in the rose itself. All the rose does is to grasp the
sunbeams which fall upon it, extract from these beams the red which they
contain, and radiate that red light to our eyes. Were there not red rays
conveyed with the other rays in the sunbeam, there could be no red rose
to be seen by sunlight.

The principle here involved has many other applications; a lady will
often say that a dress which looks very well in the daylight does not
answer in the evening. The reason is that the dress is intended to show
certain colours which exist in the sunlight; but these colours are not
contained to the same degree in gaslight, and consequently the dress has
a different hue. The fault is not in the dress, the fault lies in the
gas; and when the electric light is used it sends forth beams more
nearly resembling those from the sun, and the colours of the dress
appear with all their intended beauty.

The most glorious natural indication of the nature of the sunlight is
seen in the rainbow. Here the sunbeams are refracted and reflected from
tiny globes of water in the clouds; these convey to us the sunlight, and
in doing so decompose the white beams into the seven primary hues--red,
orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet.

[Illustration: PLATE A.

THE SUN.

_Royal Observatory, Greenwich, July 8, 1892._]

[Illustration: Fig. 17.--The Prism.]

The bow set in the cloud is typical of that great department of modern
science of which we shall now set forth the principles. The globes of
water decompose the solar beams; and we follow the course suggested by
the rainbow, and analyse the sunlight into its constituents. We are
enabled to do this with scientific accuracy when we employ that
remarkable key to Nature's secrets known as the spectroscope. The beams
of white sunlight consist of innumerable beams of every hue in intimate
association. Every shade of red, of yellow, of blue, and of green, can
be found in a sunbeam. The magician's wand, with which we strike the
sunbeam and sort the tangled skein into perfect order, is the simple
instrument known as the glass prism. We have represented this instrument
in its simplest form in the adjoining figure (Fig. 17). It is a piece of
pure and homogeneous glass in the shape of a wedge. When a ray of light
from the sun or from any source falls upon the prism, it passes through
the transparent glass and emerges on the other side; a remarkable change
is, however, impressed on the ray by the influence of the glass. It is
bent by refraction from the path it originally pursued, and is compelled
to follow a different path. If, however, the prism bent all rays of
light equally, then it would be of no service in the analysis of light;
but it fortunately happens that the prism acts with varying efficiency
on the rays of different hues. A red ray is not refracted so much as a
yellow ray; a yellow ray is not refracted so much as a blue one. It
consequently happens that when the composite beam of sunlight, in which
all the different rays are blended, passes through the prism, they
emerge in the manner shown in the annexed figure (Fig. 18). Here then we
have the source of the analysing power of the prism; it bends the
different hues unequally and consequently the beam of composite
sunlight, after passing through the prism, no longer shows mere white
light, but is expanded into a coloured band of light, with hues like the
rainbow, passing from deep red at one end through every intermediate
grade to the violet.

[Illustration: Fig. 18.--Dispersion of Light by the Prism.]

We have in the prism the means of decomposing the light from the sun, or
the light from any other source, into its component parts. The
examination of the quality of the light when analysed enables us to
learn something of the constitution of the body from which this light
has emanated. Indeed, in some simple cases the mere colour of a light
will be sufficient to indicate the source from which it has come. There
is, for instance, a splendid red light sometimes seen in displays of
fireworks, due to the metal strontium. The eye can identify the element
by the mere colour of the flame. There is also a characteristic yellow
light produced by the flame of common salt burned with spirits of wine.
Sodium is the important constituent of salt, so here we recognise
another substance merely by the colour it emits when burning. We may
also mention a third substance, magnesium, which burns with a brilliant
white light, eminently characteristic of the metal.

[Illustration: PLATE XIII.

SPECTRA OF THE SUN AND STARS.

I. SUN.
II. SIRIUS.
III. ALDEBARAN.
IV. BETELGEUZE.]

The three metals, strontium, sodium, and magnesium, may thus be
identified by the colours they produce when incandescent. In this simple
observation lies the germ of the modern method of research known as
spectrum analysis. We may now examine with the prism the colours of the
sun and the colours of the stars, and from this examination we can learn
something of the materials which enter into their composition. We are
not restricted to the use of merely a single prism, but we may arrange
that the light which it is desired to analyse shall pass through several
prisms in succession in order to increase the _dispersion_ or the
spreading out of the different colours. To enter the spectroscope the
light first passes through a narrow slit, and the rays are then rendered
parallel by passing through a lens; these parallel rays next pass
through one or more prisms, and are finally viewed through a small
telescope, or they may be intercepted by a photographic plate on which a
picture will then be made. If the beam of light passing through the slit
has radiated from an incandescent solid or liquid body, or from a gas
under high pressure, the coloured band or _spectrum_ is found to contain
all the colours indicated on Plate XIII., without any interruption
between the colours. This is known as a continuous spectrum. But if we
examine light from a gas under low pressure, as can be done by placing a
small quantity of the gas in a glass tube and making it glow by an
electric current, we find that it does not emit rays of all colours, but
only rays of certain distinct colours which are different for different
gases. The spectrum of a gas, therefore, consists of a number of
detached luminous lines.

When we study the sunlight through the prism, it is found that the
spectrum does not extend quite continuously from one end to the other,
but is shaded over by a multitude of dark lines, only a few of which are
shown in the adjoining plate. (Plate XIII.) These lines are a permanent
feature in the solar spectrum. They are as characteristic of the
sunlight as the prismatic colours themselves, and are full of interest
and information with regard to the sun. These lines are the characters
in which the history and the nature of the sun are written. Viewed
through an instrument of adequate power, dark lines are to be found
crossing the solar spectrum in hundreds and in thousands. They are of
every variety of strength and faintness; their distribution seems guided
by no simple law. At some parts of the spectrum there are but few lines;
in other regions they are crowded so closely together that it is
difficult to separate them. They are in some places exquisitely fine and
delicate, and they never fail to excite the admiration of every one who
looks at this interesting spectacle in a good instrument.

There can be no better method of expounding the rather difficult subject
of spectrum analysis than by actually following the steps of the
original discovery which first gave a clear demonstration of the
significance of the dark "Fraunhofer" lines. Let us concentrate our
attention specially upon that line of the solar spectrum marked D. This,
when seen in the spectroscope, is found to consist of two lines, very
delicately separated by a minute interval, one of these lines being
slightly thicker than the other. Suppose that while the attention is
concentrated on these lines the flame of an ordinary spirit-lamp
coloured by common salt be held in front of the instrument, so that the
ray of direct solar light passes through the flame before entering the
spectroscope. The observer sees at once the two lines known as D flash
out with a greatly increased blackness and vividness, while there is no
other perceptible effect on the spectrum. A few trials show that this
intensification of the D lines is due to the vapour of sodium arising
from the salt burning in the lamp through which the sunlight has passed.

It is quite impossible that this marvellous connection between sodium
and the D lines of the spectrum can be merely casual. Even if there were
only a single line concerned, it would be in the highest degree unlikely
that the coincidence should arise by accident; but when we find the
sodium affecting both of the two close lines which form D, our
conviction that there must be some profound connection between these
lines and sodium rises to absolute certainty. Suppose that the sunlight
be cut off, and that all other light is excluded save that emanating
from the glowing vapour of sodium in the spirit flame. We shall then
find, on looking through the spectroscope, that we no longer obtain all
the colours of the rainbow; the light from the sodium is concentrated
into two bright yellow lines, filling precisely the position which the
dark D lines occupied in the solar spectrum, and the darkness of which
the sodium flame seemed to intensify.

We must here endeavour to remove what may at first sight appear to be a
paradox. How is it, that though the sodium flame produces two _bright_
lines when viewed in the absence of other light, yet it actually appears
to intensify the two _dark_ lines in the sun's spectrum? The explanation
of this leads us at once to the cardinal doctrine of spectrum analysis.
The so-called dark lines in the solar spectrum are only dark _by
contrast_ with the brilliant illumination of the rest of the spectrum. A
good deal of solar light really lies in the dark lines, though not
enough to be seen when the eye is dazzled by the brilliancy around. When
the flame of the spirit-lamp charged with sodium intervenes, it sends
out a certain amount of light, which is entirely localised in these two
lines. So far it would seem that the influence of the sodium flame ought
to be manifested in diminishing the darkness of the lines and rendering
them less conspicuous. As a matter of fact, they are far more
conspicuous with the sodium flame than without it. This arises from the
fact that the sodium flame possesses the remarkable property of cutting
off the sunlight which was on its way to those particular lines; so
that, though the sodium contributes some light to the lines, yet it
intercepts a far greater quantity of the light that would otherwise have
illuminated those lines, and hence they became darker with the sodium
flame than without it.

We are thus conducted to a remarkable principle, which has led to the
interpretation of the dark lines in the spectrum of the sun. We find
that when the sodium vapour is heated, it gives out light of a very
particular type, which, viewed through the prism, is concentrated in two
lines. But the sodium vapour possesses also this property, that light
from the sun can pass through it without any perceptible absorption,
except of those particular rays which are of the same characters as the
two lines in question. In other words, we say that if the heated vapour
of a substance gives a spectrum of bright lines, corresponding to lights
of various kinds, this same vapour will act as an opaque screen to
lights of those special kinds, while remaining transparent to light of
every other description.

This principle is of such importance in the theory of spectrum analysis
that we add a further example. Let us take the element iron, which in a
very striking degree illustrates the law in question. In the solar
spectrum some hundreds of the dark lines are known to correspond with
the spectrum of iron. This correspondence is exhibited in a vivid manner
when, by a suitable contrivance, the light of an electric spark from
poles of iron is examined in the spectroscope side by side with the
solar spectrum. The iron lines in the sun are identical in position with
the lines in the spectrum of glowing iron vapour. But the spectrum of
iron, as here described, consists of bright lines; while those with
which it is compared in the sun are dark on a bright background. They
can be completely understood if we suppose the vapour arising from
intensely heated iron to be present in the atmosphere which surrounds
the luminous strata on the sun. This vapour would absorb or stop
precisely the same rays as it emits when incandescent, and hence we
learn the important fact that iron, no less than sodium, must, in one
form or another, be a constituent of the sun.

Such is, in brief outline, the celebrated discovery of modern times
which has given an interpretation to the dark lines of the solar
spectrum. The spectra of a large number of terrestrial substances have
been examined in comparison with the solar spectrum, and thus it has
been established that many of the elements known on the earth are
present in the sun. We may mention calcium, iron, hydrogen, sodium,
carbon, nickel, magnesium, cobalt, aluminium, chromium, strontium,
manganese, copper, zinc, cadmium, silver, tin, lead, potassium. Some of
the elements which are of the greatest importance on the earth would
appear to be missing from the sun. Sulphur, phosphorus, mercury, gold,
nitrogen may be mentioned among the elements which have hitherto given
no indication of their being solar constituents.

It is also possible that the lines of a substance in the sun's
atmosphere may be so very bright that the light of the continuous
spectrum, on which they are superposed, is not able to "reverse"
them--_i.e._ turn them into dark lines. We know, for instance, that the
bright lines of sodium vapour may be made so intensely bright that the
spectrum of an incandescent lime-cylinder placed behind the sodium
vapour does not reverse these lines. If, then, we make the sodium lines
fainter, they may be reduced to exactly the intensity prevailing in that
part of the spectrum of the lime-light, in which case the lines, of
course, could not be distinguished. The question as to what elements are
really missing from the sun must therefore, like many other questions
concerning our great luminary, at present be considered an open one. We
shall shortly see that an element previously unknown has actually been
discovered by means of a line representing it in the solar spectrum.

Let us now return to the sun-spots and see what the spectroscope can
teach us as to their nature. We attach a powerful spectroscope to the
eye-end of a telescope in order to get as much light as possible
concentrated on the slit; the latter has therefore to be placed exactly
at the focus of the object-glass. The instrument is then pointed to a
spot, so that its image falls on the slit, and the presence of the dark
central part called the _umbra_ reveals itself by a darkish stripe which
traverses the ordinary sun-spectrum from end to end. It is bordered on
both sides by the spectrum of the _penumbra_, which is much brighter
than that of the umbra, but fainter than that of the adjoining regions
of the sun.

From the fact that the spectrum is darkened we learn that there is
considerable general absorption of light in the umbra. This absorption
is not, however, such as would be caused by the presence of volumes of
minute solid or liquid particles like those which constitute smoke or
cloud. This is indicated by the fact, first discovered by Young in
1883, that the spectrum is not uniformly darkened as it would be if the
absorption were caused by floating particles. In the course of
examination of many large and quiescent spots, he perceived that the
middle green part of the spectrum was crossed by countless fine, dark
lines, generally touching each other, but here and there separated by
bright intervals. Each line is thicker in the middle (corresponding to
the centre of the spot) and tapers to a fine thread at each end; indeed,
most of these lines can be traced across the spectrum of the penumbra
and out on to that of the solar surface. The absorption would therefore
seem to be caused by gases at a much lower temperature than that of the
gases present outside the spot.

In the red and yellow parts of the spot-spectrum, which have been
specially studied for many years by Sir Norman Lockyer at the South
Kensington Observatory, interesting details are found which confirm this
conclusion. Many of the dark lines are not thicker and darker in the
spot than they are in the ordinary sun-spectrum, while others are very
much thickened in the spot-spectrum, such as the lines of iron, calcium,
and sodium. The sodium lines are sometimes both widened and doubly
reversed--that is, on the thick dark line a bright line is superposed.
The same peculiarity is not seldom seen in the notable calcium lines H
and K at the violet end of the spectrum. These facts indicate the
presence of great masses of the vapours of sodium and calcium over the
nucleus. The observations at South Kensington have also brought to light
another interesting peculiarity of the spot-spectra. At the time of
minimum frequency of spots the lines of iron and other terrestrial
elements are prominent among the most widened lines; at the maxima these
almost vanish, and the widening is found only amongst lines of unknown
origin.

The spectroscope has given us the means of studying other interesting
features on the sun, which are so faint that in the full blaze of
sunlight they cannot be readily observed with a mere telescope. We can,
however, see them easily enough when the brilliant body of the sun is
obscured during the rare occurrence of a total eclipse. The conditions
necessary for the occurrence of an eclipse will be more fully
considered in the next chapter. For the present it will be sufficient to
observe that by the movement of the moon it may so happen that the moon
completely hides the sun, and thus for certain parts of the earth
produces what we call a total eclipse. The few minutes during which a
total eclipse lasts are of much interest to the astronomer. Darkness
reigns over the landscape, and in that darkness rare and beautiful
sights are witnessed.

[Illustration: Fig. 19.--Prominences seen in Total Eclipse.]

We have in Fig. 19 a diagram of a total eclipse, showing some of the
remarkable objects known as prominences (_a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_) which
project from behind the dark body of the moon. That they do not belong
to the moon, but are solar appendages of some sort, is easily
demonstrated. They first appear on the eastern limb at the commencement
of totality. Those first seen are gradually more or less covered by the
advancing moon, while others peep out behind the western limb of the
moon, until totality is over and the sunlight bursts out again, when
they all instantly vanish.

The first total eclipse which occurred after the spectroscope had been
placed in the hands of astronomers was in 1868. On the 18th August in
that year a total eclipse was visible in India. Several observers, armed
with spectroscopes, were on the look-out for the prominences, and were
able to announce that their spectrum consisted of detached bright lines,
thus demonstrating that these objects were masses of glowing gas. On the
following day the illustrious astronomer, Janssen, one of the observers
of the eclipse, succeeded in seeing the lines in full sunlight, as he
now knew exactly where to look for them. Many months before the eclipse
Sir Norman Lockyer had been preparing to search for the prominences, as
he expected them to yield a line spectrum which would be readily
visible, if only the sun's ordinary light could be sufficiently winnowed
away. He proposed to effect this by using a spectroscope of great
dispersion, which would spread out the continuous spectrum considerably
and make it fainter. The effect of the great dispersion on the isolated
bright lines he expected to see would be only to widen the intervals
between them without interfering with their brightness. The new
spectroscope, which he ordered to be constructed for this purpose, was
not completed until some weeks after the eclipse was over, though before
the news of Janssen's achievement reached Europe from India. When that
news did arrive Sir N. Lockyer had already found the spectrum of unseen
prominences at the sun's limb. The honour of the practical application
of a method of observing solar prominences without the help of an
eclipse must therefore be shared between the two astronomers.

When a spectroscope is pointed to the margin of the sun so that the slit
is radial, certain short luminous lines become visible which lie exactly
in the prolongation of the corresponding dark lines in the solar
spectrum. From due consideration of the circumstances it can be shown
that the gases which form the prominences are also present as a
comparatively shallow atmospheric layer all round the great luminary.
This layer is about five or six thousand miles deep, and is situated
immediately above the dense layer of luminous clouds which forms the
visible surface of the sun and which we call the photosphere. The
gaseous envelope from which the prominences spring has been called the
chromosphere on account of the coloured lines displayed in its spectrum.
Such lines are very numerous, but those pertaining to the single
substance, hydrogen, predominate so greatly that we may say the
chromosphere consists chiefly of this element. It is, however, to be
noted that calcium and one other element are also invariably present,
while iron, manganese and magnesium are often apparent. The remarkable
element, of which we have not yet mentioned the name, has had an
astonishing history.

During the eclipse of 1868 a fine yellow line was noticed among the
lines of the prominence spectrum, and it was not unnaturally at first
assumed that it must be the yellow sodium line. But when careful
observations were afterwards made without hurry in full sunshine, and
accurate measures were obtained, it was at once remarked that this line
was not identical with either of the components of the double sodium
line. The new line was, no doubt, quite close to the sodium lines, but
slightly towards the green part of the spectrum. It was also noticed
there was not generally any corresponding line to be seen among the dark
lines in the ordinary solar spectrum, though a fine dark one has now and
then been detected, especially near a sun-spot. Sir Norman Lockyer and
Sir Edward Frankland showed that this was not produced by any known
terrestrial element. It was, therefore, supposed to be caused by some
hitherto unknown body to which the name of _helium_, or the sun element,
was given. About a dozen less conspicuous lines were gradually
identified in the spectrum of the prominences and the chromosphere,
which appeared also to be caused by this same mysterious helium. These
same remarkable lines have in more recent years also been detected in
the spectra of various stars.

This gas so long known in the heavens was at last detected on earth. In
April, 1895, Professor Ramsay, who with Lord Rayleigh had discovered the
new element argon, detected the presence of the famous helium line in
the spectrum of the gas liberated by heating the rare mineral known as
cleveite, found in Norway. Thus this element, the existence of which had
first been detected on the sun, ninety-three million miles away, has at
last been proved to be a terrestrial element also.

When it was announced by Runge that the principal line in the spectrum
of the terrestrial helium had a faint and very close companion line on
the red-ward side, some doubt seemed at first to be cast on the identity
of the new terrestrial gas discovered by Ramsay with the helium of the
chromosphere. The helium line of the latter had never been noticed to be
double. Subsequently, however, several observers provided with very
powerful instruments found that the famous line in the chromosphere
really had a very faint companion line. Thus the identity between the
celestial helium and the gas found on our globe was established in the
most remarkable manner. Certain circumstances have seemed to indicate
that the new gas might possibly be a mixture of two gases of different
densities, but up to the present this has not been proved to be the
case.

After it had been found possible to see the spectra of prominences
without waiting for an eclipse, Sir W. Huggins, in an observation on the
13th of February, 1869, successfully applied a method for viewing the
remarkable solar objects themselves instead of their mere spectra in
full sunshine. It is only necessary to adjust the spectroscope so that
one of the brightest lines--_e.g._ the red hydrogen line--is in the
middle of the field of the viewing telescope, and then to open wide the
slit of the spectroscope. A red image of the prominence will then be
displayed instead of the mere line. In fact, when the slit is opened
wide, the prisms produce a series of detached images of the prominence
under observation, one for each kind of light which the object emits.

We have spoken of the spectroscope as depending upon the action of glass
prisms. It remains to be added that in the highest class of
spectroscopes the prisms are replaced by ruled gratings from which the
light is reflected. The effect of the ruling is to produce by what is
known as diffraction the required breaking up of the beam of light into
its constituent parts.

[Illustration: PLATE IV.

SOLAR PROMINENCES.

(DRAWN BY TROUVELOT AT HARVARD COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, U.S., IN 1872.)]

Majestic indeed are the proportions of some of those mighty prominences
which leap from the luminous surface; yet they flicker, as do our
terrestrial flames, when we allow them time comparable to their gigantic
dimensions. Drawings of the same prominence made at intervals of a few
hours, or even less, often show great changes. The magnitude of the
displacements that have been noticed sometimes attains many thousands of
miles, and the actual velocity with which such masses move frequently
exceeds 100 miles a second. Still more violent are the convulsions when,
from the surface of the chromosphere, as from a mighty furnace, vast
incandescent masses of gas are projected upwards. Plate IV. gives a view
of a number of prominences as seen by Trouvelot at Harvard College
Observatory, Cambridge, U.S.A. Trouvelot has succeeded in exhibiting in
the different pictures the wondrous variety of aspect which these
objects assume. The dimensions of the prominences may be inferred from
the scale appended to the plate. The largest of those here shown is
fully 80,000 miles high; and trustworthy observers have recorded
prominences of an altitude even much greater. The rapid changes which
these objects sometimes undergo are well illustrated in the two sketches
on the left of the lowest line, which were drawn on April 27th, 1872.
These are both drawings of the same prominence taken at an interval no
greater than twenty minutes. This mighty flame is so vast that its
length is ten times as great as the diameter of the earth, yet in this
brief period it has completely changed its aspect; the upper part of the
flame has, indeed, broken away, and is now shown in that part of the
drawing between the two figures on the line above. The same plate also
shows various instances of the remarkable spike-like objects, taken,
however, at different times and at various parts of the sun. These
spikes attain altitudes not generally greater than 20,000 miles, though
sometimes they soar aloft to stupendous distances.

We may refer to one special object of this kind, the remarkable history
of which has been chronicled by Professor Young. On October 7th, 1880, a
prominence was seen, at about 10.30 a.m., on the south-east limb of the
sun. It was then about 40,000 miles high, and attracted no special
attention. Half an hour later a marvellous transformation had taken
place. During that brief interval the prominence became very brilliant
and doubled its length. For another hour the mighty flame still soared
upwards, until it attained the unprecedented elevation of 350,000
miles--a distance more than one-third the diameter of the great luminary
itself. At this climax the energy of the mighty outbreak seems to have
at last become exhausted: the flame broke up into fragments, and by
12.30--an interval of only two hours from the time when it was first
noticed--the phenomenon had completely faded away.

No doubt this particular eruption was exceptional in its vehemence, and
in the vastness of the changes of which it was an indication. The
velocity of upheaval must have been at least 200,000 miles an hour, or,
to put it in another form, more than fifty miles a second. This mighty
flame leaped from the sun with a velocity more than 100 times as great
as that of the swiftest bullet ever fired from a rifle.

The prominences may be generally divided into two classes. We have first
those which are comparatively quiescent, and in form somewhat resemble
the clouds which float in our earth's atmosphere. The second class of
prominences are best described as eruptive. They are, in fact, thrown up
from the chromosphere like gigantic jets of incandescent material. These
two classes of objects differ not only in appearance but also in the
gases of which they are composed. The cloud-like prominences consist
mainly of hydrogen, with helium and calcium, while many metals are
present in the eruptive discharges. The latter are never seen in the
neighbourhood of the sun's poles, but generally appear close to a
sun-spot, thus confirming the conclusion that the spots are associated
with violent disturbances on the surface of the sun. When a spot has
reached the limb of the sun it is frequently found to be surrounded by
prominences. It has even been possible in a few instances to detect
powerful gaseous eruptions in the neighbourhood of a spot, the
spectroscope rendering them visible against the background of the solar
surface just as the prominences are observed at the limb against the
background of the sky.

In order to photograph a prominence we have, of course, to substitute a
photographic plate for the observer's eye. Owing, however, to the
difficulty of preventing the feeble light from the prominence from being
overpowered by extraneous light, the photography of these bodies was not
very successful until Professor Hale, of Chicago, designed his
spectro-heliograph. In this instrument there is (in addition to the
usual slit through which the light falls on the prisms, or grating,) a
second slit immediately in front of the photographic plate through which
the light of a given wave-length can be permitted to pass to the
exclusion of all the rest. The light chosen for producing an image of
the prominences is that radiated in the remarkable "K line," due to
calcium. This lies at the extreme end of the violet. The light from that
part of the spectrum, though it is invisible to the eye, is much more
active photographically than the light from the red, yellow, or green
parts of the spectrum. The front slit is adjusted so that the K line
falls upon the second slit, and as the front slit is slowly swept by
clockwork over the whole of a prominence, the second slit keeps pace
with it by a mechanical contrivance.

If the image of the solar disc is hidden by a screen of exactly the
proper size, the slits may be made to sweep over the whole sun, thus
giving us at one exposure a picture of the chromospheric ring round the
sun's limb with its prominences. The screen may now be withdrawn, and
the slits may be made to sweep rapidly over the disc itself. They reveal
the existence of glowing calcium vapours in many parts of the surface of
the sun. Thus we get a striking picture of the sun as drawn by this
particular light. In this manner Professor Hale confirmed the
observation made long before by Professor Young, that the spectra of
faculæ always show the two great calcium bands.

The velocity with which a prominence shoots upward from the sun's limb
can, of course, be measured directly by observations of the ordinary
kind with a micrometer. The spectroscope, however, enables us to
estimate the speed with which disturbances at the surface of the sun
travel in the direction towards the earth or from the earth. We can
measure this speed by watching the peculiar behaviour of the spectral
lines representing the rapidly moving masses. This opens up a remarkable
line of investigation with important applications in many branches of
astronomy.

It is, of course, now generally understood that the sensation of light
is caused by waves or undulations which impinge on the retina of the
eye after having been transmitted through that medium which we call the
ether. To the different colours correspond different wave-lengths--that
is to say, different distances between two successive waves. A beam of
white light is formed by the union of innumerable different waves whose
lengths have almost every possible value lying between certain limits.
The wave-length of red light is such that there are 33,000 waves in an
inch, while that of violet light is but little more than half that of
red light. The position of a line in the spectrum depends solely on the
wave-length of the light to which it is due. Suppose that the source of
light is approaching directly towards the observer; obviously the waves
follow each other more closely than if the source were at rest, and the
number of undulations which his eye receives in a second must be
proportionately increased. Thus the distance between two successive
ether waves will be very slightly diminished. A well-known phenomenon of
a similar character is the change of pitch of the whistle of a
locomotive engine as it rushes past. This is particularly noticeable if
the observer happens to be in a train which is moving rapidly in the
opposite direction. In the case of sound, of course, the vibrations or
waves take place in the air and not in the ether. But the effect of
motion to or from the observer is strictly analogous in the two cases.
As, however, light travels 186,000 miles a second, the source of light
will also have to travel with a very high velocity in order to produce
even the smallest perceptible change in the position of a spectral line.

We have already seen that enormously high velocities are by no means
uncommon in some of these mighty disturbances on the sun; accordingly,
when we examine the spectrum of a sun-spot, we often see that some of
the lines are shifted a little towards one end of the spectrum and
sometimes towards the other, while in other cases the lines are seen to
be distorted or twisted in the most fantastic manner, indicating very
violent local commotions. If the spot happens to be near the centre of
the sun's disc, the gases must be shooting upwards or downwards to
produce these changes in the lines. The velocities indicated in
observations of this class sometimes amount to as much as two or even
three hundred miles per second. We find it difficult to conceive the
enormous internal pressures which are required to impel such mighty
masses of gases aloft from the photosphere with speeds so terrific, or
the conditions which bring about the downrush of such gigantic masses of
vapour from above. In the spectra of the prominences on the sun's limb
also we often see the bright lines bent or shifted to one side. In such
cases what we witness is evidently caused by movements along the surface
of the chromosphere, conveying materials towards us or away from us.

An interesting application of this beautiful method of measuring the
speed of moving bodies has been made in various attempts to determine
the period of rotation of the sun spectroscopically. As the sun turns
round on its axis, a point on the eastern limb is moving towards the
observer and a point on the western limb is moving away from him. In
each case the velocity is a little over a mile per second. At the
eastern limb the lines in the solar spectrum are very slightly shifted
towards the violet end of the spectrum, while the lines in the spectrum
of the western limb are equally shifted towards the red end. By an
ingenious optical contrivance it is possible to place the spectra from
the two limbs side by side, which doubles the apparent displacement, and
thus makes it much more easy to measure. Even with this contrivance the
visual quantities to be measured remain exceedingly minute. All the
parts of the instrument have to be most accurately adjusted, and the
observations are correspondingly delicate. They have been attempted by
various observers. Among the most successful investigations of this kind
we may mention that of the Swedish astronomer, Dunér, who, by pointing
his instrument to a number of places on the limb, found values in good
agreement with the peculiar law of rotation which has been deduced from
the motion of sun-spots. This result is specially interesting, as it
shows that the atmospheric layers, in which that absorption takes place
which produces the dark lines in the spectrum, shares in the motion of
the photosphere at the same latitude.

[Illustration: Fig. 20.--View of the Corona (and a Comet) in a Total
Eclipse.]

[Illustration: PLATE V.

TOTAL SOLAR ECLIPSE, JULY 29TH, 1878.

THE CORONA FROM THE PHOTOGRAPHS.

(HARKNESS.)]

We have yet to mention one other striking phenomenon which is among the
chief attractions to observers of total eclipses, and which it has
hitherto not been found possible to see in full daylight. This is the
corona or aureole of light which is suddenly seen to surround the sun in
an eclipse when the moon has completely covered the last remaining
crescent of the sun. A general idea of the appearance of the corona is
given in Fig. 20, and we further present in Plate V. the drawing of the
corona made by Professor Harkness from a comparison of a large number of
photographs obtained at different places in the United States during the
total eclipse of July 29th, 1878. In Fig. 21 we are permitted by the
kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Maunder to reproduce the remarkable photograph
of the corona which they obtained in India during the eclipse of January
22nd, 1898.

[Illustration: Fig. 21.--View of Corona during the Eclipse of Jan. 22nd,
1898 (_Reproduced by kind permission of Mr. and Mrs. Maunder and of the
proprietors of "Knowledge._")]

The part of the corona nearest the sun is very bright, though not so
brilliant as the prominences, which (as Professor Young says) blaze
through it like carbuncles. This inner portion is generally of fairly
regular outline, forming a white ring about a tenth part of the solar
diameter in width. The outer parts of the corona are usually very
irregular and very extensive. They are often interrupted by narrow
"rifts," or narrow dark bands, which reach from the limb of the sun
through the entire corona. On the other hand, there are also sometimes
narrow bright streamers, inclined at various angles to the limb of the
sun and not seldom curved. In the eclipses of 1867, 1878, and 1889, all
of which occurred at periods of sun-spot minimum, the corona showed long
and faint streamers nearly in the direction of the sun's equator, and
short but distinct brushes of light near the poles. In the eclipses of
1870, 1882, and 1893, near sun-spot maxima, the corona was more
regularly circular, and chiefly developed over the spot zones. We have
here another proof (if one were necessary) of the intimate connection
between the periodicity of the spots and the development of all other
solar phenomena.

In the spectrum of the corona there is a mysterious line in the green,
as to the origin of which nothing is at present certainly known. It is
best seen during eclipses occurring near the time of sun-spot maximum.
It is presented in the ordinary solar spectrum as a very thin, dark
line, which generally remains undisturbed even when lines of hydrogen
and other substances are twisted and distorted by the violent rush of
disturbed elements. The line is always present among the bright lines of
the chromosphere spectrum. In addition to it the corona shows a few
other bright lines, belonging, no doubt, to the same unknown element
("coronium"), and also a faint continuous spectrum, in which even a few
of the more prominent dark lines of the solar spectrum have been
sometimes detected. This shows that in addition to glowing gas
(represented by the bright lines) the corona also contains a great deal
of matter like dust, or fog, the minute particles of which are capable
of reflecting the sunlight and thereby producing a feeble continuous
spectrum. This matter seems to form the principal constituent of the
long coronal rays and streamers, as the latter are not visible in the
detached images of the corona which appear instead of the bright lines
when the corona is viewed, or photographed, during an eclipse, in a
spectroscope without a slit. If the long rays were composed of the gas
or gases which constitute the inner corona, it is evident that they
ought to appear in these detached images. As to the nature of the forces
which are continually engaged in shooting out these enormously long
streamers, we have at present but little information. It is, however,
certain that the extensive atmospheric envelope round the sun, which
shows itself as the inner corona, must be extremely attenuated. Comets
have on several occasions been known to rush through this coronal
atmosphere without evincing the slightest appreciable diminution in
their speed from the resistance to which they were exposed.

We have accumulated by observation a great number of facts concerning
the sun, but when we try to draw from these facts conclusions as to the
physical constitution of that great body, it cannot be denied that the
difficulties seem to be very great indeed. We find that the best
authorities differ considerably in the opinions they entertain as to its
nature. We shall here set forth the principal conclusions as to which
there is little or no controversy.

We shall see in a following chapter that astronomers have been able to
determine the relative densities of the bodies in the solar system; in
other words, they have found the relation between the quantities of
matter contained in an equally large volume of each. It has thus been
ascertained that the average density of the sun is about a quarter that
of the earth. If we compare the weight of the sun with that of an
equally great globe of water, we find that the luminary would be barely
one and a half times as heavy as the water. Of course, the actual mass
of the sun is very enormous; it is no less than 330,000 times as great
as that of the earth. The solar material itself is, however, relatively
light, so that the sun is four times as big as it would have to be if,
while its weight remained the same, its density equalled that of the
earth. Bearing in mind this lightness of the sun, and also the
exceedingly high temperature which we know to prevail there, no other
conclusion seems possible than that the body of the sun must be in a
gaseous state. The conditions under which such gases exist in the sun
are, no doubt, altogether different from those with which we are
acquainted on the earth. At the surface of the sun the force of gravity
is more than twenty-seven times as great as it is on the earth. A person
who on the earth could just lift twenty-seven equal pieces of metal
would, if he were transferred to the sun, only be able to lift one of
the pieces at a time. The pressure of the gases below the surface must
therefore be very great, and it might be supposed that they would become
liquefied in consequence. It was, however, discovered by Andrews that so
long as a gas is kept at a temperature higher than a certain point,
known as the "critical temperature" (which is different for different
gases), the gas will not be turned into a liquid however great be the
pressure to which it is submitted. The temperature on the sun cannot be
lower than the critical temperatures of the gases there existing; so it
would seem that even the enormous pressure can hardly reduce the gases
in the great luminary to the liquid form.

Of the interior of the sun we can, of course, expect to learn little or
nothing. What we observe is the surface-layer, the so-called
photosphere, in which the cold of space produces the condensation of the
gases into those luminous clouds which we see in our drawings and
photographs as "rice grains" or "willow leaves." It has been suggested
by Dr. Johnstone Stoney (and afterwards by Professor Hastings, of
Baltimore) that these luminous clouds are mainly composed of carbon with
those of the related elements silicon and boron, the boiling points of
which are much higher than those of other elements which might be
considered likely to form the photospheric clouds. The low atomic weight
of carbon must also have the effect of giving the molecules of this
element a very high velocity, and thereby enabling them to work their
way into the upper regions, where the temperature has so fallen that the
vapour becomes chilled into cloud. A necessary consequence of the rapid
cooling of these clouds, and the consequent radiation of heat on a
large scale, would be the formation of what we may perhaps describe as
smoke, which settles by degrees through the intervals between the clouds
(making these intervals appear darker) until it is again volatilised on
reaching a level of greater heat below the clouds. This same smoke is
probably the cause of the well-known fact that the solar limb is
considerably fainter than the middle of the disc. This seems to arise
from the greater absorption caused by the longer distance which a ray of
light from a point near the limb has to travel through this layer of
smoke before reaching the earth. It is shown that this absorption cannot
be attributed to a gaseous atmosphere, since this would have the effect
of producing more dark absorption lines in the spectrum. There would
thus be a marked difference between the solar spectrum from a part near
the middle of the disc and the spectrum from a part near the limb. This,
however, we do not find to be the case.

With regard to the nature of sun-spots, the idea first suggested by
Secchi and Lockyer, that they represent down rushes of cooler vapours
into the photosphere (or to its surface), seems on the whole to accord
best with the observed phenomena. We have already mentioned that the
spots are generally accompanied by faculæ and eruptive prominences in
their immediate neighbourhood, but whether these eruptions are caused by
the downfall of the vapour which makes the photospheric matter "splash
up" in the vicinity, or whether the eruptions come first, and by
diminishing the upward pressure from below form a "sink," into which
overlying cooler vapour descends, are problems as to which opinions are
still much divided.

A remarkable appendage to the sun, which extends to a distance very much
greater than that of the corona, produces the phenomenon of the zodiacal
light. A pearly glow is sometimes seen in the spring to spread over a
part of the sky in the vicinity of the point where the sun has
disappeared after sunset. The same spectacle may also be witnessed
before sunrise in the autumn, and it would seem as if the material
producing the zodiacal light, whatever it may be, had a lens-shaped
form with the sun in the centre. The nature of this object is still a
matter of uncertainty, but it is probably composed of a kind of dust, as
the faint spectrum it affords is of a continuous type. A view of the
zodiacal light is shown in Fig. 22.

In all directions the sun pours forth, with the most prodigal
liberality, its torrents of light and of heat. The earth can only grasp
the merest fraction, less than the 2,000,000,000th part of the whole.
Our fellow planets and the moon also intercept a trifle; but how small
is the portion of the mighty flood which they can utilise! The sip that
a flying swallow takes from a river is as far from exhausting the water
in the river as are the planets from using all the heat which streams
from the sun.

The sun's gracious beams supply the magic power that enables the corn to
grow and ripen. It is the heat of the sun which raises water from the
ocean in the form of vapour, and then sends down that vapour as rain to
refresh the earth and to fill the rivers which bear our ships down to
the ocean. It is the heat of the sun beating on the large continents
which gives rise to the breezes and winds that waft our vessels across
the deep; and when on a winter's evening we draw around the fire and
feel its invigorating rays, we are only enjoying sunbeams which shone on
the earth countless ages ago. The heat in those ancient sunbeams
developed the mighty vegetation of the coal period, and in the form of
coal that heat has slumbered for millions of years, till we now call it
again into activity. It is the power of the sun stored up in coal that
urges on our steam-engines. It is the light of the sun stored up in coal
that beams from every gaslight in our cities.

For the power to live and move, for the plenty with which we are
surrounded, for the beauty with which nature is adorned, we are
immediately indebted to one body in the countless hosts of space, and
that body is the sun.

[Illustration: Fig. 22.--The Zodiacal Light in 1874.]




CHAPTER III.

THE MOON.


     The Moon and the Tides--The Use of the Moon in Navigation--The
     Changes of the Moon--The Moon and the Poets--Whence the Light of
     the Moon?--Sizes of the Earth and the Moon--Weight of the
     Moon--Changes in Apparent Size--Variations in its
     Distance--Influence of the Earth on the Moon--The Path of the
     Moon--Explanation of the Moon's Phases--Lunar Eclipses--Eclipses of
     the Sun, how produced--Visibility of the Moon in a Total
     Eclipse--How Eclipses are Predicted--Uses of the Moon in finding
     Longitude--The Moon not connected with the Weather--Topography of
     the Moon--Nasmyth's Drawing of Triesnecker--Volcanoes on the
     Moon--Normal Lunar Crater--Plato--The Shadows of Lunar
     Mountains--The Micrometer--Lunar Heights--Former Activity on the
     Moon--Nasmyth's View of the Formation of Craters--Gravitation on
     the Moon--Varied Sizes of the Lunar Craters--Other Features of the
     Moon--Is there Life on the Moon?--Absence of Water and of Air--Dr.
     Stoney's Theory--Explanation of the Rugged Character of Lunar
     Scenery--Possibility of Life on Distant Bodies in Space.

If the moon were suddenly struck out of existence, we should be
immediately apprised of the fact by a wail from every seaport in the
kingdom. From London and from Liverpool we should hear the same
story--the rise and fall of the tide had almost ceased. The ships in
dock could not get out; the ships outside could not get in; and the
maritime commerce of the world would be thrown into dire confusion.

The moon is the principal agent in causing the daily ebb and flow of the
tide, and this is the most important work which our satellite has to do.
The fleets of fishing boats around the coasts time their daily movements
by the tide, and are largely indebted to the moon for bringing them in
and out of harbour. Experienced sailors assure us that the tides are of
the utmost service to navigation. The question as to how the moon causes
the tides is postponed to a future chapter, in which we shall also
sketch the marvellous part which the tides seem to have played in the
early history of our earth.

Who is there that has not watched, with admiration, the beautiful series
of changes through which the moon passes every month? We first see her
as an exquisite crescent of pale light in the western sky after sunset.
If the night is fine, the rest of the moon is visible inside the
crescent, being faintly illumined by light reflected from our own earth.
Night after night she moves further and further to the east, until she
becomes full, and rises about the same time that the sun sets. From the
time of the full the disc of light begins to diminish until the last
quarter is reached. Then it is that the moon is seen high in the heavens
in the morning. As the days pass by, the crescent shape is again
assumed. The crescent wanes thinner and thinner as the satellite draws
closer to the sun. Finally she becomes lost in the overpowering light of
the sun, again to emerge as the new moon, and again to go through the
same cycle of changes.

The brilliance of the moon arises solely from the light of the sun,
which falls on the not self-luminous substance of the moon. Out of the
vast flood of light which the sun pours forth with such prodigality into
space the dark body of the moon intercepts a little, and of that little
it reflects a small fraction to illuminate the earth. The moon sheds so
much light, and seems so bright, that it is often difficult at night to
remember that the moon has no light except what falls on it from the
sun. Nevertheless, the actual surface of the brightest full moon is
perhaps not much brighter than the streets of London on a clear sunshiny
day. A very simple observation will suffice to show that the moon's
light is only sunlight. Look some morning at the moon in daylight, and
compare the moon with the clouds. The brightness of the moon and of the
clouds are directly comparable, and then it can be readily comprehended
how the sun which illuminates the clouds has also illumined the moon. An
attempt has been made to form a comparative estimate of the brightness
of the sun and the full moon. If 600,000 full moons were shining at
once, their collective brilliancy would equal that of the sun.

The beautiful crescent moon has furnished a theme for many a poet.
Indeed, if we may venture to say so, it would seem that some poets have
forgotten that the moon is not to be seen every night. A poetical
description of evening is almost certain to be associated with the
appearance of the moon in some phase or other. We may cite one notable
instance in which a poet, describing an historical event, has enshrined
in exquisite verse a statement which cannot be correct. Every child who
speaks our language has been taught that the burial of Sir John Moore
took place

  "By the struggling moonbeams' misty light."

There is an appearance of detail in this statement which wears the garb
of truth. We are not inclined to doubt that the night was misty, nor as
to whether the moonbeams had to struggle into visibility; the question
at issue is a much more fundamental one. We do not know who was the
first to raise the point as to whether any moon shone on that memorable
event at all or not; but the question having been raised, the Nautical
Almanac immediately supplies an answer. From it we learn in language,
whose truthfulness constitutes its only claim to be poetry, that the
moon was new at one o'clock in the morning of the day of the battle of
Corunna (16th January, 1809). The ballad evidently implies that the
funeral took place on the night following the battle. We are therefore
assured that the moon can hardly have been a day old when the hero was
consigned to his grave. But the moon in such a case is practically
invisible, and yields no appreciable moonbeams at all, misty or
otherwise. Indeed, if the funeral took place at the "dead of night," as
the poet asserts, then the moon must have been far below the horizon at
the time.[6]

In alluding to this and similar instances, Mr. Nasmyth gives a word of
advice to authors or to artists who desire to bring the moon on a scene
without knowing as a matter of fact that our satellite was actually
present. He recommends them to follow the example of Bottom in _A
Midsummer's Night's Dream_, and consult "a calendar, a calendar! Look in
the almanac; find out moonshine, find out moonshine!"

[Illustration: Fig. 23.--Comparative Sizes of the Earth and the Moon.]

Among the countless host of celestial bodies--the sun, the moon, the
planets, and the stars--our satellite enjoys one special claim on our
attention. The moon is our nearest permanent neighbour. It is just
possible that a comet may occasionally approach the earth more closely
than the moon but with this exception the other celestial bodies are all
many hundreds or thousands, or even many millions, of times further from
us than the moon.

It is also to be observed that the moon is one of the smallest visible
objects which the heavens contain. Every one of the thousands of stars
that can be seen with the unaided eye is enormously larger than our
satellite. The brilliance and apparent vast proportions of the moon
arise from the fact that it is only 240,000 miles away, which is a
distance almost immeasurably small when compared with the distances
between the earth and the stars.

Fig. 23 exhibits the relative sizes of the earth and its attendant. The
small globe shows the moon, while the larger globe represents the earth.
When we measure the actual diameters of the two globes, we find that of
the earth to be 7,918 miles and of the moon 2,160 miles, so that the
diameter of the earth is nearly four times greater than the diameter of
the moon. If the earth were cut into fifty pieces, all equally large,
then one of these pieces rolled into a globe would equal the size of the
moon. The superficial extent of the moon is equal to about one
thirteenth part of the surface of the earth. The hemisphere our
neighbour turns towards us exhibits an area equal to about one
twenty-seventh part of the area of the earth. This, to speak
approximately, is about double the actual extent of the continent of
Europe. The average materials of the earth are, however, much heavier
than those contained in the moon. It would take more than eighty globes,
each as ponderous as the moon, to weigh down the earth.

Amid the changes which the moon presents to us, one obvious fact stands
prominently forth. Whether our satellite be new or full, at first
quarter or at last, whether it be high in the heavens or low near the
horizon, whether it be in process of eclipse by the sun, or whether the
sun himself is being eclipsed by the moon, the apparent size of the
latter is nearly constant. We can express the matter numerically. A
globe one foot in diameter, at a distance of 111 feet from the observer,
would under ordinary circumstances be just sufficient to hide the disc
of the moon; occasionally, however, the globe would have to be brought
in to a distance of only 103 feet, or occasionally it might have to be
moved out to so much as 118 feet, if the moon is to be exactly hidden.
It is unusual for the moon to approach either of its extreme limits of
position, so that the distance from the eye at which the globe must be
situated so as to exactly cover the moon is usually more than 105 feet,
and less than 117 feet. These fluctuations in the apparent size of our
satellite are contained within such narrow limits that in the first
glance at the subject they may be overlooked. It will be easily seen
that the apparent size of the moon must be connected with its real
distance from the earth. Suppose, for the sake of illustration, that the
moon were to recede into space, its size would seem to dwindle, and long
ere it had reached the distance of even the very nearest of the other
celestial bodies it would have shrunk into insignificance. On the other
hand, if the moon were to come nearer to the earth, its apparent size
would gradually increase until, when close to our globe, it would seem
like a mighty continent stretching over the sky. We find that the
apparent size of the moon is nearly constant, and hence we infer that
the average distance of the same body is also nearly constant. The
average value of that distance is 239,000 miles. In rare circumstances
it may approach to a distance but little more than 221,000 miles, or
recede to a distance hardly less than 253,000 miles, but the ordinary
fluctuations do not exceed more than about 13,000 miles on either side
of its mean value.

From the moon's incessant changes we perceive that she is in constant
motion, and we now further see that whatever these movements may be, the
earth and the moon must at present remain at _nearly_ the same distance
apart. If we further add that the path pursued by the moon around the
heavens lies nearly in a plane, then we are forced to the conclusion
that our satellite must be revolving in a nearly circular path around
the earth at the centre. It can, indeed, be shown that the constant
distance of the two bodies involves as a necessary condition the
revolution of the moon around the earth. The attraction between the moon
and the earth tends to bring the two bodies together. The only way by
which such a catastrophe can be permanently avoided is by making the
satellite move as we actually find it to do. The attraction between the
earth and the moon still exists, but its effect is not then shown in
bringing the moon in towards the earth. The attraction has now to exert
its whole power in restraining the moon in its circular path; were the
attraction to cease, the moon would start off in a straight line, and
recede never to return.

[Illustration: Fig. 24.--The Moon's Path around the Sun.]

The fact of the moon's revolution around the earth is easily
demonstrated by observations of the stars. The rising and setting of our
satellite is, of course, due to the rotation of the earth, and this
apparent diurnal movement the moon possesses in common with the sun and
with the stars. It will, however, be noticed that the moon is
continually changing its place among the stars. Even in the course of a
single night the displacement will be conspicuous to a careful observer
without the aid of a telescope. The moon completes each revolution
around the earth in a period of 27·3 days.

[Illustration: Fig. 25.--The Phases of the Moon.]

In Fig. 24 we have a view of the relative positions of the earth, the
sun, and the moon, but it is to be observed that, for the convenience of
illustration, we have been obliged to represent the orbit of the moon on
a much larger scale than it ought to be in comparison with the distance
of the sun. That half of the moon which is turned towards the sun is
brilliantly illuminated, and, according as we see more or less of that
brilliant half, we say that the moon is more or less full, the several
"phases" being visible in the succession shown by the numbers in Fig.
25. A beginner sometimes finds considerable difficulty in understanding
how the light on the full moon at night can have been derived from the
sun. "Is not," he will say, "the earth in the way? and must it not
intercept the sunlight from every object on the other side of the earth
to the sun?" A study of Fig. 24 will explain the difficulty. The plane
in which the moon revolves does not coincide with the plane in which the
earth revolves around the sun. The line in which the plane of the
earth's motion is intersected by that of the moon divides the moon's
path into two semicircles. We must imagine the moon's path to be tilted
a little, so that the upper semicircle is somewhat above the plane of
the paper, and the other semicircle below. It thus follows that when the
moon is in the position marked full, under the circumstances shown in
the figure, the moon will be just above the line joining the earth and
the sun; the sunlight will thus pass over the earth to the moon, and the
moon will be illuminated. At new moon, the moon will be under the line
joining the earth and the sun.

As the relative positions of the earth and the sun are changing, it
happens twice in each revolution that the sun comes into the position of
the line of intersection of the two planes. If this occurs at the time
of full moon, the earth lies directly between the moon and the sun; the
moon is thus plunged into the shadow of the earth, the light from the
sun is intercepted, and we say that the moon is eclipsed. The moon
sometimes only partially enters the earth's shadow, in which case the
eclipse is a partial one. When, on the other hand, the sun is situated
on the line of intersection at the time of new moon, the moon lies
directly between the earth and the sun, and the dark body of the moon
will then cut off the sunlight from the earth, producing a solar
eclipse. Usually only a part of the sun is thus obscured, forming the
well-known partial eclipse; if, however, the moon pass centrally over
the sun, then we must have one or other of two very remarkable kinds of
eclipse. Sometimes the moon entirely blots out the sun, and thus is
produced the sublime spectacle of a total eclipse, which tells us so
much as to the nature of the sun, and to which we have already referred
in the last chapter. Even when the moon is placed centrally over the
sun, a thin rim of sunlight is occasionally seen round the margin of the
moon. We then have what is known as an annular eclipse.

It is remarkable that the moon is sometimes able to hide the sun
completely, while on other occasions it fails to do so. It happens that
the average apparent size of the moon is nearly equal to the average
apparent size of the sun, but, owing to the fluctuations in their
distances, the actual apparent sizes of both bodies undergo certain
changes. On certain occasions the apparent size of the moon is greater
than that of the sun. In this case a central passage produces a total
eclipse; but it may also happen that the apparent size of the sun
exceeds that of the moon, in which case a central passage can only
produce an annular eclipse.

[Illustration: Fig. 26.--Form of the Earth's Shadow, showing the
Penumbra, or partially shaded region. Within the Penumbra, the Moon is
visible; in the Shadow it is nearly invisible.]

There are hardly any more interesting celestial phenomena than the
different descriptions of eclipses. The almanac will always give timely
notice of the occurrence, and the more striking features can be observed
without a telescope. In an eclipse of the moon (Fig. 26) it is
interesting to note the moment when the black shadow is first detected,
to watch its gradual encroachment over the bright surface of the moon,
to follow it, in case the eclipse is total, until there is only a thin
crescent of moonlight left, and to watch the final extinction of that
crescent when the whole moon is plunged into the shadow. But now a
spectacle of great interest and beauty is often manifested; for though
the moon is so hidden behind the earth that not a single direct ray of
the sunlight could reach its surface, yet we often find that the moon
remains visible, and, indeed, actually glows with a copper-coloured hue
bright enough to permit several of the markings on the surface to be
discerned.

This illumination of the moon even in the depth of a total eclipse is
due to the sunbeams which have just grazed the edge of the earth. In
doing so they have become bent by the refraction of the atmosphere, and
have thus been turned inwards into the shadow. Such beams have passed
through a prodigious thickness of the earth's atmosphere, and in this
long journey through hundreds of miles of air they have become tinged
with a ruddy or copper-like hue. Nor is this property of our atmosphere
an unfamiliar one. The sun both at sunrise and at sunset glows with a
light which is much more ruddy than the beams it dispenses at noonday.
But at sunset or at sunrise the rays which reach our eyes have much more
of our atmosphere to penetrate than they have at noon, and accordingly
the atmosphere imparts to them that ruddy colour so characteristic and
often so lovely. If the spectrum of the sun when close to the horizon is
examined it is seen to be filled with numerous dark lines and bands
situated chiefly towards the blue and violet end. These are caused by
the increased absorption which the light suffers in the atmosphere, and
give rise to the preponderating red light on the sun under such
conditions. In the case of the eclipsed moon, the sunbeams have to take
an atmospheric journey more than double as long as that at sunrise or
sunset, and hence the ruddy glow of the eclipsed moon may be accounted
for.

The almanacs give the full particulars of each eclipse that happens in
the corresponding year. These predictions are reliable, because
astronomers have been carefully observing the moon for ages, and have
learned from these observations not only how the moon moves at present,
but also how it will move for ages to come. The actual calculations are
so complicated that we cannot here discuss them. There is, however, one
leading principle about eclipses which is so simple that we must refer
to it. The eclipses occurring this year have no very obvious relation
to the eclipses that occurred last year, or to those that will occur
next year. Yet, when we take a more extended view of the sequence of
these phenomena, a very definite principle becomes manifest. If we
observe all the eclipses in a period of eighteen years, or nineteen
years, then we can predict, with at least an approximation to the truth,
all the future eclipses for many years. It is only necessary to
recollect that in 6,585-1/3 days after one eclipse a nearly similar
eclipse follows. For instance, a beautiful eclipse of the moon occurred
on the 5th of December, 1881. If we count back 6,585 days from that
date, or, that is, eighteen years and eleven days, we come to November
24th, 1863, and a similar eclipse of the moon took place then. Again,
there were four eclipses in the year 1881. If we add 6,585-1/3 days to
the date of each eclipse, it will give the dates of all the four
eclipses in the year 1899. It was this rule which enabled the ancient
astronomers to predict the recurrence of eclipses, at a time when the
motions of the moon were not understood nearly so well as they now are.

During a long voyage, and perhaps in critical circumstances, the moon
will often render invaluable information to the sailor. To navigate a
ship, suppose from Liverpool to China, the captain must frequently
determine the precise position which his ship then occupies. If he could
not do this, he would never find his way across the trackless ocean.
Observations of the sun give him his latitude and tell him his local
time, but the captain further requires to know the Greenwich time before
he can place his finger at a point of the chart and say, "My ship is
here." To ascertain the Greenwich time the ship carries a chronometer
which has been carefully rated before starting, and, as a precaution,
two or three chronometers are usually provided to guard against the risk
of error. An unknown error of a minute in the chronometer might perhaps
lead the vessel fifteen miles from its proper course.

[Illustration: PLATE VI.

CHART OF THE MOON'S SURFACE.]

[Illustration: Fig. 27.--Key to Chart of the Moon (Plate VI.).]

It is important to have the means of testing the chronometers during the
progress of the voyage; and it would be a great convenience if every
captain, when he wished, could actually consult some infallible standard
of Greenwich time. We want, in fact, a Greenwich clock which may be
visible over the whole globe. There is such a clock; and, like any other
clock, it has a face on which certain marks are made, and a hand which
travels round that face. The great clock at Westminster shrinks into
insignificance when compared with the mighty clock which the captain
uses for setting his chronometer. The face of this stupendous dial is
the face of the heavens. The numbers engraved on the face of a clock are
replaced by the twinkling stars; while the hand which moves over the
dial is the beautiful moon herself. When the captain desires to test
his chronometer, he measures the distance of the moon from a
neighbouring star. For example, he may see that the moon is three
degrees from the star Regulus. In the Nautical Almanac he finds the
Greenwich time at which the moon was three degrees from Regulus.
Comparing this with the indications of the chronometer, he finds the
required correction.

There is one widely-credited myth about the moon which must be regarded
as devoid of foundation. The idea that our satellite and the weather
bear some relation has no doubt been entertained by high authority, and
appears to be an article in the belief of many an excellent mariner.
Careful comparison between the state of the weather and the phases of
the moon has, however, quite discredited the notion that any connection
of the kind does really exist.

We often notice large blank spaces on maps of Africa and of Australia
which indicate our ignorance of parts of the interior of those great
continents. We can find no such blank spaces in the map of the moon.
Astronomers know the surface of the moon better than geographers know
the interior of Africa. Every spot on the face of the moon which is as
large as an English parish has been mapped, and all the more important
objects have been named.

A general map of the moon is shown in Plate VI. It has been based upon
drawings made with small telescopes, and it gives an entire view of that
side of our satellite which is presented towards us. The moon is shown
as it appears in an astronomical telescope, which inverts everything, so
that the south is at the top and the north at the bottom (to show
objects upright a telescope requires an additional pair of lenses in the
eye-piece, and as this diminishes the amount of light reaching the eye
they are dispensed with in astronomical telescopes). We can see on the
map some of the characteristic features of lunar scenery. Those dark
regions so conspicuous in the ordinary full moon are easily recognised
on the map. They were thought to be seas by astronomers before the days
of telescopes, and indeed the name "Mare" is still retained, though it
is obvious that they contain no water at present. The map also shows
certain ridges or elevated portions, and when we apply measurement to
these objects we learn that they must be mighty mountain ranges. But the
most striking features on the moon are those ring-like objects which are
scattered over the surface in profusion. These are known as the lunar
craters.

To facilitate reference to the chief points of interest we have arranged
an index map (Fig. 27) which will give a clue to the names of the
several objects depicted upon the plate. The so-called seas are
represented by capital letters; so that A is the Mare Crisium, and H the
Oceanus Procellarum. The ranges of mountains are indicated by small
letters; thus a on the index is the site of the so-called Caucasus
mountains, and similarly the Apennines are denoted by _c_. The numerous
craters are distinguished by numbers; for example, the feature on the
map corresponding to 20 on the index is the crater designated Ptolemy.

  A. Mare Crisium.
  B. Mare Foecunditatis.
  C. Mare Tranquillitatis.
  D. Mare Serenitatis.
  E. Mare Imbrium.
  F. Sinus Iridum.
  G. Mare Vaporum.
  H. Oceanus Procellarum.
  I. Mare Humorum.
  J. Mare Nubium.
  K. Mare Nectaris.

  _a._ Caucasus.
  _b._ Alps.
  _c._ Apennines.
  _d._ Carpathians.
  _f._ Cordilleras & D'Alembert mountains.
  _g._ Rook mountains.
  _h._ Doerfel mountains.
  _i._ Leibnitz mountains.

  1. Posidonius.
  2. Linné.
  3. Aristotle.
  4. Great Valley of the Alps.
  5. Aristillus.
  6. Autolycus.
  7. Archimedes.
  8. Plato.
  9. Eratosthenes.
  10. Copernicus.
  11. Kepler.
  12. Aristarchus.
  13. Grimaldi.
  14. Gassendi.
  15. Schickard.
  16. Wargentin.
  17. Clavius.
  18. Tycho.
  19. Alphonsus.
  20. Ptolemy.
  21. Catharina.
  22. Cyrillus.
  23. Theophilus.
  24. Petavius.
  25. Hyginus.
  26. Triesnecker.

In every geographical atlas there is a map showing the two hemispheres
of the earth, the eastern and the western. In the case of the moon we
can only give a map of one hemisphere, for the simple reason that the
moon always turns the same side towards us, and accordingly we never get
a view of the other side. This is caused by the interesting circumstance
that the moon takes exactly the same time to turn once round its own
axis as it takes to go once round the earth. The rotation is, however,
performed with uniform speed, while the moon does not move in its orbit
with a perfectly uniform velocity (_see_ Chapter IV.). The consequence
is that we now get a slight glimpse round the east limb, and now a
similar glimpse round the west limb, as if the moon were shaking its
head very gently at us. But it is only an insignificant margin of the
far side of the moon which this _libration_ permits us to examine.

Lunar objects are well suited for observation when the sunlight falls
upon them in such a manner as to exhibit strongly contrasted lights and
shadows. It is impossible to observe the moon satisfactorily when it is
full, for then no conspicuous shadows are cast. The most opportune
moment for seeing any particular lunar object is when it lies just at
the illuminated side of the boundary between light and shade, for then
the features are brought out with exquisite distinctness.

Plate VII.[7] gives an illustration of lunar scenery, the object
represented being known to astronomers by the name of Triesnecker. The
district included is only a very small fraction of the entire surface of
the moon, yet the actual area is very considerable, embracing as it does
many hundreds of square miles. We see in it various ranges of lunar
mountains, while the central object in the picture is one of those
remarkable lunar craters which we meet with so frequently in every lunar
landscape. This crater is about twenty miles in diameter, and it has a
lofty mountain in the centre, the peak of which is just illuminated by
the rising sun in that phase of our satellite which is represented in
the picture.

A typical view of a lunar crater is shown in Plate VIII. This is, no
doubt, a somewhat imaginary sketch. The point of view from which the
artist is supposed to have taken the picture is one quite unattainable
by terrestrial astronomers, yet there can be little doubt that it is a
fair representation of objects on the moon. We should, however,
recollect the scale on which it is drawn. The vast crater must be many
miles across, and the mountain at its centre must be thousands of feet
high. The telescope will, even at its best, only show the moon as well
as we could see it with the unaided eye if it were 250 miles away
instead of being 240,000. We must not, therefore, expect to see any
details on the moon even with the finest telescopes, unless they were
coarse enough to be visible at a distance of 250 miles. England from
such a point of view would only show London as a coloured spot, in
contrast with the general surface of the country.

We return, however, from a somewhat fancy sketch to a more prosaic
examination of what the telescope does actually reveal. Plate IX.
represents the large crater Plato, so well known to everyone who uses a
telescope. The floor of this remarkable object is nearly flat, and the
central mountain, so often seen in other craters, is entirely wanting.
We describe it more fully in the general list of lunar objects.

The mountain peaks on the moon throw long, well-defined shadows,
characterised by a sharpness which we do not find in the shadows of
terrestrial objects. The difference between the two cases arises from
the absence of air from the moon. Our atmosphere diffuses a certain
amount of light, which mitigates the blackness of terrestrial shadows
and tends to soften their outline. No such influences are at work on the
moon, and the sharpness of the shadows is taken advantage of in our
attempts to measure the heights of the lunar mountains.

It is often easy to compute the altitude of a church steeple, a lofty
chimney, or any similar object, from the length of its shadow. The
simplest and the most accurate process is to measure at noon the number
of feet from the base of the object to the end of the shadow. The
elevation of the sun at noon on the day in question can be obtained from
the almanac, and then the height of the object follows by a simple
calculation. Indeed, if the observations can be made either on the 6th
of April or the 6th of September, at or near the latitude of London,
then calculations would be unnecessary. The noonday length of the shadow
on either of the dates named is equal to the altitude of the object. In
summer the length of the noontide shadow is less than the altitude; in
winter the length of the shadow exceeds the altitude. At sunrise or
sunset the shadows are, of course, much longer than at noon, and it is
shadows of this kind that we observe on the moon. The necessary
measurements are made by that indispensable adjunct to the equatorial
telescope known as the _micrometer_.

This word denotes an instrument for measuring _small_ distances. In one
sense the term is not a happy one. The objects to which the astronomer
applies the micrometer are usually anything but small. They are
generally of the most transcendent dimensions, far exceeding the moon or
the sun, or even our whole system. Still, the name is not altogether
inappropriate, for, vast though the objects may be, they generally seem
minute, even in the telescope, on account of their great distance.

We require for such measurements an instrument capable of the greatest
nicety. Here, again, we invoke the aid of the spider, to whose
assistance in another department we have already referred. In the filar
micrometer two spider lines are parallel, and one intersects them at
right angles. One or both of the parallel lines can be moved by means of
screws, the threads of which have been shaped by consummate workmanship.
The distance through which the line has been moved is accurately
indicated by noting the number of revolutions and parts of a revolution
of the screw. Suppose the two lines be first brought into coincidence,
and then separated until the apparent length of the shadow of the
mountain on the moon is equal to the distance between the lines: we then
know the number of revolutions of the micrometer screw which is
equivalent to the length of the shadow. The number of miles on the moon
which correspond to one revolution of the screw has been previously
ascertained by other observations, and hence the length of the shadow
can be determined. The elevation of the sun, as it would have appeared
to an observer at this point of the moon, at the moment when the
measures were being made, is also obtainable, and hence the actual
elevation of the mountain can be calculated. By measurements of this
kind the altitudes of other lunar objects, such, for example, as the
height of the rampart surrounding a circular-walled plane, can be
determined.

The beauty and interest of the moon as a telescopic object induces us to
give to the student a somewhat detailed account of the more remarkable
features which it presents. Most of the objects we are to describe can
be effectively exhibited with very moderate telescopic power. It is,
however, to be remembered that all of them cannot be well seen at one
time. The region most distinctly shown is the boundary between light and
darkness. The student will, therefore, select for observation such
objects as may happen to lie near that boundary at the time when he is
observing.

1. _Posidonius._--The diameter of this large crater is nearly 60 miles.
Although its surrounding wall is comparatively slender, it is so
distinctly marked as to make the object very conspicuous. As so
frequently happens in lunar volcanoes, the bottom of the crater is below
the level of the surrounding plain, in the present instance to the
extent of nearly 2,500 feet.

2. _Linné._--This small crater lies in the Mare Serenitatis. About sixty
years ago it was described as being about 6-1/2 miles in diameter, and
seems to have been sufficiently conspicuous. In 1866 Schmidt, of Athens,
announced that the crater had disappeared. Since then an exceedingly
small shallow depression has been visible, but the whole object is now
very inconsiderable. This seems to be the most clearly attested case of
change in a lunar object. Apparently the walls of the crater have
tumbled into the interior and partly filled it up, but many astronomers
doubt that a change has really taken place, as Schröter, a Hanoverian
observer at the end of the eighteenth century, appears not to have seen
any conspicuous crater in the place, though it must be admitted that
his observations are rather incomplete. To give some idea of Schmidt's
amazing industry in lunar researches, it may be mentioned that in six
years he made nearly 57,000 individual settings of his micrometer in the
measurement of lunar altitudes. His great chart of the mountains in the
moon is based on no less than 2,731 drawings and sketches, if those are
counted twice that may have been used for two divisions of the map.

3. _Aristotle._--This great philosopher's name has been attached to a
grand crater 50 miles in diameter, the interior of which, although very
hilly, shows no decidedly marked central cone. But the lofty wall of the
crater, exceeding 10,500 feet in height, overshadows the floor so
continuously that its features are never seen to advantage.

4. _The Great Valley of the Alps._--A wonderfully straight valley, with
a width ranging from 3-1/2 to 6 miles, runs right through the lunar
Alps. It is, according to Mädler, at least 11,500 feet deep, and over 80
miles in length. A few low ridges which are parallel to the sides of the
valley may possibly be the result of landslips.

5. _Aristillus._--Under favourable conditions Lord Rosse's great
telescope has shown the exterior of this magnificent crater to be scored
with deep gullies radiating from its centre. Aristillus is about 34
miles wide and 10,000 feet in depth.

6. _Autolycus_ is somewhat smaller than the foregoing, to which it forms
a companion in accordance with what Mädler thought a well-defined
relation amongst lunar craters, by which they frequently occurred in
pairs, with the smaller one more usually to the south. Towards the edge
this arrangement is generally rather apparent than real, and is merely a
result of foreshortening.

7. _Archimedes._--This large plain, about 50 miles in diameter, has its
vast smooth interior divided by unequally bright streaks into seven
distinct zones, running east and west. There is no central mountain or
other obvious internal sign of former activity, but its irregular wall
rises into abrupt towers, and is marked outside by decided terraces.

[Illustration: PLATE B.

PORTION OF THE MOON.

(ALPS, ARCHIMEDES, APENNINES.)

_Messrs. Loewy & Puiseux_.]

8. _Plato._--We have already referred to this extensive circular plain,
which is noticeable with the smallest telescope. The average height of
the rampart is about 3,800 feet on the eastern side; the western side is
somewhat lower, but there is one peak rising to the height of nearly
7,300 feet. The plain girdled by this vast rampart is of ample
proportions. It is a somewhat irregular circle, about 60 miles in
diameter, and containing an area of 2,700 square miles. On its floor the
shadows of the western wall are shown in Plate IX., as are also three of
the small craters, of which a large number have been detected by
persevering observers. The narrow sharp line leading from the crater to
the left is one of those remarkable "clefts" which traverse the moon in
so many directions. Another may be seen further to the left. Above Plato
are several detached mountains, the loftiest of which is Pico, about
8,000 feet in height. Its long and pointed shadow would at first sight
lead one to suppose that it must be very steep; but Schmidt, who
specially studied the inclinations of the lunar slopes, is of opinion
that it cannot be nearly so steep as many of the Swiss mountains that
are frequently ascended. As many as thirty minute craters have been
carefully observed on the floor of Plato, and variations have been
thought by Mr. W.H. Pickering to be perceptible.

9. _Eratosthenes._--This profound crater, upwards of 37 miles in
diameter, lies at the end of the gigantic range of the Apennines. Not
improbably, Eratosthenes once formed the volcanic vent for the
stupendous forces that elevated the comparatively craterless peaks of
these great mountains.

10. _Copernicus._--Of all the lunar craters this is one of the grandest
and best known. The region to the west is dotted over with innumerable
minute craterlets. It has a central many-peaked mountain about 2,400
feet in height. There is good reason to believe that the terracing shown
in its interior is mainly due to the repeated alternate rise, partial
congelation, and subsequent retreat of a vast sea of lava. At full moon
the crater of Copernicus is seen to be surrounded by radiating streaks.

11. _Kepler._--Although the internal depth of this crater is scarcely
less than 10,000 feet, it has but a very low surrounding wall, which is
remarkable for being covered with the same glistening substance that
also forms a system of bright rays not unlike those surrounding the last
object.

12. _Aristarchus_ is the most brilliant of the lunar craters, being
specially vivid with a low power in a large telescope. So bright is it,
indeed, that it has often been seen on the dark side just after new
moon, and has thus given rise to marvellous stories of active lunar
volcanoes. To the south-east lies another smaller crater, Herodotus,
north of which is a narrow, deep valley, nowhere more than 2-1/2 miles
broad, which makes a remarkable zigzag. It is one of the largest of the
lunar "clefts."

13. _Grimaldi_ calls for notice as the darkest object of its size in the
moon. Under very exceptional circumstances it has been seen with the
naked eye, and as its area has been estimated at nearly 14,000 square
miles, it gives an idea of how little unaided vision can discern in the
moon; it must, however, be added that we always see Grimaldi
considerably foreshortened.

14. The great crater _Gassendi_ has been very frequently mapped on
account of its elaborate system of "clefts." At its northern end it
communicates with a smaller but much deeper crater, that is often filled
with black shadow after the whole floor of Gassendi has been
illuminated.

15. _Schickard_ is one of the largest walled plains on the moon, about
134 miles in breadth. Within its vast expanse Mädler detected 23 minor
craters. With regard to this object Chacornac pointed out that, owing to
the curvature of the surface of the moon, a spectator at the centre of
the floor "would think himself in a boundless desert," because the
surrounding wall, although in one place nearly 10,000 feet high, would
lie entirely beneath his horizon.

16. Close to the foregoing is _Wargentin_. There can be little doubt
that this is really a huge crater almost filled with congealed lava, as
there is scarcely any fall towards the interior.

17. _Clavius._--Near the 60th parallel of lunar south latitude lies
this enormous enclosure, the area of which is not less than 16,500
square miles. Both in its interior and on its walls are many peaks and
secondary craters. The telescopic view of a sunrise upon the surface of
Clavius is truly said by Mädler to be indescribably magnificent. One of
the peaks rises to a height of 24,000 feet above the bottom of one of
the included craters. Mädler even expressed the opinion that in this
wild neighbourhood there are craters so profound that no ray of sunlight
ever penetrated their lowest depths, while, as if in compensation, there
are peaks whose summits enjoy a mean day almost twice as long as their
night.

18. If the full moon be viewed through an opera-glass or any small
hand-telescope, one crater is immediately seen to be conspicuous beyond
all others, by reason of the brilliant rays or streaks that radiate from
it. This is the majestic _Tycho_, 17,000 feet in depth and 50 miles in
diameter (Plate X.). A peak 6,000 feet in height rises in the centre of
its floor, while a series of terraces diversity its interior slopes; but
it is the mysterious bright rays that chiefly surprise us. When the sun
rises on Tycho, these streaks are utterly invisible; indeed, the whole
object is then so obscure that it requires a practised eye to recognise
Tycho amidst its mountainous surroundings. But as soon as the sun has
attained a height of about 30° above its horizon, the rays emerge from
their obscurity and gradually increase in brightness until the moon
becomes full, when they are the most conspicuous objects on her surface.
They vary in length, from a few hundred miles to two or, in one
instance, nearly three thousand miles. They extend indifferently across
vast plains, into the deepest craters, or over the loftiest elevations.
We know of nothing on our earth to which they can be compared. As these
rays are only seen about the time of full moon, their visibility
obviously depends on the light falling more or less closely in the line
of sight, quite regardless of the inclination of the surfaces, mountains
or valleys, on which they appear. Each small portion of the surface of
the streak must therefore be of a form which is symmetrical to the
spectator from whatever point it is seen. The sphere alone appears to
fulfil this condition, and Professor Copeland therefore suggests that
the material constituting the surface of the streak must be made up of a
large number of more or less completely spherical globules. The streaks
must represent parts of the lunar surface either pitted with minute
cavities of spherical figure, or strewn over with minute transparent
spheres.[8]

Near the centre of the moon's disc is a fine range of ring plains fully
open to our view under all illuminations. Of these, two may be
mentioned--_Alphonsus_ (19), the floor of which is strangely
characterised by two bright and several dark markings which cannot be
explained by irregularities in the surface.--_Ptolemy_ (20). Besides
several small enclosed craters, its floor is crossed by numerous low
ridges, visible when the sun is rising or setting.

21, 22, 23.--When the moon is five or six days old this beautiful group
of three craters will be favourably placed for observation. They are
named _Catharina_, _Cyrillus_, and _Theophilus_. Catharina, the most
southerly of the group, is more than 16,000 feet deep, and connected
with Cyrillus by a wide valley; but between Cyrillus and Theophilus
there is no such connection. Indeed, Cyrillus looks as if its huge
surrounding ramparts, as high as Mont Blanc, had been completely
finished before the volcanic forces commenced the formation of
Theophilus, the rampart of which encroaches considerably on its older
neighbour. Theophilus stands as a well-defined circular crater about 64
miles in diameter, with an internal depth of 14,000 to 18,000 feet, and
a beautiful central group of mountains, one-third of that height, on its
floor. Although Theophilus is the deepest crater we can see in the moon,
it has suffered little or no deformation from secondary eruptions, while
the floor and wall of Catharina show complete sequences of lesser
craters of various sizes that have broken in upon and partly destroyed
each other. In the spring of the year, when the moon is somewhat before
the first quarter, this instructive group of extinct volcanoes can be
seen to great advantage at a convenient hour in the evening.

[Illustration: PLATE VII.

TRIESNECKER.

(AFTER NASMYTH.)]

24. _Petavius_ is remarkable not only for its great size, but also for
the rare feature of having a double rampart. It is a beautiful object
soon after new moon, or just after full moon, but disappears absolutely
when the sun is more than 45° above its horizon. The crater floor is
remarkably convex, culminating in a central group of hills intersected
by a deep cleft.

25. _Hyginus_ is a small crater near the centre of the moon's disc. One
of the largest of the lunar chasms passes right through it, making an
abrupt turn as it does so.

26. _Triesnecker._--This fine crater has been already described, but is
again alluded to in order to draw attention to the elaborate system of
chasms so conspicuously shown in Plate VII. That these chasms are
depressions is abundantly evident by the shadows inside. Very often
their margins are appreciably raised. They seem to be fractures in the
moon's surface.

Of the various mountains that are occasionally seen as projections on
the actual edge of the moon, those called after Leibnitz (_i_) seem to
be the highest. Schmidt found the highest peak to be upwards of 41,900
feet above a neighbouring valley. In comparing these altitudes with
those of mountains on our earth, we must for the latter add the depth of
the sea to the height of the land. Reckoned in this way, our highest
mountains are still higher than any we know of in the moon.

We must now discuss the important question as to the origin of these
remarkable features on the surface of the moon. We shall admit at the
outset that our evidence on this subject is only indirect. To establish
by unimpeachable evidence the volcanic origin of the remarkable lunar
craters, it would seem almost necessary that volcanic outbursts should
have been witnessed on the moon, and that such outbursts should have
been seen to result in the formation of the well-known ring, with or
without the mountain rising from the centre. To say that nothing of the
kind has ever been witnessed would be rather too emphatic a statement.
On certain occasions careful observers have reported the occurrence of
minute local changes on the moon. As we have already remarked, a crater
named Linné, of dimensions respectable, no doubt, to a lunar inhabitant,
but forming a very inconsiderable telescopic object, was thought to have
undergone some change. On another occasion a minute crater was thought
to have arisen near the well-known object named Hyginus. The mere
enumeration of such instances gives real emphasis to the statement that
there is at the present time no appreciable source of disturbance of the
moon's surface. Even were these trifling cases of suspected change
really established--and this is perhaps rather farther than many
astronomers would be willing to go--they are still insignificant when
compared with the mighty phenomena that gave rise to the host of great
craters which cover so large a portion of the moon's surface.

We are led inevitably to the conclusion that our satellite must have
once possessed much greater activity than it now displays. We can also
give a reasonable, or, at all events, a plausible, explanation of the
cessation of that activity in recent times. Let us glance at two other
bodies of our system, the earth and the sun, and compare them with the
moon. Of the three bodies, the sun is enormously the largest, while the
moon is much less than the earth. We have also seen that though the sun
must have a very high temperature, there can be no doubt that it is
gradually parting with its heat. The surface of the earth, formed as it
is of solid rocks and clay, or covered in great part by the vast expanse
of ocean, bears but few obvious traces of a high temperature.
Nevertheless, it is highly probable from ordinary volcanic phenomena
that the interior of the earth still possesses a temperature of
incandescence.

A large body when heated takes a longer time to cool than does a small
body raised to the same temperature. A large iron casting will take days
to cool; a small casting will become cold in a few hours. Whatever may
have been the original source of heat in our system--a question which
we are not now discussing--it seems demonstrable that the different
bodies were all originally heated, and have now for ages been gradually
cooling. The sun is so vast that he has not yet had time to cool; the
earth, of intermediate bulk, has become cold on the outside, while still
retaining vast stores of internal heat; while the moon, the smallest
body of all, has lost its heat to such an extent that changes of
importance on its surface can no longer be originated by internal fires.

We are thus led to refer the origin of the lunar craters to some ancient
epoch in the moon's history. We have no moans of knowing the remoteness
of that epoch, but it is reasonable to surmise that the antiquity of the
lunar volcanoes must be extremely great. At the time when the moon was
sufficiently heated to originate those convulsions, of which the mighty
craters are the survivals, the earth must also have been much hotter
than it is at present. When the moon possessed sufficient heat for its
volcanoes to be active, the earth was probably so hot that life was
impossible on its surface. This supposition would point to an antiquity
for the lunar craters far too great to be estimated by the centuries and
the thousands of years which are adequate for such periods as those with
which the history of human events is concerned. It seems not unlikely
that millions of years may have elapsed since the mighty craters of
Plato or of Copernicus consolidated into their present form.

We shall now attempt to account for the formation of the lunar craters.
The most probable views on the subject seem to be those which have been
set forth by Mr. Nasmyth, though it must be admitted that his doctrines
are by no means free from difficulty. According to his theory we can
explain how the rampart around the lunar crater has been formed, and how
the great mountain arose which so often adorns the centre of the plain.
The view in Fig. 28 contains an imaginary sketch of a volcanic vent on
the moon in the days when the craters were active. The eruption is here
shown in the fulness of its energy, when the internal forces are hurling
forth ashes or stones which fall at a considerable distance from the
vent. The materials thus accumulated constitute the rampart surrounding
the crater.

The second picture (Fig. 29) depicts the crater in a later stage of its
history. The prodigious explosive power has now been exhausted, and has
perhaps been intermitted for some time. Again, the volcano bursts into
activity, but this time with only a small part of its original energy. A
comparatively feeble eruption now issues from the same vent, deposits
materials close around the orifice, and raises a mountain in the centre.
Finally, when the activity has subsided, and the volcano is silent and
still, we find the evidence of the early energy testified to by the
rampart which surrounds the ancient crater, and by the mountain which
adorns the interior. The flat floor which is found in some of the
craters may not improbably have arisen from an outflow of lava which has
afterwards consolidated. Subsequent outbreaks have also occurred in many
cases.

One of the principal difficulties attending this method of accounting
for the structure of a crater arises from the great size which some of
these objects attain. There are ancient volcanoes on the moon forty or
fifty miles in diameter; indeed, there is one well-formed ring, with a
mountain rising in the centre, the diameter of which is no less than
seventy-eight miles (Petavius). It seems difficult to conceive how a
blowing cone at the centre could convey the materials to such a distance
as the thirty-nine miles between the centre of Petavius and the rampart.
The explanation is, however, facilitated when it is borne in mind that
the force of gravitation is much less on the moon than on the earth.

[Illustration: PLATE VIII.

A NORMAL LUNAR CRATER.]

[Illustration: Fig. 28.--Volcano in Activity.]

[Illustration: Fig. 29.--Subsequent Feeble Activity.]

Have we not already seen that our satellite is so much smaller than the
earth that eighty moons rolled into one would not weigh as much as the
earth? On the earth an ounce weighs an ounce and a pound weighs a pound;
but a weight of six ounces here would only weigh one ounce on the moon,
and a weight of six pounds here would only weigh one pound on the moon.
A labourer who can carry one sack of corn on the earth could, with the
same exertion, carry six sacks of corn on the moon. A cricketer who can
throw a ball 100 yards on the earth could with precisely the same
exertion throw the same ball 600 yards on the moon. Hiawatha could shoot
ten arrows into the air one after the other before the first reached
the ground; on the moon he might have emptied his whole quiver. The
volcano, which on the moon drove projectiles to the distance of
thirty-nine miles, need only possess the same explosive power as would
have been sufficient to drive the missiles six or seven miles on the
earth. A modern cannon properly elevated would easily achieve this feat.

[Illustration: Fig. 30.--Formation of the Level Floor by Lava.]

It must also be borne in mind that there are innumerable craters on the
moon of the same general type but of the most varied dimensions; from a
tiny telescopic object two or three miles in diameter, we can point out
gradually ascending stages until we reach the mighty Petavius just
considered. With regard to the smaller craters, there is obviously
little or no difficulty in attributing to them a volcanic origin, and as
the continuity from the smallest to the largest craters is unbroken, it
seems quite reasonable to suppose that even the greatest has arisen in
the same way.

It should, however, be remarked that some lunar features might be
explained by actions from without rather than from within. Mr. G.K.
Gilbert has marshalled the evidence in support of the belief that lunar
sculptures arise from the impact of bodies falling on the moon. The Mare
Imbrium, according to this view, has been the seat of a collision to
which the surrounding lunar scenery is due. Mr. Gilbert explains the
furrows as hewn out by mighty projectiles moving with such velocities as
meteors possess.

The lunar landscapes are excessively weird and rugged. They always
remind us of sterile deserts, and we cannot fail to notice the absence
of grassy plains or green forests such as we are familiar with on our
globe. In some respects the moon is not very differently circumstanced
from the earth. Like it, the moon has the pleasing alternations of day
and night, though the day in the moon is as long as twenty-nine of our
days, and the night of the moon is as long as twenty-nine of our nights.
We are warmed by the rays of the sun; so, too, is the moon; but,
whatever may be the temperature during the long day on the moon, it
seems certain that the cold of the lunar night would transcend that
known in the bleakest regions of our earth. The amount of heat radiated
to us by the moon has been investigated by Lord Rosse, and more recently
by Professor Langley. Though every point on the moon's surface is
exposed to the sunlight for a fortnight without any interruption, the
actual temperature to which the soil is raised cannot be a high one. The
moon does not, like the earth, possess a warm blanket, in the shape of
an atmosphere, which can keep in and accumulate the heat received.

Even our largest telescopes can tell nothing directly as to whether life
can exist on the moon. The mammoth trees of California might be growing
on the lunar mountains, and elephants might be walking about on the
plains, but our telescopes could not show them. The smallest object that
we can see on the moon must be about as large as a good-sized cathedral,
so that organised beings resembling in size any that we are familiar
with, if they existed, could not make themselves visible as telescopic
objects.

We are therefore compelled to resort to indirect evidence as to whether
life would be possible on the moon. We may say at once that astronomers
believe that life, as we know it, could not exist. Among the necessary
conditions of life, water is one of the first. Take every form of
vegetable life, from the lichen which grows on the rock to the giant
tree of the forest, and we find the substance of every plant contains
water, and could not exist without it. Nor is water less necessary to
the existence of animal life. Deprived of this element, all organic
life, the life of man himself, would be inconceivable.

Unless, therefore, water be present in the moon, we shall be bound to
conclude that life, as we know it, is impossible. If anyone stationed on
the moon were to look at the earth through a telescope, would he be able
to see any water here? Most undoubtedly he would. He would see the
clouds and he would notice their incessant changes, and the clouds alone
would be almost conclusive evidence of the existence of water. An
astronomer on the moon would also see our oceans as coloured surfaces,
remarkably contrasted with the land, and he would perhaps frequently see
an image of the sun, like a brilliant star, reflected from some smooth
portion of the sea. In fact, considering that much more than half of our
globe is covered with oceans, and that most of the remainder is liable
to be obscured by clouds, the lunar astronomer in looking at our earth
would often see hardly anything but water in one form or other. Very
likely he would come to the conclusion that our globe was only fitted to
be a residence for amphibious animals.

But when we look at the moon with our telescopes we see no direct
evidence of water. Close inspection shows that the so-called lunar seas
are deserts, often marked with small craters and rocks. The telescope
reveals no seas and no oceans, no lakes and no rivers. Nor is the
grandeur of the moon's scenery ever impaired by clouds over her surface.
Whenever the moon is above our horizon, and terrestrial clouds are out
of the way, we can see the features of our satellite's surface with
distinctness. There are no clouds in the moon; there are not even the
mists or the vapours which invariably arise wherever water is present,
and therefore astronomers have been led to the conclusion that the
surface of the globe which attends the earth is a sterile and a
waterless desert.

Another essential element of organic life is also absent from the moon.
Our globe is surrounded with a deep clothing of air resting on the
surface, and extending above our heads to the height of about 200 or 300
miles. We need hardly say how necessary air is to life, and therefore we
turn with interest to the question as to whether the moon can be
surrounded with an atmosphere. Let us clearly understand the problem we
are about to consider. Imagine that a traveller started from the earth
on a journey to the moon; as he proceeded, the air would gradually
become more and more rarefied, until at length, when he was a few
hundred miles above the earth's surface, he would have left the last
perceptible traces of the earth's envelope behind him. By the time he
had passed completely through the atmosphere he would have advanced only
a very small fraction of the whole journey of 240,000 miles, and there
would still remain a vast void to be traversed before the moon would be
reached. If the moon were enveloped in the same way as the earth, then,
as the traveller approached the end of his journey, and came within a
few hundred miles of the moon's surface, he would meet again with traces
of an atmosphere, which would gradually increase in density until he
arrived at the moon's surface. The traveller would thus have passed
through one stratum of air at the beginning of his journey, and through
another at the end, while the main portion of the voyage would have been
through space more void than that to be found in the exhausted receiver
of an air-pump.

Such would be the case if the moon were coated with an atmosphere like
that surrounding our earth. But what are the facts? The traveller as he
drew near the moon would seek in vain for air to breathe at all
resembling ours. It is possible that close to the surface there are
faint traces of some gaseous material surrounding the moon, but it can
only be equal to a very small fractional part of the ample clothing
which the earth now enjoys. For all purposes of respiration, as we
understand the term, we may say that there is no air on the moon, and an
inhabitant of our earth transferred thereto would be as certainly
suffocated as he would be in the middle of space.

It may, however, be asked how we learn this. Is not air transparent, and
how, therefore, could our telescopes be expected to show whether the
moon really possessed such an envelope? It is by indirect, but
thoroughly reliable, methods of observation that we learn the destitute
condition of our satellite. There are various arguments to be adduced;
but the most conclusive is that obtained on the occurrence of what is
called an "occultation." It sometimes happens that the moon comes
directly between the earth and a star, and the temporary extinction of
the latter is an "occultation." We can observe the moment when the
phenomenon takes place, and the suddenness of the disappearance of the
star is generally remarked. If the moon were enveloped in a copious
atmosphere, the interposition of this gaseous mass by the movement of
the moon would produce a gradual evanescence of the star wholly wanting
the abruptness which marks the obscuration.[9]

Let us consider how we can account for the absence of an atmosphere from
the moon. What we call a gas has been found by modern research to be a
collection of an immense number of molecules, each of which is in
exceedingly rapid motion. This motion is only pursued for a short
distance in one direction before a molecule comes into collision with
some other molecule, whereby the directions and velocities of the
individual molecules are continually changed. There is a certain average
speed for each gas which is peculiar to the molecules of that gas at a
certain temperature. When several gases are mixed, as oxygen and
nitrogen are in our atmosphere, the molecules of each gas continue to
move with their own characteristic velocities. So far as we can estimate
the temperature at the boundary of the earth's atmosphere, we may assume
that the average of the velocities of the oxygen molecules there found
is about a quarter of a mile per second. The velocities for nitrogen are
much the same, while the average speed of a molecule of hydrogen is
about one mile per second, being, in fact, by far the greatest molecular
velocity possessed by any gas.

[Illustration: PLATE IX.

PLATO.

(AFTER NASMYTH.)]

A stone thrown into the air soon regains the earth. A rifle bullet
fired vertically upwards will ascend higher and higher, until at length
its motion ceases, it begins to return, and falls to the ground. Let us
for the moment suppose that we had a rifle of infinite strength and
gunpowder of unlimited power. As we increase the charge we find that the
bullet will ascend higher and higher, and each time it will take a
longer period before it returns to the ground. The descent of the bullet
is due to the attraction of the earth. Gravitation must necessarily act
on the projectile throughout its career, and it gradually lessens the
velocity, overcomes the upward motion, and brings the bullet back. It
must be remembered that the efficiency of the attraction decreases when
the height is increased. Consequently when the body has a prodigiously
great initial velocity, in consequence of which it ascends to an
enormous height, its return is retarded by a twofold cause. In the first
place, the distance through which it has to be recalled is greatly
increased, and in the second place the efficiency of gravitation in
effecting its recall has decreased. The greater the velocity, the
feebler must be the capacity of gravitation for bringing back the body.
We can conceive the speed to be increased to that point at which the
gravitation, constantly declining as the body ascends, is never quite
able to neutralise the velocity, and hence we have the remarkable case
of a body projected away never to return.

It is possible to exhibit this reasoning in a numerical form, and to
show that a velocity of six or seven miles a second directed upwards
would suffice to convey a body entirely away from the gravitation of the
earth. This speed is far beyond the utmost limits of our artillery. It
is, indeed, at least a dozen times as swift as a cannon shot; and even
if we could produce it, the resistance of the air would present an
insuperable difficulty. Such reflections, however, do not affect the
conclusion that there is for each planet a certain specific velocity
appropriate to that body, and depending solely upon its size and mass,
with which we should have to discharge a projectile, in order to prevent
the attraction of that body from pulling the projectile back again.

It is a simple matter of calculation to determine this "critical
velocity" for any celestial body. The greater the body the greater in
general must be the initial speed which will enable the projectile to
forsake for ever the globe from which it has been discharged. As we
have already indicated, this speed is about seven miles per second on
the earth. It would be three on the planet Mercury, three and a half on
Mars, twenty-two on Saturn, and thirty-seven on Jupiter; while for a
missile to depart from the sun without prospect of return, it must leave
the brilliant surface at a speed not less than 391 miles per second.

Supposing that a quantity of free hydrogen was present in our
atmosphere, its molecules would move with an average velocity of about
one mile per second. It would occasionally happen by a combination of
circumstances that a molecule would attain a speed which exceeded seven
miles a second. If this happened on the confines of the atmosphere where
it escaped collision with other molecules, the latter object would fly
off into space, and would not be recaptured by the earth. By incessant
repetitions of this process, in the course of countless ages, all the
molecules of hydrogen gas would escape from the earth, and in this
manner we may explain the fact that there is no free hydrogen present in
the earth's atmosphere.[10]

The velocities which can be attained by the molecules of gases other
than hydrogen are far too small to permit of their escape from the
attraction of the earth. We therefore find oxygen, nitrogen, water
vapour, and carbon dioxide remaining as permanent components of our air.
On the other hand, the enormous mass of the sun makes the "critical
velocity" at the surface of that body to be so great (391 miles per
second) that not even the molecules of hydrogen can possibly emulate it.
Consequently, as we have seen, hydrogen is a most important component of
the sun's atmospheric envelope.

If we now apply this reasoning to the moon, the critical velocity is
found by calculation to be only a mile and a half per second. This seems
to be well within the maximum velocities attainable by the molecules of
oxygen, nitrogen, and other gases. It therefore follows that none of
these gases could remain permanently to form an atmosphere at the
surface of so small a body as the moon. This seems to be the reason why
there are no present traces of any distinct gaseous surroundings to our
satellite.

The absence of air and of water from the moon explains the sublime
ruggedness of the lunar scenery. We know that on the earth the action of
wind and of rain, of frost and of snow, is constantly tending to wear
down our mountains and reduce their asperities. No such agents are at
work on the moon. Volcanoes sculptured the surface into its present
condition, and, though they have ceased to operate for ages, the traces
of their handiwork seem nearly as fresh to-day as they were when the
mighty fires were extinguished.

"The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples" have
but a brief career on earth. It is chiefly the incessant action of water
and of air that makes them vanish like the "baseless fabric of a
vision." On the moon these causes of disintegration and of decay are all
absent, though perhaps the changes of temperature in the transition from
lunar day to lunar night would be attended with expansions and
contractions that might compensate in some slight degree for the absence
of more potent agents of dissolution.

It seems probable that a building on the moon would remain for century
after century just as it was left by the builders. There need be no
glass in the windows, for there is no wind and no rain to keep out.
There need not be fireplaces in the rooms, for fuel cannot burn without
air. Dwellers in a lunar city would find that no dust could rise, no
odours be perceived, no sounds be heard.

Man is a creature adapted for life under circumstances which are very
narrowly limited. A few degrees of temperature more or less, a slight
variation in the composition of air, the precise suitability of food,
make all the difference between health and sickness, between life and
death. Looking beyond the moon, into the length and breadth of the
universe, we find countless celestial globes with every conceivable
variety of temperature and of constitution. Amid this vast number of
worlds with which space is tenanted, are there any inhabited by living
beings? To this great question science can make no response: we cannot
tell. Yet it is impossible to resist a conjecture. We find our earth
teeming with life in every part. We find life under the most varied
conditions that can be conceived. It is met with under the burning heat
of the tropics and in the everlasting frost at the poles. We find life
in caves where not a ray of light ever penetrates. Nor is it wanting in
the depths of the ocean, at the pressure of tons on the square inch.
Whatever may be the external circumstances, Nature generally provides
some form of life to which those circumstances are congenial.

It is not at all probable that among the million spheres of the universe
there is a single one exactly like our earth--like it in the possession
of air and of water, like it in size and in composition. It does not
seem probable that a man could live for one hour on any body in the
universe except the earth, or that an oak-tree could live in any other
sphere for a single season. Men can dwell on the earth, and oak-trees
can thrive therein, because the constitutions of the man and of the oak
are specially adapted to the particular circumstances of the earth.

Could we obtain a closer view of some of the celestial bodies, we should
probably find that they, too, teem with life, but with life specially
adapted to the environment--life in forms strange and weird; life far
stranger to us than Columbus found it to be in the New World when he
first landed there. Life, it may be, stranger than ever Dante described
or Doré sketched. Intelligence may also have a home among those spheres
no less than on the earth. There are globes greater and globes
less--atmospheres greater and atmospheres less. The truest philosophy on
this subject is crystallised in the language of Tennyson:--

  "This truth within thy mind rehearse,
  That in a boundless universe
  Is boundless better, boundless worse.

  "Think you this mould of hopes and fears
  Could find no statelier than his peers
  In yonder hundred million spheres?"

[Illustration: PLATE X.

TYCHO AND ITS SURROUNDINGS.

(AFTER NASMYTH.)]




CHAPTER IV.

THE SOLAR SYSTEM.


     Exceptional Importance of the Sun and Moon--The Course to be
     pursued--The Order of Distance--The Neighbouring Orbs--How are they
     to be discriminated?--The Planets Venus and Jupiter attract Notice
     by their Brilliancy--Sirius not a Neighbour--The Planets Saturn and
     Mercury--Telescopic Planets--The Criterion as to whether a Body is
     to be ranked as a Neighbour--Meaning of the word _Planet_--Uranus
     and Neptune--Comets--The Planets are illuminated by the Sun--The
     Stars are not--The Earth is really a Planet--The Four Inner
     Planets, Mercury, Venus, the Earth, and Mars--Velocity of the
     Earth--The Outer Planets, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune--Light
     and Heat received by the Planets from the Sun--Comparative Sizes of
     the Planets--The Minor Planets--The Planets all revolve in the same
     Direction--The Solar System--An Island Group in Space.

In the two preceding chapters of this work we have endeavoured to
describe the heavenly bodies in the order of their relative importance
to mankind. Could we doubt for a moment as to which of the many orbs in
the universe should be the first to receive our attention? We do not now
allude to the intrinsic significance of the sun when compared with other
bodies or groups of bodies scattered through space. It may be that
numerous globes rival the sun in real splendour, in bulk, and in mass.
We shall, in fact, show later on in this volume that this is the case;
and we shall then be in a position to indicate the true rank of the sun
amid the countless hosts of heaven. But whatever may be the importance
of the sun, viewed merely as one of the bodies which teem through space,
there can be no hesitation in asserting how immeasurably his influence
on the earth surpasses that of all other bodies in the universe
together. It was therefore natural--indeed inevitable--that our first
examination of the orbs of heaven should be directed to that mighty body
which is the source of our life itself.

Nor could there be much hesitation as to the second step which ought to
be taken. The intrinsic importance of the moon, when compared with other
celestial bodies, may be small; it is, indeed, as we shall afterwards
see, almost infinitesimal. But in the economy of our earth the moon has
played, and still plays, a part second only in importance to that of the
sun himself. The moon is so close to us that her brilliant rays pale to
invisibility countless orbs of a size and an intrinsic splendour
incomparably greater than her own. The moon also occupies an exceptional
position in the history of astronomy; for the law of gravitation, the
greatest discovery that science has yet witnessed, was chiefly
accomplished by observations of the moon. It was therefore natural that
an early chapter in our Story of the Heavens should be devoted to a body
the interest of which approximated so closely to that of the sun
himself.

But the sun and the moon having been partly described (we shall
afterwards have to refer to them again), some hesitation is natural in
the choice of the next step. The two great luminaries being abstracted
from our view, there remains no other celestial body of such exceptional
interest and significance as to make it quite clear what course to
pursue; we desire to unfold the story of the heavens in the most natural
manner. If we made the attempt to describe the celestial bodies in the
order of their actual magnitude, our ignorance must at once pronounce
the task to be impossible. We cannot even make a conjecture as to which
body in the heavens is to stand first on the list. Even if that
mightiest body be within reach of our telescopes (in itself a highly
improbable supposition), we have not the least idea in what part of the
heavens it is to be sought. And even if this were possible--if we were
able to arrange all the visible bodies rank by rank in the order of
their magnitude and their splendour--still the scheme would be
impracticable, for of most of them we know little or nothing.

We are therefore compelled to adopt a different method of procedure, and
the simplest, as well as the most natural, will be to follow as far as
possible the order of distance of the different bodies. We have already
spoken of the moon as the nearest neighbour to the earth; we shall next
consider some of the other celestial bodies which are comparatively near
to us; then, as the subject unfolds, we shall discuss the objects
further and further away, until towards the close of the volume we shall
be engaged in considering the most distant bodies in the universe which
the telescope has yet revealed to us.

Even when we have decided on this principle, our course is still not
free from ambiguity. Many of the bodies in the heavens are in motion, so
that their relative distances from the earth are in continual change;
this is, however, a difficulty which need not detain us. We shall make
no attempt to adhere closely to the principle in all details. It will be
sufficient if we first describe those great bodies--not a very numerous
class--which are, comparatively speaking, in our vicinity, though still
at varied distances; and then we shall pass on to the uncounted bodies
which are separated from us by distances so vast that the imagination is
baffled in the attempt to realise them.

Let us, then, scan the heavens to discover those orbs which lie in our
neighbourhood. The sun has set, the moon has not risen; a cloudless sky
discloses a heaven glittering with countless gems of light. Some are
grouped together into well-marked constellations; others seem scattered
promiscuously, with every degree of lustre, from the very brightest down
to the faintest point that the eye can just glimpse. Amid all this host
of objects, how are we to identify those which lie nearest to the earth?
Look to the west: and there, over the spot where the departing sunbeams
still linger, we often see the lovely evening star shining forth. This
is the planet Venus--a beauteous orb, twin-sister to the earth. The
brilliancy of this planet, its rapid changes both in position and in
lustre, would suggest at once that it was much nearer to the earth than
other star-like objects. This presumption has been amply confirmed by
careful measurements, and therefore Venus is to be included in the list
of the orbs which constitute our neighbours.

Another conspicuous planet--almost rivalling Venus in lustre, and
vastly surpassing Venus in the magnificence of its proportions and its
retinue--has borne from antiquity the majestic name of Jupiter. No doubt
Jupiter is much more distant from us than Venus. Indeed, he is always at
least twice as far, and sometimes as much as ten times. But still we
must include Jupiter among our neighbours. Compared with the host of
stars which glitter on the heavens, Jupiter must be regarded as quite
contiguous. The distance of the great planet requires, it is true,
hundreds of millions of miles for its expression; yet, vast as is that
distance, it would have to be multiplied by tens of thousands, or
hundreds of thousands, before it would be long enough to span the abyss
which intervenes between the earth and the nearest of the stars.

Venus and Jupiter have invited our attention by their exceptional
brilliancy. We should, however, fall into error if we assumed generally
that the brightest objects were those nearest to the earth. An observer
unacquainted with astronomy might not improbably point to the Dog
Star--or Sirius, as astronomers more generally know it--as an object
whose exceptional lustre showed it to be one of our neighbours. This,
however, would be a mistake. We shall afterwards have occasion to refer
more particularly to this gem of our southern skies, and then it will
appear that Sirius is a mighty globe far transcending our own sun in
size as well as in splendour, but plunged into the depths of space to
such an appalling distance that his enfeebled rays, when they reach the
earth, give us the impression, not of a mighty sun, but only of a
brilliant star.

The principle of selection, by which the earth's neighbours can be
discriminated, will be explained presently; in the meantime, it will be
sufficient to observe that our list is to be augmented first by the
addition of the unique object known as Saturn, though its brightness is
far surpassed by that of Sirius, as well as by a few other stars. Then
we add Mars, an object which occasionally approaches so close to the
earth that it shines with a fiery radiance which would hardly prepare
us for the truth that this planet is intrinsically one of the smallest
of the celestial bodies. Besides the objects we have mentioned, the
ancient astronomers had detected a fifth, known as Mercury--a planet
which is usually invisible amid the light surrounding the sun. Mercury,
however, occasionally wanders far enough from our luminary to be seen
before sunrise or after sunset. These five--Mercury, Venus, Mars,
Jupiter, and Saturn--comprised the planets known from remote antiquity.

We can, however, now extend the list somewhat further by adding to it
the telescopic objects which have in modern times been found to be among
our neighbours. Here we must no longer postpone the introduction of the
criterion by which we can detect whether a body is near the earth or
not. The brighter planets can be recognised by the steady radiance of
their light as contrasted with the incessant twinkling of the stars. A
little attention devoted to any of the bodies we have named will,
however, point out a more definite contrast between the planets and the
stars.

Observe, for instance, Jupiter, on any clear night when the heavens can
be well seen, and note his position with regard to the constellations in
his neighbourhood--how he is to the right of this star, or to the left
of that; directly between this pair, or directly pointed to by that. We
then mark down the place of Jupiter on a celestial map, or we make a
sketch of the stars in the neighbourhood showing the position of the
planet. After a month or two, when the observations are repeated, the
place of Jupiter is to be compared again with those stars by which it
was defined. It will be found that, while the stars have preserved their
relative positions, the place of Jupiter has changed. Hence this body is
with propriety called a _planet_, or a wanderer, because it is
incessantly moving from one part of the starry heavens to another. By
similar comparisons it can be shown that the other bodies we have
mentioned--Venus and Mercury, Saturn and Mars--are also wanderers, and
belong to that group of heavenly bodies known as planets. Here, then, we
have the simple criterion by which the earth's neighbours are readily to
be discriminated from the stars. Each of the bodies near the earth is a
planet, or a wanderer, and the mere fact that a body is a wanderer is
alone sufficient to prove it to be one of the class which we are now
studying.

Provided with this test, we can at once make an addition to our list of
neighbours. Amid the myriad orbs which the telescope reveals, we
occasionally find one which is a wanderer. Two other mighty planets,
known as Uranus and Neptune, must thus be added to the five already
mentioned, making in all a group of seven great planets. A vastly
greater number may also be reckoned when we admit to our view bodies
which not only seem to be minute telescopic objects, but really are
small globes when compared with the mighty bulk of our earth. These
lesser planets, to the number of more than four hundred, are also among
the earth's neighbours.

We should remark that another class of heavenly bodies widely differing
from the planets must also be included in our system. These are the
comets, and, indeed, it may happen that one of these erratic bodies will
sometimes draw nearer to the earth than even the closest approach ever
made by a planet. These mysterious visitors will necessarily engage a
good deal of our attention later on. For the present we confine our
attention to those more substantial globes, whether large or small,
which are always termed planets.

Imagine for a moment that some opaque covering could be clasped around
our sun so that all his beams were extinguished. That our earth would be
plunged into the darkness of midnight is of course an obvious
consequence. A moment's consideration will show that the moon, shining
as it does by the reflected rays of the sun, would become totally
invisible. But would this extinction of the sunlight have any other
effect? Would it influence the countless brilliant points that stud the
heavens at midnight? Such an obscuration of the sun would indeed produce
a remarkable effect on the sky at night, which a little attention would
disclose. The stars, no doubt, would not exhibit the slightest change in
brilliancy. Each star shines by its own light and is not indebted to the
sun. The constellations would thus twinkle on as before, but a
wonderful change would come over the planets. Were the sun to be
obscured, the planets would also disappear from view. The midnight sky
would thus experience the effacement of the planets one by one, while
the stars would remain unaltered. It may seem difficult to realise how
the brilliancy of Venus or the lustre of Jupiter have their origin
solely in the beams which fall upon these bodies from the distant sun.
The evidence is, however, conclusive on the question; and it will be
placed before the reader more fully when we come to discuss the several
planets in detail.

Suppose that we are looking at Jupiter high in mid-heavens on a winter's
night, it might be contended that, as the earth lies between Jupiter and
the sun, it must be impossible for the rays of the sun to fall upon the
planet. This is, perhaps, not an unnatural view for an inhabitant of
this earth to adopt until he has become acquainted with the relative
sizes of the various bodies concerned, and with the distances by which
those bodies are separated. But the question would appear in a widely
different form to an inhabitant of the planet Jupiter. If such a being
were asked whether he suffered much inconvenience by the intrusion of
the earth between himself and the sun, his answer would be something of
this kind:--"No doubt such an event as the passage of the earth between
me and the sun is possible, and has occurred on rare occasions separated
by long intervals; but so far from the transit being the cause of any
inconvenience, the whole earth, of which you think so much, is really so
minute, that when it did come in front of the sun it was merely seen as
a small telescopic point, and the amount of sunlight which it
intercepted was quite inappreciable."

The fact that the planets shine by the sun's light points at once to the
similarity between them and our earth. We are thus led to regard our sun
as a central fervid globe associated with a number of much smaller
bodies, each of which, being dark itself, is indebted to the sun both
for light and for heat.

That was, indeed, a grand step in astronomy which demonstrated the
nature of the solar system. The discovery that our earth must be a
globe isolated in space was in itself a mighty exertion of human
intellect; but when it came to be recognised that this globe was but one
of a whole group of similar objects, some smaller, no doubt, but others
very much larger, and when it was further ascertained that these bodies
were subordinated to the supreme control of the sun, we have a chain of
discoveries that wrought a fundamental transformation in human
knowledge.

We thus see that the sun presides over a numerous family. The members of
that family are dependent upon the sun, and their dimensions are
suitably proportioned to their subordinate position. Even Jupiter, the
largest member of that family, does not contain one-thousandth part of
the material which forms the vast bulk of the sun. Yet the bulk of
Jupiter alone would exceed that of the rest of the planets were they all
rolled together.

Around the central luminary in Fig. 31 we have drawn four circles in
dotted lines which sufficiently illustrate the orbits in which the
different bodies move. The innermost of these four paths represents the
orbit of the planet Mercury. The planet moves around the sun in this
path, and regains the place from which it started in eighty-eight days.

The next orbit, proceeding outwards from the sun, is that of the planet
Venus, which we have already referred to as the well-known Evening Star.
Venus completes the circuit of its path in 225 days. One step further
from the sun and we come to the orbit of another planet. This body is
almost the same size as Venus, and is therefore much larger than
Mercury. The planet now under consideration accomplishes each revolution
in 365 days. This period sounds familiar to our ears. It is the length
of the year; and the planet is the earth on which we stand. There is an
impressive way in which to realise the length of the road along which
the earth has to travel in each annual journey. The circumference of a
circle is about three and one-seventh times the diameter of the same
figure; so that taking the distance from the earth to the centre of the
sun as 92,900,000 miles, the diameter of the circle which the earth
describes around the sun will be 185,800,000 miles, and consequently
the circumference of the mighty circle in which the earth moves round
the sun is fully 583,000,000 miles. The earth has to travel this
distance every year. It is merely a sum in division to find how far we
have to move each second in order to accomplish this long journey in a
twelvemonth. It will appear that the earth must actually complete
eighteen miles every second, as otherwise it would not finish its
journey within the allotted time.

[Illustration: Fig. 31.--The Orbits of the Four Interior Planets.]

Pause for a moment to think what a velocity of eighteen miles a second
really implies. Can we realise a speed so tremendous? Let us compare it
with our ordinary types of rapid movement. Look at that express train
how it crashes under the bridge, how, in another moment, it is lost to
view! Can any velocity be greater than that? Let us try it by figures.
The train moves a mile a minute; multiply that velocity by eighteen and
it becomes eighteen miles a _minute_, but we must further multiply it
by sixty to make it eighteen miles a _second_. The velocity of the
express train is not even the thousandth part of the velocity of the
earth. Let us take another illustration. We stand at the rifle ranges to
see a rifle fired at a target 1,000 feet away, and we find that a second
or two is sufficient to carry the bullet over that distance. The earth
moves nearly one hundred times as fast as the rifle bullet.

[Illustration: Fig. 32.--The Earth's Movement.]

Viewed in another way, the stupendous speed of the earth does not seem
immoderate. The earth is a mighty globe, so great indeed that even when
moving at this speed it takes almost eight minutes to pass over its own
diameter. If a steamer required eight minutes to traverse a distance
equal to its own length, its pace would be less than a mile an hour. To
illustrate this method of considering the subject, we show here a view
of the progress made by the earth (Fig. 32). The distance between the
centres of these circles is about six times the diameter; and,
accordingly, if they be taken to represent the earth, the time required
to pass from one position to the other is about forty-eight minutes.

Outside the path of the earth, we come to the orbit of the fourth
planet, Mars, which requires 687 days, or nearly two years, to complete
its circuit round the sun. With our arrival at Mars we have gained the
limit to the inner portion of the solar system.

The four planets we have mentioned form a group in themselves,
distinguished by their comparative nearness to the sun. They are all
bodies of moderate dimensions. Venus and the Earth are globes of about
the same size. Mercury and Mars are both smaller objects which lie, so
far as bulk is concerned, between the earth and the moon. The four
planets which come nearest to the sun are vastly surpassed in bulk and
weight by the giant bodies of our system--the stately group of Jupiter
and Saturn, Uranus and Neptune.

[Illustration: Fig. 33.--The Orbits of the Four Giant Planets.]

These giant planets enjoy the sun's guidance equally with their weaker
brethren. In the diagram on this page (Fig. 33) parts of the orbits of
the great outer planets are represented. The sun, as before, presides at
the centre, but the inner planets would on this scale be so close to the
sun that it is only possible to represent the orbit of Mars. After the
orbit of Mars comes a considerable interval, not, however, devoid of
planetary activity, and then follow the orbits of Jupiter and Saturn;
further still, we have Uranus, a great globe on the verge of unassisted
vision; and, lastly, the whole system is bounded by the grand orbit of
Neptune--a planet of which we shall have a marvellous story to narrate.

The various circles in Fig. 34 show the apparent sizes of the sun as
seen from the different planets. Taking the circle corresponding to the
earth to represent the amount of heat and light which the earth derives
from the sun then the other circles indicate the heat and the light
enjoyed by the corresponding planets. The next outer planet to the earth
is Mars, whose share of solar blessings is not so very inferior to that
of the earth; but we fail to see how bodies so remote as Jupiter or
Saturn can enjoy climates at all comparable with those of the planets
which are more favourably situated.

[Illustration: Fig. 34.--Comparative Apparent Size of the Sun as seen
from the Various Planets.]

Fig. 35 shows a picture of the whole family of planets surrounding the
sun--represented on the same scale, so as to exhibit their comparative
sizes. Measured by bulk, Jupiter is more than 1,200 times as great as
the earth, so that it would take at least 1,200 earths rolled into one
to form a globe equal to the globe of Jupiter. Measured by weight, the
disparity between the earth and Jupiter, though still enormous, is not
quite so great; but this is a matter to be discussed more fully in a
later chapter.

[Illustration: Fig. 35.--Comparative Sizes of the Planets.]

Even in this preliminary survey of the solar system we must not omit to
refer to the planets which attract our attention, not by their bulk, but
by their multitude. In the ample zone bounded on the inside by the orbit
of Mars and on the outside by the orbit of Jupiter it was thought at one
time that no planet revolved. Modern research has shown that this region
is tenanted, not by one planet, but by hundreds. The discovery of these
planets is a charge which has been undertaken by various diligent
astronomers of the present day, while the discussion of their movements
affords labour to other men of science. We shall find something to learn
from the study of these tiny bodies, and especially from another small
planet called Eros, which lies nearer to the earth than the limit above
indicated. A chapter will be devoted to these objects.

But we do not propose to enter deeply into the mere statistics of the
planetary system at present. Were such our intention, the tables at the
end of the volume would show that ample materials are available.
Astronomers have taken an inventory of each of the planets. They have
measured their distances, the shapes of their orbits and the positions
of those orbits, their times of revolution, and, in the case of all the
larger planets, their sizes and their weights. Such results are of
interest for many purposes. It is, however, the more general features of
the science which at present claim our attention.

Let us, in conclusion, note one or two important truths with reference
to our planetary system. We have seen that all the planets revolve in
nearly circular paths around the sun. We have now to add another fact
possessing much significance. Each of the planets pursues its path in
the same direction. It thus happens that one such body may overtake
another, but it can never happen that two planets pass by each other as
do the trains on adjacent lines of railway. We shall subsequently find
that the whole welfare of our system, nay, its continuous existence, is
dependent upon this remarkable uniformity taken in conjunction with
other features of the system.

Such is our solar system; a mighty organised group of planets
circulating under the control of the sun, and completely isolated from
all external interference. No star, no constellation, has any
appreciable influence on our solar system. We constitute a little island
group, separated from the nearest stars by the most amazing distances.
It may be that as the other stars are suns, so they too may have systems
of planets circulating around them; but of this we know nothing. Of the
stars we can only say that they appear to us as points of light, and any
planets they may possess must for ever remain invisible to us, even if
they were many times larger than Jupiter.

We need not repine at this limitation to our possible knowledge, for
just as we find in the solar system all that is necessary for our daily
bodily wants, so shall we find ample occupation for whatever faculties
we may possess in endeavouring to understand those mysteries of the
heavens which lie within our reach.




CHAPTER V.

THE LAW OF GRAVITATION.


     Gravitation--The Falling of a Stone to the Ground--All Bodies fall
     equally, Sixteen Feet in a Second--Is this true at Great
     Heights?--Fall of a Body at a Height of a Quarter of a Million
     Miles--How Newton obtained an Answer from the Moon--His Great
     Discovery--Statement of the Law of Gravitation--Illustrations of
     the Law--How is it that all the Bodies in the Universe do not rush
     Together?--The Effect of Motion--How a Circular Path can be
     produced by Attraction--General Account of the Moon's Motion--Is
     Gravitation a Force of Great Intensity?--Two Weights of 50
     lbs.--Two Iron Globes, 53 Yards in Diameter, and a Mile apart,
     attract with a Force of 1 lb.--Characteristics of
     Gravitation--Orbits of the Planets not strictly Circles--The
     Discoveries of Kepler--Construction of an Ellipse--Kepler's First
     Law--Does a Planet move Uniformly?--Law of the Changes of
     Velocity--Kepler's Second Law--The Relation between the Distances
     and the Periodic Times--Kepler's Third Law--Kepler's Laws and the
     Law of Gravitation--Movement in a Straight Line--A Body unacted on
     by Disturbing Forces would move in a Straight Line with Constant
     Velocity--Application to the Earth and the Planets--The Law of
     Gravitation deduced from Kepler's Laws--Universal Gravitation.

Our description of the heavenly bodies must undergo a slight
interruption, while we illustrate with appropriate detail an important
principle, known as the law of gravitation, which underlies the whole of
astronomy. By this law we can explain the movements of the moon around
the earth, and of the planets around the sun. It is accordingly
incumbent upon us to discuss this subject before we proceed to the more
particular account of the separate planets. We shall find, too, that the
law of gravitation sheds some much-needed light on the nature of the
stars situated at the remotest distances in space. It also enables us to
cast a glance through the vistas of time past, and to trace with
plausibility, if not with certainty, certain early phases in the history
of our system. The sun and the moon, the planets and the comets, the
stars and the nebulæ, all alike are subject to this universal law, which
is now to engage our attention.

What is more familiar than the fact that when a stone is dropped it
will fall to the ground? No one at first thinks the matter even worthy
of remark. People are often surprised at seeing a piece of iron drawn to
a magnet. Yet the fall of a stone to the ground is the manifestation of
a force quite as interesting as the force of magnetism. It is the earth
which draws the stone, just as the magnet draws the iron. In each case
the force is one of attraction; but while the magnetic attraction is
confined to a few substances, and is of comparatively limited
importance, the attraction of gravitation is significant throughout the
universe.

Let us commence with a few very simple experiments upon the force of
gravitation. Hold in the hand a small piece of lead, and then allow it
to drop upon a cushion. The lead requires a certain time to move from
the fingers to the cushion, but that time is always the same when the
height is the same. Take now a larger piece of lead, and hold one piece
in each hand at the same height. If both are released at the same
moment, they will both reach the cushion simultaneously. It might have
been thought that the heavy body would fall more quickly than the light
body; but when the experiment is tried, it is seen that this is not the
case. Repeat the experiment with various other substances. An ordinary
marble will be found to fall in the same time as the piece of lead. With
a piece of cork we again try the experiment, and again obtain the same
result. At first it seems to fail when we compare a feather with the
piece of lead; but that is solely on account of the air, which resists
the feather more than it resists the lead. If, however, the feather be
placed upon the top of a penny, and the penny be horizontal when
dropped, it will clear the air out of the way of the feather in its
descent, and then the feather will fall as quickly as the penny, as
quickly as the marble, or as quickly as the lead.

If the observer were in a gallery when trying these experiments, and if
the cushion were sixteen feet below his hands, then the time the marble
would take to fall through the sixteen feet would be one second. The
time occupied by the cork or by the lead would be the same; and even the
feather itself would fall through sixteen feet in one second, if it
could be screened from the interference of the air. Try this experiment
where we like, in London, or in any other city, in any island or
continent, on board a ship at sea, at the North Pole, or the South Pole,
or the equator, it will always be found that any body, of any size or
any material, will fall about sixteen feet in one second of time.

Lest any erroneous impression should arise, we may just mention that the
distance traversed in one second does vary slightly at different parts
of the earth, but from causes which need not at this moment detain us.
We shall for the present regard sixteen feet as the distance through
which any body, free from interference, would fall in one second at any
part of the earth's surface. But now let us extend our view above the
earth's surface, and enquire how far this law of sixteen feet in a
second may find obedience elsewhere. Let us, for instance, ascend to the
top of a mountain and try the experiment there. It would be found that
at the top of the mountain a marble would take a little longer to fall
through sixteen feet than the same marble would if let fall at its base.
The difference would be very small; but yet it would be measurable, and
would suffice to show that the power of the earth to pull the marble to
the ground becomes somewhat weakened at a point high above the earth's
surface. Whatever be the elevation to which we ascend, be it either the
top of a high mountain, or the still greater altitudes that have been
reached in balloon ascents, we shall never find that the tendency of
bodies to fall to the ground ceases, though no doubt the higher we go
the more is that tendency weakened. It would be of great interest to
find how far this power of the earth to draw bodies towards it can
really extend. We cannot attain more than about five or six miles above
the earth's surface in a balloon; yet we want to know what would happen
if we could ascend 500 miles, or 5,000 miles, or still further, into the
regions of space.

Conceive that a traveller were endowed with some means of soaring aloft
for miles and thousands of miles, still up and up, until at length he
had attained the awful height of nearly a quarter of a million of miles
above the ground. Glancing down at the surface of that earth, which is
at such a stupendous depth beneath, he would be able to see a wonderful
bird's-eye view. He would lose, no doubt, the details of towns and
villages; the features in such a landscape would be whole continents and
whole oceans, in so far as the openings between the clouds would permit
the earth's surface to be exposed.

At this stupendous elevation he could try one of the most interesting
experiments that was ever in the power of a philosopher. He could test
whether the earth's attraction was felt at such a height, and he could
measure the amount of that attraction. Take for the experiment a cork, a
marble, or any other object, large or small; hold it between the
fingers, and let it go. Everyone knows what would happen in such a case
down here; but it required Sir Isaac Newton to tell what would happen in
such a case up there. Newton asserts that the power of the earth to
attract bodies extends even to this great height, and that the marble
would fall. This is the doctrine that we can now test. We are ready for
the experiment. The marble is released, and, lo! our first exclamation
is one of wonder. Instead of dropping instantly, the little object
appears to remain suspended. We are on the point of exclaiming that we
must have gone beyond the earth's attraction, and that Newton is wrong,
when our attention is arrested; the marble is beginning to move, so
slowly that at first we have to watch it carefully. But the pace
gradually improves, so that the attraction is beyond all doubt, until,
gradually acquiring more and more velocity, the marble speeds on its
long journey of a quarter of a million of miles to the earth.

But surely, it will be said, such an experiment must be entirely
impossible; and no doubt it cannot be performed in the way described.
The bold idea occurred to Newton of making use of the moon itself, which
is almost a quarter of a million of miles above the earth, for the
purpose of answering the question. Never was our satellite put to such
noble use before. It is actually at each moment falling in towards the
earth. We can calculate how much it is deflected towards the earth in
each second, and thus obtain a measure of the earth's attractive power.
From such enquiries Newton was able to learn that a body released at the
distance of 240,000 miles above the surface of the earth would still be
attracted by the earth, that in virtue of the attraction the body would
commence to move off towards the earth--not, indeed, with the velocity
with which a body falls in experiments on the surface, but with a very
much lesser speed. A body dropped down from the distance of the moon
would commence its long journey so slowly that a _minute_, instead of a
_second_, would have elapsed before the distance of sixteen feet had
been accomplished.[11]

It was by pondering on information thus won from the moon that Newton
made his immortal discovery. The gravitation of the earth is a force
which extends far and wide through space. The more distant the body, the
weaker the gravitation becomes; here Newton found the means of
determining the great problem as to the law according to which the
intensity of the gravitation decreased. The information derived from the
moon, that a body 240,000 miles away requires a minute to fall through a
space equal to that through which it would fall in a second down here,
was of paramount importance. In the first place, it shows that the
attractive power of the earth, by which it draws all bodies earthwards,
becomes weaker at a distance. This might, indeed, have been anticipated.
It is as reasonable to suppose that as we retreated further and further
into the depths of space the power of attraction should diminish, as
that the lustre of light should diminish as we recede from it; and it is
remarkable that the law according to which the attraction of gravitation
decreases with the increase of distance is precisely the same as the
law according to which the brilliancy of a light decreases as its
distance increases.

The law of nature, stated in its simplest form, asserts that the
intensity of gravitation varies inversely as the square of the distance.
Let me endeavour to elucidate this somewhat abstract statement by one or
two simple illustrations. Suppose a body were raised above the surface
of the earth to a height of nearly 4,000 miles, so as to be at an
altitude equal to the radius of the earth. In other words, a body so
situated would be twice as far from the centre of the earth as a body
which lay on the surface. The law of gravitation says that the intensity
of the attraction is then to be decreased to one-fourth part, so that
the pull of the earth on a body 4,000 miles high is only one quarter of
the pull of the earth on that body so long as it lies on the ground. We
may imagine the effect of this pull to be shown in different ways. Allow
the body to fall, and in the interval of one second it will only drop
through four feet, a mere quarter of the distance that gravity would
cause near the earth's surface.

We may consider the matter in another way by supposing that the
attraction of the earth is measured by one of those little weighing
machines known as a spring balance. If a weight of four pounds be hung
on such a contrivance, at the earth's surface, the index of course shows
a weight of four pounds; but conceive this balance, still bearing the
weight appended thereto, were to be carried up and up, the _indicated_
strain would become less and less, until by the time the balance reached
4,000 miles high, where it was _twice_ as far away from the earth's
centre as at first, the indicated strain would be reduced to the
_fourth_ part, and the balance would only show one pound. If we could
imagine the instrument to be carried still further into the depths of
space, the indication of the scale would steadily continue to decline.
By the time the apparatus had reached a distance of 8,000 miles high,
being then _three_ times as far from the earth's centre as at first, the
law of gravitation tells us that the attraction must have decreased to
one-ninth part. The strain thus shown on the balance would be only the
ninth part of four pounds, or less than half a pound. But let the voyage
be once again resumed, and let not a halt be made this time until the
balance and its four-pound weight have retreated to that orbit which the
moon traverses in its monthly course around the earth. The distance thus
attained is about sixty times the radius of the earth, and consequently
the attraction of gravitation is diminished in the proportion of one to
the square of sixty; the spring will then only be strained by the
inappreciable fraction of 1-3,600 part of four pounds. It therefore
appears that a weight which on the earth weighed a ton and a half would,
if raised 240,000 miles, weigh less than a pound. But even at this vast
distance we are not to halt; imagine that we retreat still further and
further; the strain shown by the balance will ever decrease, but it will
still exist, no matter how far we go. Astronomy appears to teach us that
the attraction of gravitation can extend, with suitably enfeebled
intensity, across the most profound gulfs of space.

The principle of gravitation is of far wider scope than we have yet
indicated. We have spoken merely of the attraction of the earth, and we
have stated that this force extends throughout space. But the law of
gravitation is not so limited. Not only does the earth attract every
other body, and every other body attract the earth, but each of these
bodies attracts the other; so that in its more complete shape the law of
gravitation announces that "every body in the universe attracts every
other body with a force which varies inversely as the square of the
distance."

It is impossible for us to over-estimate the importance of this law. It
supplies the clue by which we can unravel the complicated movements of
the planets. It has led to marvellous discoveries, in which the law of
gravitation has enabled us to anticipate the telescope, and to feel the
existence of bodies before those bodies have even been seen.

An objection which may be raised at this point must first be dealt with.
It seems to be, indeed, a plausible one. If the earth attracts the moon,
why does not the moon tumble down on the earth? If the earth is
attracted by the sun, why does it not tumble into the sun? If the sun is
attracted by other stars, why do they not rush together with a frightful
collision? It may not unreasonably be urged that if all these bodies in
the heavens are attracting each other, it would seem that they must all
rush together in consequence of that attraction, and thus weld the whole
material universe into a single mighty mass. We know, as a matter of
fact, that these collisions do not often happen, and that there is
extremely little likelihood of their taking place. We see that although
our earth is said to have been attracted by the sun for countless ages,
yet the earth is just as far from the sun as ever it was. Is not this in
conflict with the doctrine of universal gravitation? In the early days
of astronomy such objections would be regarded, and doubtless were
regarded, as well-nigh insuperable; even still we occasionally hear them
raised, and it is therefore the more incumbent on us to explain how it
happens that the solar system has been able to escape from the
catastrophe by which it seems to be threatened.

There can be no doubt that if the moon and the earth had been initially
placed _at rest_, they would have been drawn together by their mutual
attraction. So, too, if the system of planets surrounding the sun had
been left initially _at rest_ they would have dashed into the sun, and
the system would have been annihilated. It is the fact that the planets
are _moving_, and that the moon is _moving_, which has enabled these
bodies successfully to resist the attraction in so far, at least, as
that they are not drawn thereby to total destruction.

It is so desirable that the student should understand clearly how a
central attraction is compatible with revolution in a nearly circular
path, that we give an illustration to show how the moon pursues its
monthly orbit under the guidance and the control of the attracting
earth.

[Illustration: Fig. 36.--Illustration of the Moon's Motion.]

The imaginary sketch in Fig. 36 denotes a section of the earth with a
high mountain thereon.[12] If a cannon were stationed on the top of the
mountain at C, and if the cannonball were fired off in the direction C E
with a moderate charge of powder, the ball would move down along the
first curved path. If it be fired a second time with a heavier charge,
the path will be along the second curved line, and the ball would again
fall to the ground. But let us try next time with a charge still further
increased, and, indeed, with a far stronger cannon than any piece of
ordnance ever yet made. The velocity of the projectile must now be
assumed to be some miles per second, but we can conceive that the speed
shall be so adjusted that the ball shall move along the path C D, always
at the same height above the earth, though still curving, as every
projectile must curve, from the horizontal line in which it moved at the
first moment. Arrived at D, the ball will still be at the same height
above the surface, and its velocity must be unabated. It will therefore
continue in its path and move round another quadrant of the circle
without getting nearer to the surface. In this manner the projectile
will travel completely round the whole globe, coming back again to C and
then taking another start in the same path. If we could abolish the
mountain and the cannon at the top, we should have a body revolving for
ever around the earth in consequence of the attraction of gravitation.

Make now a bold stretch of the imagination. Conceive a terrific cannon
capable of receiving a round bullet not less than 2,000 miles in
diameter. Discharge this enormous bullet with a velocity of about 3,000
feet per second, which is two or three times as great as the velocity
actually attainable in modern artillery. Let this notable bullet be
fired horizontally from some station nearly a quarter of a million miles
above the surface of the earth. That fearful missile would sweep right
round the earth in a nearly circular orbit, and return to where it
started in about four weeks. It would then commence another revolution,
four weeks more would find it again at the starting point, and this
motion would go on for ages.

Do not suppose that we are entirely romancing. We cannot indeed show the
cannon, but we can point to a great projectile. We see it every month;
it is the beautiful moon herself. No one asserts that the moon was ever
shot from such a cannon; but it must be admitted that she moves as if
she had been. In a later chapter we shall enquire into the history of
the moon, and show how she came to revolve in this wonderful manner.

As with the moon around the earth, so with the earth around the sun. The
illustration shows that a circular or nearly circular motion harmonises
with the conception of the law of universal gravitation.

We are accustomed to regard gravitation as a force of stupendous
magnitude. Does not gravitation control the moon in its revolution
around the earth? Is not even the mighty earth itself retained in its
path around the sun by the surpassing power of the sun's attraction? No
doubt the actual force which keeps the earth in its path, as well as
that which retains the moon in our neighbourhood, is of vast intensity,
but that is because gravitation is in such cases associated with bodies
of enormous mass. No one can deny that all bodies accessible to our
observation appear to attract each other in accordance with the law of
gravitation; but it must be confessed that, unless one or both of the
attracting bodies is of gigantic dimensions, the intensity is almost
immeasurably small.

Let us attempt to illustrate how feeble is the gravitation between
masses of easily manageable dimensions. Take, for instance, two iron
weights, each weighing about 50lb., and separated by a distance of one
foot from centre to centre. There is a certain attraction of gravitation
between these weights. The two weights are drawn together, yet they do
not move. The attraction between them, though it certainly exists, is an
extremely minute force, not at all comparable as to intensity with
magnetic attraction. Everyone knows that a magnet will draw a piece of
iron with considerable vigour, but the intensity of gravitation is very
much less on masses of equal amount. The attraction between these two
50lb. weights is less than the ten-millionth part of a single pound.
Such a force is utterly infinitesimal in comparison with the friction
between the weights and the table on which they stand, and hence there
is no response to the attraction by even the slightest movement. Yet, if
we can conceive each of these weights mounted on wheels absolutely
devoid of friction, and running on absolutely perfect horizontal rails,
then there is no doubt that the bodies would slowly commence to draw
together, and in the course of time would arrive in actual contact.

If we desire to conceive gravitation as a force of measurable intensity,
we must employ masses immensely more ponderous than those 50lb. weights.
Imagine a pair of globes, each composed of 417,000 tons of cast iron,
and each, if solid, being about 53 yards in diameter. Imagine these
globes placed at a distance of one mile apart. Each globe attracts the
other by the force of gravitation. It does not matter that buildings and
obstacles of every description intervene; gravitation will pass through
such impediments as easily as light passes through glass. No screen can
be devised dense enough to intercept the passage of this force. Each of
these iron globes will therefore under all circumstances attract the
other; but, notwithstanding their ample proportions, the intensity of
that attraction is still very small, though appreciable. The attraction
between these two globes is a force no greater than the pressure exerted
by a single pound weight. A child could hold back one of these massive
globes from its attraction by the other. Suppose that all was clear, and
that friction could be so neutralised as to permit the globes to follow
the impulse of their mutual attractions. The two globes will then
commence to approach, but the masses are so large, while the attraction
is so small, that the speed will be accelerated very slowly. A
microscope would be necessary to show when the motion has actually
commenced. An hour and a half must elapse before the distance is
diminished by a single foot; and although the pace improves
subsequently, yet three or four days must elapse before the two globes
will come together.

The most remarkable characteristic of the force of gravitation must be
here specially alluded to. The intensity appears to depend only on the
quantity of matter in the bodies, and not at all on the nature of the
substances of which these bodies are composed. We have described the two
globes as made of cast iron, but if either or both were composed of lead
or copper, of wood or stone, of air or water, the attractive power would
still be the same, provided only that the masses remain unaltered. In
this we observe a profound difference between the attraction of
gravitation and magnetic attraction. In the latter case the attraction
is not perceptible at all in the great majority of substances, and is
only considerable in the case of iron.

In our account of the solar system we have represented the moon as
revolving around the earth in a _nearly_ circular path, and the planets
as revolving around the sun in orbits which are also approximately
circular. It is now our duty to give a more minute description of these
remarkable paths; and, instead of dismissing them as being _nearly_
circles, we must ascertain precisely in what respects they differ
therefrom.

If a planet revolved around the sun in a truly circular path, of which
the sun was always at the centre, it is then obvious that the distance
from the sun to the planet, being always equal to the radius of the
circle, must be of constant magnitude. Now, there can be no doubt that
the distance from the sun to each planet is approximately constant; but
when accurate observations are made, it becomes clear that the distance
is not absolutely so. The variations in distance may amount to many
millions of miles, but, even in extreme cases, the variation in the
distance of the planet is only a small fraction--usually a very small
fraction--of the total amount of that distance. The circumstances vary
in the case of each of the planets. The orbit of the earth itself is
such that the distance from the earth to the sun departs but little from
its mean value. Venus makes even a closer approach to perfectly circular
movement; while, on the other hand, the path of Mars, and much more the
path of Mercury, show considerable relative fluctuations in the distance
from the planet to the sun.

It has often been noticed that many of the great discoveries in science
have their origin in the nice observation and explanation of minute
departures from some law approximately true. We have in this department
of astronomy an excellent illustration of this principle. The orbits of
the planets are nearly circles, but they are not exactly circles. Now,
why is this? There must be some natural reason. That reason has been
ascertained, and it has led to several of the grandest discoveries that
the mind of man has ever achieved in the realms of Nature.

In the first place, let us see the inferences to be drawn from the fact
that the distance of a planet from the sun is not constant. The motion
in a circle is one of such beauty and simplicity that we are reluctant
to abandon it, unless the necessity for doing so be made clearly
apparent. Can we not devise any way by which the circular motion might
be preserved, and yet be compatible with the fluctuations in the
distance from the planet to the sun? This is clearly impossible with the
sun at the centre of the circle. But suppose the sun did not occupy the
centre, while the planet, as before, revolved around the sun. The
distance between the two bodies would then necessarily fluctuate. The
more eccentric the position of the sun, the larger would be the
proportionate variation in the distance of the planet when at the
different parts of its orbit. It might further be supposed that by
placing a series of circles around the sun the various planetary orbits
could be accounted for. The centre of the circle belonging to Venus is
to coincide very nearly with the centre of the sun, and the centres of
the orbits of all the other planets are to be placed at such suitable
distances from the sun as will render a satisfactory explanation of the
gradual increase and decrease of the distance between the two bodies.

There can be no doubt that the movements of the moon and of the planets
would be, to a large extent, explained by such a system of circular
orbits; but the spirit of astronomical enquiry is not satisfied with
approximate results. Again and again the planets are observed, and again
and again the observations are compared with the places which the
planets would occupy if they moved in accordance with the system here
indicated. The centres of the circles are moved hither and thither,
their radii are adjusted with greater care; but it is all of no avail.
The observations of the planets are minutely examined to see if they can
be in error; but of errors there are none at all sufficient to account
for the discrepancies. The conclusion is thus inevitable--astronomers
are forced to abandon the circular motion, which was thought to possess
such unrivalled symmetry and beauty, and are compelled to admit that the
orbits of the planets are not circular.

Then if these orbits be not circles, what are they? Such was the great
problem which Kepler proposed to solve, and which, to his immortal
glory, he succeeded in solving and in proving to demonstration. The
great discovery of the true shape of the planetary orbits stands out as
one of the most conspicuous events in the history of astronomy. It may,
in fact, be doubted whether any other discovery in the whole range of
science has led to results of such far-reaching interest.

We must here adventure for a while into the field of science known as
geometry, and study therein the nature of that curve which the
discovery of Kepler has raised to such unparalleled importance. The
subject, no doubt, is a difficult one, and to pursue it with any detail
would involve us in many abstruse calculations which would be out of
place in this volume; but a general sketch of the subject is
indispensable, and we must attempt to render it such justice as may be
compatible with our limits.

The curve which represents with perfect fidelity the movements of a
planet in its revolution around the sun belongs to that well-known group
of curves which mathematicians describe as the conic sections. The
particular form of conic section which denotes the orbit of a planet is
known by the name of the _ellipse_: it is spoken of somewhat less
accurately as an oval. The ellipse is a curve which can be readily
constructed. There is no simpler method of doing so than that which is
familiar to draughtsmen, and which we shall here briefly describe.

We represent on the next page (Fig. 37) two pins passing through a sheet
of paper. A loop of twine passes over the two pins in the manner here
indicated, and is stretched by the point of a pencil. With a little care
the pencil can be guided so as to keep the string stretched, and its
point will then describe a curve completely round the pins, returning to
the point from which it started. We thus produce that celebrated
geometrical figure which is called an ellipse.

It will be instructive to draw a number of ellipses, varying in each
case the circumstances under which they are formed. If, for instance,
the pins remain placed as before, while the length of the loop is
increased, so that the pencil is farther away from the pins, then it
will be observed that the ellipse has lost some of its elongation, and
approaches more closely to a circle. On the other hand, if the length of
the cord in the loop be lessened, while the pins remain as before, the
ellipse will be found more oval, or, as a mathematician would say, its
_eccentricity_ is increased. It is also useful to study the changes
which the form of the ellipse undergoes when one of the pins is altered,
while the length of the loop remains unchanged. If the two pins be
brought nearer together the eccentricity will decrease, and the ellipse
will approximate more closely to the shape of a circle. If the pins be
separated more widely the eccentricity of the ellipse will be increased.
That the circle is an extreme form of ellipse will be evident, if we
suppose the two pins to draw in so close together that they become
coincident; the point will then simply trace out a circle as the pencil
moves round the figure.

[Illustration: Fig. 37.--Drawing an Ellipse.]

The points marked by the pins obviously possess very remarkable
relations with respect to the curve. Each one is called a _focus_, and
an ellipse can only have one pair of foci. In other words, there is but
a single pair of positions possible for the two pins, when an ellipse of
specified size, shape, and position is to be constructed.

The ellipse differs principally from a circle in the circumstance that
it possesses variety of form. We can have large and small ellipses just
as we can have large and small circles, but we can also have ellipses of
greater or less eccentricity. If the ellipse has not the perfect
simplicity of the circle it has, at least, the charm of variety which
the circle has not. The oval curve has also the beauty derived from an
outline of perfect grace and an association with ennobling conceptions.

The ancient geometricians had studied the ellipse: they had noticed its
foci; they were acquainted with its geometrical relations; and thus
Kepler was familiar with the ellipse at the time when he undertook his
celebrated researches on the movements of the planets. He had found, as
we have already indicated, that the movements of the planets could not
be reconciled with circular orbits. What shape of orbit should next be
tried? The ellipse was ready to hand, its properties were known, and the
comparison could be made; memorable, indeed, was the consequence of this
comparison. Kepler found that the movement of the planets could be
explained, by supposing that the path in which each one revolved was an
ellipse. This in itself was a discovery of the most commanding
importance. On the one hand it reduced to order the movements of the
great globes which circulate round the sun; while on the other, it took
that beautiful class of curves which had exercised the geometrical
talents of the ancients, and assigned to them the dignity of defining
the highways of the universe.

But we have as yet only partly enunciated the first discovery of Kepler.
We have seen that a planet revolves in an ellipse around the sun, and
that the sun is, therefore, at some point in the interior of the
ellipse--but at what point? Interesting, indeed, is the answer to this
question. We have pointed out how the foci possess a geometrical
significance which no other points enjoy. Kepler showed that the sun
must be situated in one of the foci of the ellipse in which each planet
revolves. We thus enunciate the first law of planetary motion in the
following words:--

     _Each planet revolves around the sun in an elliptic path, having
     the sun at one of the foci._

We are now enabled to form a clear picture of the orbits of the planets,
be they ever so numerous, as they revolve around the sun. In the first
place, we observe that the ellipse is a plane curve; that is to say,
each planet must, in the course of its long journey, confine its
movements to one plane. Each planet has thus a certain plane
appropriated to it. It is true that all these planes are very nearly
coincident, at least in so far as the great planets are concerned; but
still they are distinct, and the only feature in which they all agree is
that each one of them passes through the sun. All the elliptic orbits of
the planets have one focus in common, and that focus lies at the centre
of the sun.

It is well to illustrate this remarkable law by considering the
circumstances of two or three different planets. Take first the case of
the earth, the path of which, though really an ellipse, is very nearly
circular. In fact, if it were drawn accurately to scale on a sheet of
paper, the difference between the elliptic orbit and the circle would
hardly be detected without careful measurement. In the case of Venus the
ellipse is still more nearly a circle, and the two foci of the ellipse
are very nearly coincident with the centre of the circle. On the other
hand, in the case of Mercury, we have an ellipse which departs from the
circle to a very marked extent, while in the orbits of some of the minor
planets the eccentricity is still greater. It is extremely remarkable
that every planet, no matter how far from the sun, should be found to
move in an ellipse of some shape or other. We shall presently show that
necessity compels each planet to pursue an elliptic path, and that no
other form of path is possible.

Started on its elliptic path, the planet pursues its stately course, and
after a certain duration, known as the _periodic time_, regains the
position from which its departure was taken. Again the planet traces out
anew the same elliptic path, and thus, revolution after revolution, an
identical track is traversed around the sun. Let us now attempt to
follow the body in its course, and observe the history of its motion
during the time requisite for the completion of one of its circuits. The
dimensions of a planetary orbit are so stupendous that the planet must
run its course very rapidly in order to finish the journey within the
allotted time. The earth, as we have already seen, has to move eighteen
miles a second to accomplish one of its voyages round the sun in the
lapse of 365-1/4 days. The question then arises as to whether the rate
at which a planet moves is uniform or not. Does the earth, for instance,
actually move at all times with the velocity of eighteen miles a
second, or does our planet sometimes move more rapidly and sometimes
more slowly, so that the average of eighteen miles a second is still
maintained? This is a question of very great importance, and we are able
to answer it in the clearest and most emphatic manner. The velocity of a
planet is _not_ uniform, and the variations of that velocity can be
explained by the adjoining figure (Fig. 38).

[Illustration: Fig. 38.--Varying Velocity of Elliptic Motion.]

Let us first of all imagine the planet to be situated at that part of
its path most distant from the sun towards the right of the figure. In
this position the body's velocity is at its lowest; as the planet begins
to approach the sun the speed gradually improves until it attains its
mean value. After this point has been passed, and the planet is now
rapidly hurrying on towards the sun, the velocity with which it moves
becomes gradually greater and greater, until at length, as it dashes
round the sun, its speed attains a maximum. After passing the sun, the
distance of the planet from the luminary increases, and the velocity of
the motion begins to abate; gradually it declines until the mean value
is again reached, and then it falls still lower, until the body recedes
to its greatest distance from the sun, by which time the velocity has
abated to the value from which we supposed it to commence. We thus
observe that the nearer the planet is to the sun the quicker it moves.
We can, however, give numerical definiteness to the principle according
to which the velocity of the planet varies. The adjoining figure (Fig.
39) shows a planetary orbit, with, of course, the sun at the focus S. We
have taken two portions, A B and C D, round the ellipse, and joined
their extremities to the focus. Kepler's second law may be stated in
these words:--

     "_Every planet moves round the sun with such a velocity at every
     point, that a straight line drawn from it to the sun passes over
     equal areas in equal times._"

[Illustration: Fig. 39.--Equal Areas in Equal Times.]

For example, if the two shaded portions, A B S and D C S, are equal in
area, then the times occupied by the planet in travelling over the
portions of the ellipse, A B and C D, are equal. If the one area be
greater than the other, then the times required are in the proportion of
the areas.

This law being admitted, the reason of the increase in the planet's
velocity when it approaches the sun is at once apparent. To accomplish a
definite area when near the sun, a larger arc is obviously necessary
than at other parts of the path. At the opposite extremity, a small arc
suffices for a large area, and the velocity is accordingly less.

These two laws completely prescribe the motion of a planet round the
sun. The first defines the path which the planet pursues; the second
describes how the velocity of the body varies at different points along
its path. But Kepler added to these a third law, which enables us to
compare the movements of two different planets revolving round the same
sun. Before stating this law, it is necessary to explain exactly what is
meant by the _mean_ distance of a planet. In its elliptic path the
distance from the sun to the planet is constantly changing; but it is
nevertheless easy to attach a distinct meaning to that distance which is
an average of all the distances. This average is called the mean
distance. The simplest way of finding the mean distance is to add the
greatest of these quantities to the least, and take half the sum. We
have already defined the periodic time of the planet; it is the number
of days which the planet requires for the completion of a journey round
its path. Kepler's third law establishes a relation between the mean
distances and the periodic times of the various planets. That relation
is stated in the following words:--

     "_The squares of the periodic times are proportional to the cubes
     of the mean distances._"

Kepler knew that the different planets had different periodic times; he
also saw that the greater the mean distance of the planet the greater
was its periodic time, and he was determined to find out the connection
between the two. It was easily found that it would not be true to say
that the periodic time is merely proportional to the mean distance. Were
this the case, then if one planet had a distance twice as great as
another, the periodic time of the former would have been double that of
the latter; observation showed, however, that the periodic time of the
more distant planet exceeded twice, and was indeed nearly three times,
that of the other. By repeated trials, which would have exhausted the
patience of one less confident in his own sagacity, and less assured of
the accuracy of the observations which he sought to interpret, Kepler at
length discovered the true law, and expressed it in the form we have
stated.

To illustrate the nature of this law, we shall take for comparison the
earth and the planet Venus. If we denote the mean distance of the earth
from the sun by unity then the mean distance of Venus from the sun is
0·7233. Omitting decimals beyond the first place, we can represent the
periodic time of the earth as 365·3 days, and the periodic time of
Venus as 224·7 days. Now the law which Kepler asserts is that the square
of 365·3 is to the square of 224·7 in the same proportion as unity is to
the cube of 0·7233. The reader can easily verify the truth of this
identity by actual multiplication. It is, however, to be remembered
that, as only four figures have been retained in the expressions of the
periodic times, so only four figures are to be considered significant in
making the calculations.

The most striking manner of making the verification will be to regard
the time of the revolution of Venus as an unknown quantity, and deduce
it from the known revolution of the earth and the mean distance of
Venus. In this way, by assuming Kepler's law, we deduce the cube of the
periodic time by a simple proportion, and the resulting value of 224·7
days can then be obtained. As a matter of fact, in the calculations of
astronomy, the distances of the planets are usually ascertained from
Kepler's law. The periodic time of the planet is an element which can be
measured with great accuracy; and once it is known, then the square of
the mean distance, and consequently the mean distance itself, is
determined.

Such are the three celebrated laws of Planetary Motion, which have
always been associated with the name of their discoverer. The profound
skill by which these laws were elicited from the mass of observations,
the intrinsic beauty of the laws themselves, their widespread
generality, and the bond of union which they have established between
the various members of the solar system, have given them quite an
exceptional position in astronomy.

As established by Kepler, these planetary laws were merely the results
of observation. It was found, as a matter of fact, that the planets did
move in ellipses, but Kepler assigned no reason why they should adopt
this curve rather than any other. Still less was he able to offer a
reason why these bodies should sweep over equal areas in equal times, or
why that third law was invariably obeyed. The laws as they came from
Kepler's hands stood out as three independent truths; thoroughly
established, no doubt, but unsupported by any arguments as to why these
movements rather than any others should be appropriate for the
revolutions of the planets.

It was the crowning triumph of the great law of universal gravitation to
remove this empirical character from Kepler's laws. Newton's grand
discovery bound together the three isolated laws of Kepler into one
beautiful doctrine. He showed not only that those laws are true, but he
showed why they must be true, and why no other laws could have been
true. He proved to demonstration in his immortal work, the "Principia,"
that the explanation of the famous planetary laws was to be sought in
the attraction of gravitation. Newton set forth that a power of
attraction resided in the sun, and as a necessary consequence of that
attraction every planet must revolve in an elliptic orbit round the sun,
having the sun as one focus; the radius of the planet's orbit must sweep
over equal areas in equal times; and in comparing the movements of two
planets, it was necessary to have the squares of the periodic times
proportional to the cubes of the mean distances.

As this is not a mathematical treatise, it will be impossible for us to
discuss the proofs which Newton has given, and which have commanded the
immediate and universal acquiescence of all who have taken the trouble
to understand them. We must here confine ourselves only to a very brief
and general survey of the subject, which will indicate the character of
the reasoning employed, without introducing details of a technical
character.

Let us, in the first place, endeavour to think of a globe freely poised
in space, and completely isolated from the influence of every other body
in the universe. Let us imagine that this globe is set in motion by some
impulse which starts it forward on a rapid voyage through the realms of
space. When the impulse ceases the globe is in motion, and continues to
move onwards. But what will be the path which it pursues? We are so
accustomed to see a stone thrown into the air moving in a curved path,
that we might naturally think a body projected into free space will
also move in a curve. A little consideration will, however, show that
the cases are very different. In the realms of free space we find no
conception of upwards or downwards; all paths are alike; there is no
reason why the body should swerve to the right or to the left; and hence
we are led to surmise that in these circumstances a body, once started
and freed from all interference, would move in a straight line. It is
true that this statement is one which can never be submitted to the test
of direct experiment. Circumstanced as we are on the surface of the
earth, we have no means of isolating a body from external forces. The
resistance of the air, as well as friction in various other forms, no
less than the gravitation towards the earth itself, interfere with our
experiments. A stone thrown along a sheet of ice will be exposed to but
little resistance, and in this case we see that the stone will take a
straight course along the frozen surface. A stone similarly cast into
empty space would pursue a course absolutely rectilinear. This we
demonstrate, not by any attempts at an experiment which would
necessarily be futile, but by indirect reasoning. The truth of this
principle can never for a moment be doubted by one who has duly weighed
the arguments which have been produced in its behalf.

Admitting, then, the rectilinear path of the body, the next question
which arises relates to the velocity with which that movement is
performed. The stone gliding over the smooth ice on a frozen lake will,
as everyone has observed, travel a long distance before it comes to
rest. There is but little friction between the ice and the stone, but
still even on ice friction is not altogether absent; and as that
friction always tends to stop the motion, the stone will at length be
brought to rest. In a voyage through the solitudes of space, a body
experiences no friction; there is no tendency for the velocity to be
reduced, and consequently we believe that the body could journey on for
ever with unabated speed. No doubt such a statement seems at variance
with our ordinary experience. A sailing ship makes no progress on the
sea when the wind dies away. A train will gradually lose its velocity
when the steam has been turned off. A humming-top will slowly expend its
rotation and come to rest. From such instances it might be plausibly
argued that when the force has ceased to act, the motion that the force
generated gradually wanes, and ultimately vanishes. But in all these
cases it will be found, on reflection, that the decline of the motion is
to be attributed to the action of resisting forces. The sailing ship is
retarded by the rubbing of the water on its sides; the train is checked
by the friction of the wheels, and by the fact that it has to force its
way through the air; and the atmospheric resistance is mainly the cause
of the stopping of the humming-top, for if the air be withdrawn, by
making the experiment in a vacuum, the top will continue to spin for a
greatly lengthened period. We are thus led to admit that a body, once
projected freely in space and acted upon by no external resistance, will
continue to move on for ever in a straight line, and will preserve
unabated to the end of time the velocity with which it originally
started. This principle is known as the _first law of motion_.

Let us apply this principle to the important question of the movement of
the planets. Take, for instance, the case of our earth, and let us
discuss the consequences of the first law of motion. We know that the
earth is moving each moment with a velocity of about eighteen miles a
second, and the first law of motion assures us that if this globe were
submitted to no external force, it would for ever pursue a straight
track through the universe, nor would it depart from the precise
velocity which it possesses at the present moment. But is the earth
moving in this manner? Obviously not. We have already found that our
globe is moving round the sun, and the comprehensive laws of Kepler have
given to that motion the most perfect distinctness and precision. The
consequence is irresistible. The earth cannot be free from external
force. Some potent influence on our globe must be in ceaseless action.
That influence, whatever it may be, constantly deflects the earth from
the rectilinear path which it tends to pursue, and constrains it to
trace out an ellipse instead of a straight line.

The great problem to be solved is now easily stated. There must be some
external agent constantly influencing the earth. What is that agent,
whence does it proceed, and to what laws is it submitted? Nor is the
question confined to the earth. Mercury and Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and
Saturn, unmistakably show that, as they are not moving in rectilinear
paths, they must be exposed to some force. What is this force which
guides the planets in their paths? Before the time of Newton this
question might have been asked in vain. It was the splendid genius of
Newton which supplied the answer, and thus revolutionised the whole of
modern science.

The data from which the question is to be answered must be obtained from
observation. We have here no problem which can be solved by mere
mathematical meditation. Mathematics is no doubt a useful, indeed, an
indispensable, instrument in the enquiry; but we must not attribute to
mathematics a potency which it does not possess. In a case of this kind,
all that mathematics can do is to interpret the results obtained by
observation. The data from which Newton proceeded were the observed
phenomena in the movement of the earth and the other planets. Those
facts had found a succinct expression by the aid of Kepler's laws. It
was, accordingly, the laws of Kepler which Newton took as the basis of
his labours, and it was for the interpretation of Kepler's laws that
Newton invoked the aid of that celebrated mathematical reasoning which
he created.

The question is then to be approached in this way: A planet being
subject to _some_ external influence, we have to determine what that
influence is, from our knowledge that the path of each planet is an
ellipse, and that each planet sweeps round the sun over equal areas in
equal times. The influence on each planet is what a mathematician would
call a force, and a force must have a line of direction. The most simple
conception of a force is that of a pull communicated along a rope, and
the direction of the rope is in this case the direction of the force.
Let us imagine that the force exerted on each planet is imparted by an
invisible rope. Kepler's laws will inform us with regard to the
direction of this rope and the intensity of the strain transmitted
through it.

The mathematical analysis of Kepler's laws would be beyond the scope of
this volume. We must, therefore, confine ourselves to the results to
which they lead, and omit the details of the reasoning. Newton first
took the law which asserted that the planet moved over equal areas in
equal times, and he showed by unimpeachable logic that this at once gave
the direction in which the force acted on the planet. He showed that the
imaginary rope by which the planet is controlled must be invariably
directed towards the sun. In other words, the force exerted on each
planet was at all times pointed from the planet towards the sun.

It still remained to explain the intensity of the force, and to show how
the intensity of that force varied when the planet was at different
points of its path. Kepler's first law enables this question to be
answered. If the planet's path be elliptic, and if the force be always
directed towards the sun at one focus of that ellipse, then mathematical
analysis obliges us to say that the intensity of the force must vary
inversely as the square of the distance from the planet to the sun.

The movements of the planets, in conformity with Kepler's laws, would
thus be accounted for even in their minutest details, if we admit that
an attractive power draws the planet towards the sun, and that the
intensity of this attraction varies inversely as the square of the
distance. Can we hesitate to say that such an attraction does exist? We
have seen how the earth attracts a falling body; we have seen how the
earth's attraction extends to the moon, and explains the revolution of
the moon around the earth. We have now learned that the movement of the
planets round the sun can also be explained as a consequence of this law
of attraction. But the evidence in support of the law of universal
gravitation is, in truth, much stronger than any we have yet presented.
We shall have occasion to dwell on this matter further on. We shall show
not only how the sun attracts the planets, but how the planets attract
each other; and we shall find how this mutual attraction of the planets
has led to remarkable discoveries, which have elevated the law of
gravitation beyond the possibility of doubt.

Admitting the existence of this law, we can show that the planets must
revolve around the sun in elliptic paths with the sun in the common
focus. We can show that they must sweep over equal areas in equal times.
We can prove that the squares of the periodic times must be proportional
to the cubes of their mean distances. Still further, we can show how the
mysterious movements of comets can be accounted for. By the same great
law we can explain the revolutions of the satellites. We can account for
the tides, and for other phenomena throughout the Solar System. Finally,
we shall show that when we extend our view beyond the limits of our
Solar System to the beautiful starry systems scattered through space, we
find even there evidence of the great law of universal gravitation.




CHAPTER VI.

THE PLANET OF ROMANCE.


     Outline of the Subject--Is Mercury the Planet nearest the
     Sun?--Transit of an Interior Planet across the Sun--Has a Transit
     of Vulcan ever been seen?--Visibility of Planets during a Total
     Eclipse of the Sun--Professor Watson's Researches in 1878.

Provided with a general survey of the Solar System, and with such an
outline of the law of universal gravitation as the last chapter has
afforded us, we commence the more detailed examination of the planets
and their satellites. We shall begin with the planets nearest to the
sun, and then we shall gradually proceed outwards to one planet after
another, until we reach the confines of the system. We shall find much
to occupy our attention. Each planet is itself a globe, and it will be
for us to describe as much as is known of it. The satellites by which so
many of the planets are accompanied possess many points of interest. The
circumstances of their discovery, their sizes, their movements, and
their distances must be duly considered. It will also be found that the
movements of the planets present much matter for reflection and
examination. We shall have occasion to show how the planets mutually
disturb each other, and what remarkable consequences have arisen from
these influences. We must also occasionally refer to the important
problems of celestial measuring and celestial weighing. We must show how
the sizes, the weights, and the distances of the various members of our
system are to be discovered. The greater part of our task will
fortunately lead us over ground which is thoroughly certain, and where
the results have been confirmed by frequent observation. It happens,
however, that at the very outset of our course we are obliged to deal
with observations which are far from certain. The existence of a planet
much closer to the sun than those hitherto known has been asserted by
competent authority. The question is still unsettled, but the planet
cannot at present be found. Hence it is that we have called the subject
of this chapter, The Planet of Romance.

It had often been thought that Mercury, long supposed to be the nearest
planet to the sun, was perhaps not really the body entitled to that
distinction. Mercury revolves round the sun at an average distance of
about 36,000,000 miles. In the interval between it and the sun there
might have been one or many other planets. There might have been one
revolving at ten million miles, another at fifteen, and so on. But did
such planets exist? Did even one planet revolve inside the orbit of
Mercury? There were certain reasons for believing in such a planet. In
the movements of Mercury indications were perceptible of an influence
that it was at one time thought might have been accounted for by the
supposition of an interior planet.[13] But there was necessarily a great
difficulty about seeing this object. It must always be close to the sun,
and even in the best telescope it is generally impossible to see a
star-like point in that position. Nor could such a planet be seen after
sunset, for under the most favourable conditions it would set almost
immediately after the sun, and a like difficulty would make it invisible
at sunrise.

Our ordinary means of observing a planet have therefore completely
failed. We are compelled to resort to extraordinary methods if we would
seek to settle the great question as to the existence of the
intra-Mercurial planets. There are at least two lines of observation
which might be expected to answer our purpose.

An opportunity for the first would arise when it happened that the
unknown planet came directly between the earth and the sun. In the
diagram (Fig. 40) we show the sun at the centre; the internal dotted
circle denotes the orbit of the unknown planet, which has received the
name of Vulcan before even its very existence has been at all
satisfactorily established. The outer circle denotes the orbit of the
earth. As Vulcan moves more rapidly than the earth, it will frequently
happen that the planet will overtake the earth, so that the three bodies
will have the positions represented in the diagram. It would not,
however, necessarily follow that Vulcan was exactly between the earth
and the luminary. The path of the planet may be tilted, so that, as seen
from the earth, Vulcan would be over or under the sun, according to
circumstances.

If, however, Vulcan really does exist, we might expect that sometimes
the three bodies will be directly in line, and this would then give the
desired opportunity of making the telescopic discovery of the planet. We
should expect on such an occasion to observe the planet as a dark spot,
moving slowly across the face of the sun. The two other planets interior
to the earth, namely, Mercury and Venus, are occasionally seen in the
act of transit; and there cannot be a doubt that if Vulcan exists, its
transits across the sun must be more numerous than those of Mercury, and
far more numerous than those of Venus. On the other hand, it may
reasonably be anticipated that Vulcan is a small globe, and as it will
be much more distant from us than Mercury at the time of its transit, we
could not expect that the transit of the planet of romance would be at
all comparable as a spectacle with those of either of the two other
bodies we have named.

The question arises as to whether telescopic research has ever disclosed
anything which can be regarded as a transit of Vulcan. On this point it
is not possible to speak with any certainty. It has, on more than one
occasion, been asserted by observers that a spot has been seen
traversing the sun, and from its shape and general appearance they have
presumed it to have been an intra-Mercurial planet. But a close
examination of the circumstances in which such observations have been
made has not tended to increase confidence in this presumption. Such
discoveries have usually been made by persons little familiar with
telescopic observations. It is certainly a significant fact that,
notwithstanding the diligent scrutiny to which the sun has been
subjected during the past century by astronomers who have specially
devoted themselves to this branch of research, no telescopic discovery
of Vulcan on the sun has been announced by any really experienced
astronomer. The last announcement of a planet having crossed the sun
dates from 1876, and was made by a German amateur, but what he thought
to have been a planet was promptly shown to have been a small sun-spot,
which had been photographed at Greenwich in the course of the daily
routine work, and had also been observed at Madrid. From an examination
of the whole subject, we are inclined to believe that there is not at
this moment any reliable telescopic evidence of the transit of an
intra-Mercurial planet over the face of the central luminary.

[Illustration: Fig. 40.--The Transit of the Planet of Romance.]

But there is still another method by which we might reasonably hope to
detect new planets in the vicinity of the sun. This method is, however,
but seldom available. It is only possible when the sun is totally
eclipsed.

When the moon is interposed directly between the earth and the sun, the
brightness of day is temporarily exchanged for the gloom of night. If
the sky be free from clouds the stars spring forth, and can be seen
around the obscured sun. Even if a planet were quite close to the
luminary it would be visible on such an occasion if its magnitude were
comparable with that of Mercury. Careful preparation is necessary when
it is proposed to make a trial of this kind. The danger to be specially
avoided is that of confounding the planet with the ordinary stars, which
it will probably resemble. The late distinguished American astronomer,
Professor Watson, specially prepared to devote himself to this research
during the notable total eclipse in 1878. When the eclipse occurred the
light of the sun vanished and the stars burst forth. Among them
Professor Watson saw an object which to him seemed to be the long-sought
intra-Mercurial planet. We should add that this zealous observer saw
another object which he at first took to be the star known as Zeta in
the constellation Cancer. When he afterwards found that the recorded
place of this object did not agree so well as he expected with the known
position of this star, he came to the conclusion that it could not be
Zeta but must be some other unknown planet. The relative positions of
the two objects which he took to be planets agree, however, sufficiently
well, considering the difficulties of the observation, with the relative
positions of the stars Theta and Zeta Cancri, and it can now hardly be
doubted that Watson merely saw these two stars. He maintained, however,
that he had noticed Theta Cancri as well as the two planets, but without
recording its position. There is, however, a third star, known as 20
Cancri, near the same place, and this Watson probably mistook for Theta.
It is necessary to record that Vulcan has not been observed, though
specially looked for, during the eclipses which have occurred since
1878, and it is accordingly the general belief among astronomers that no
planet has yet been detected within the orbit of Mercury.




CHAPTER VII.

MERCURY.


     The Ancient Astronomical Discoveries--How Mercury was first
     found--Not easily seen--Mercury was known from the earliest
     ages--Skill necessary in the Discovery--The Distinction of Mercury
     from a Star--Mercury in the East and in the West--The
     Prediction--How to Observe Mercury--Its Telescopic
     Appearance--Difficulty of Observing its Appearance--Orbit of
     Mercury--Velocity of the Planet--Can there be Life on the
     Planet?--Changes in its Temperature--Transit of Mercury over the
     Sun--Gassendi's Observations--Rotation of Mercury--The Weight of
     Mercury.

Long and glorious is the record of astronomical discovery. The
discoveries of modern days have succeeded each other with such rapidity,
they have so often dazzled our imaginations with their brilliancy, that
we are sometimes apt to think that astronomical discovery is a purely
modern product. But no idea could be more fundamentally wrong. While we
appreciate to the utmost the achievements of modern times, let us
endeavour to do justice to the labours of the astronomers of antiquity.

And when we speak of the astronomers of antiquity, let us understand
clearly what is meant. The science is now growing so rapidly that each
century witnesses a surprising advance; each generation, each decade,
each year, has its own rewards for those diligent astronomers by whom
the heavens are so carefully scanned. We must, however, project our
glance to a remote epoch in time past, if we would view the memorable
discovery of Mercury. Compared with it, the discoveries of Newton are to
be regarded as very modern achievements; even the announcement of the
Copernican system of the heavens is itself a recent event in comparison
with the detection of this planet now to be discussed.

By whom was this great discovery made? Let us see if the question can
be answered by the examination of astronomical records. At the close of
his memorable life Copernicus was heard to express his sincere regret
that he never enjoyed an opportunity of beholding the planet Mercury. He
had specially longed to see this body, the movements of which were to
such a marked extent illustrative of the theory of the celestial motions
which it was his immortal glory to have established, but he had never
been successful. Mercury is not generally to be seen so easily as are
some of the other planets, and it may well have been that the vapours
from the immense lagoon at the mouth of the Vistula obscured the horizon
at Frauenburg, where Copernicus dwelt, and thus his opportunities of
viewing Mercury were probably even rarer than they are at other places.

The existence of Mercury was certainly quite a familiar fact in the time
of Copernicus, and therefore we must look to some earlier epoch for its
discovery. In the scanty astronomical literature of the Middle Ages we
find occasional references to the existence of this object. We can trace
observations of Mercury through remote centuries to the commencement of
our era. Records from dates still earlier are not wanting, until at
length we come on an observation which has descended to us for more than
2,000 years, having been made in the year 265 before the Christian era.
It is not pretended, however, that this observation records the
_discovery_ of the planet. Earlier still we find the chief of the
astronomers at Nineveh alluding to Mercury in a report which he made to
Assurbanipal, the King of Assyria. It does not appear in the least
degree likely that the discovery was even then a recent one. It may have
been that the planet was independently discovered in two or more
localities, but all records of such discoveries are totally wanting; and
we are ignorant alike of the names of the discoverers, of the nations to
which they belonged, and of the epochs at which they lived.

Although this discovery is of such vast antiquity, although it was made
before correct notions were entertained as to the true system of the
universe, and, it is needless to add, long before the invention of the
telescope, yet it must not be assumed that the detection of Mercury was
by any means a simple or obvious matter. This will be manifest when we
try to conceive the manner in which the discovery must probably have
been made.

Some primæval astronomer, long familiar with the heavens, had learned to
recognise the various stars and constellations. Experience had impressed
upon him the permanence of these objects; he had seen that Sirius
invariably appeared at the same seasons of the year, and he had noticed
how it was placed with regard to Orion and the other neighbouring
constellations. In the same manner each of the other bright stars was to
him a familiar object always to be found in a particular region of the
heavens. He saw how the stars rose and set in such a way, that though
each star appeared to move, yet the relative positions of the stars were
incapable of alteration. No doubt this ancient astronomer was acquainted
with Venus; he knew the evening star; he knew the morning star; and he
may have concluded that Venus was a body which oscillated from one side
of the sun to the other.

We can easily imagine how the discovery of Mercury was made in the clear
skies over an Eastern desert. The sun has set, the brief twilight has
almost ceased, when lo, near that part of the horizon where the glow of
the setting sun still illuminates the sky, a bright star is seen. The
primæval astronomer knows that there is no bright star at this place in
the heavens. If the object of his attention be not a star, what, then,
can it be? Eager to examine this question, the heavens are watched next
night, and there again, higher above the horizon, and more brilliant
still, is the object seen the night before. Each successive night the
body gains more and more lustre, until at length it becomes a
conspicuous gem. Perhaps it will rise still higher and higher; perhaps
it will increase till it attains the brilliancy of Venus itself. Such
were the surmises not improbably made by those who first watched this
object; but they were not realised. After a few nights of exceptional
splendour the lustre of this mysterious orb declines. The planet again
draws near the horizon at sunset, until at length it sets so soon after
the sun that it has become invisible. Is it lost for ever? Years may
elapse before another opportunity of observing the object after sunset
may be available; but then again it will be seen to run through the same
series of changes, though, perhaps, under very different circumstances.
The greatest height above the horizon and the greatest brightness both
vary considerably.

Long and careful observations must have been made before the primæval
astronomer could assure himself that the various appearances might all
be attributed to a single body. In the Eastern deserts the phenomena of
sunrise must have been nearly as familiar as those of sunset, and in the
clear skies, at the point where the sunbeams were commencing to dawn
above the horizon, a bright star-like point might sometimes be
perceived. Each successive day this object rose higher and higher above
the horizon before the moment of sunrise, and its lustre increased with
the distance; then again it would draw in towards the sun, and return
for many months to invisibility. Such were the data which were presented
to the mind of the primitive astronomer. One body was seen after sunset,
another body was seen before sunrise. To us it may seem an obvious
inference from the observed facts that the two bodies were identical.
The inference is a correct one, but it is in no sense an obvious one.
Long and patient observation established the remarkable law that one of
these bodies was never seen until the other had disappeared. Hence it
was inferred that the phenomena, both at sunrise and at sunset, were due
to the same body, which oscillated to and fro about the sun.

We can easily imagine that the announcement of the identity of these two
objects was one which would have to be carefully tested before it could
be accepted. How are the tests to be applied in a case of this kind?
There can hardly be a doubt that the most complete and convincing
demonstration of scientific truth is found in the fulfilment of
prediction. When Mercury had been observed for years, a certain
regularity in the recurrence of its visibility was noticed. Once a
periodicity had been fully established, prediction became possible. The
time when Mercury would be seen after sunset, the time when it would be
seen before sunrise, could be foretold with accuracy! When it was found
that these predictions were obeyed to the letter--that the planet was
always seen when looked for in accordance with the predictions--it was
impossible to refuse assent to the hypothesis on which these predictions
were based. Underlying that hypothesis was the assumption that all the
various appearances arose from the oscillations of a single body, and
hence the discovery of Mercury was established on a basis as firm as the
discovery of Jupiter or of Venus.

In the latitudes of the British Islands it is generally possible to see
Mercury some time during the course of the year. It is not practicable
to lay down, within reasonable limits, any general rule for finding the
dates at which the search should be made; but the student who is
determined to see the planet will generally succeed with a little
patience. He must first consult an almanac which gives the positions of
the body, and select an occasion when Mercury is stated to be an evening
or a morning star. Such an occasion during the spring months is
especially suitable, as the elevation of Mercury above the horizon is
usually greater then than at other seasons; and in the evening twilight,
about three-quarters of an hour after sunset, a view of this shy but
beautiful object will reward the observer's attention.

To those astronomers who are provided with equatorial telescopes such
instructions are unnecessary. To enjoy a telescopic view of Mercury, we
first turn to the Nautical Almanac, and find the position in which the
planet lies. If it happen to be above the horizon, we can at once direct
the telescope to the place, and even in broad daylight the planet will
very often be seen. The telescopic appearance of Mercury is, however,
disappointing. Though it is much larger than the moon, yet it is
sufficiently far off to seem insignificant. There is, however, one
feature in a view of this planet which would immediately attract
attention. Mercury is not usually observed to be a circular object, but
more or less crescent-shaped, like a miniature moon. The phases of the
planet are also to be accounted for on exactly the same principles as
the phases of the moon. Mercury is a globe composed, like our earth, of
materials possessing in themselves no source of illumination. One
hemisphere of the planet must necessarily be turned towards the sun, and
this side is accordingly lighted up brilliantly by the solar rays. When
we look at Mercury we see nothing of the non-illuminated side, and the
crescent is due to the foreshortened view which we obtain of the
illuminated part. The planet is such a small object that, in the glitter
of the naked-eye view, the _shape_ of the luminous body cannot be
defined. Indeed, even in the much larger crescent of Venus, the aid of
the telescope has to be invoked before the characteristic form can be
observed. Beyond, however, the fact that Mercury is a crescent, and that
it undergoes varying phases in correspondence with the changes in its
relative position to the earth and the sun, we cannot see much of the
planet. It is too small and too bright to admit of easy delineation of
details on its surface. No doubt attempts have been made, and
observations have been recorded, as to certain very faint and indistinct
markings on the planet, but such statements must be received with great
hesitation.

[Illustration: Fig. 41.--The Movement of Mercury, showing the Variations
in Phase and in apparent size.]

[Illustration: Fig. 42.--Mercury as a Crescent.]

The facts which have been thoroughly established with regard to Mercury
are mainly numerical statements as to the path it describes around the
sun. The time taken by the planet to complete one of its revolutions is
eighty-eight days nearly. The average distance from the sun is about
36,000,000 miles, and the mean velocity with which the body moves is
over twenty-nine miles a second. We have already alluded to the most
characteristic and remarkable feature of the orbit of Mercury. That
orbit differs from the paths of all the other large planets by its much
greater departure from the circular form. In the majority of cases the
planetary orbits are so little elliptic that a diagram of the orbit
drawn accurately to scale would not be perceived to differ from a circle
unless careful measurements were made. In the case of Mercury the
circumstances are different. The elliptic form of the path would be
quite unmistakable by the most casual observer. The distance from the
sun to the planet fluctuates between very considerable limits. The
lowest value it can attain is about 30,000,000 miles; the highest value
is about 43,000,000 miles. In accordance with Kepler's second law, the
velocity of the planet must exhibit corresponding changes. It must sweep
rapidly around that part of his path near the sun, and more slowly round
the remote parts of his path. The greatest velocity is about
thirty-five miles a second, and the least is twenty-three miles a
second.

For an adequate conception of the movements of Mercury we ought not to
dissociate the velocity from the true dimensions of the body by which it
is performed. No doubt a speed of twenty-nine miles a second is enormous
when compared with the velocities with which daily life makes us
familiar. The speed of the planet is not less than a hundred times as
great as the velocity of the rifle bullet. But when we compare the sizes
of the bodies with their velocities, the velocity of Mercury seems
relatively much less than that of the bullet. A rifle bullet traverses a
distance equal to its own diameter many thousands of times in a second.
But even though Mercury is moving so much faster, yet the dimensions of
the planet are so considerable that a period of two minutes will be
required for it to move through a distance equal to its diameter.
Viewing the globe of the planet as a whole, the velocity of its movement
is but a stately and dignified progress appropriate to its dimensions.

As we can learn little or nothing of the true surface of Mercury, it is
utterly impossible for us to say whether life can exist on the surface
of that planet. We may, however, reasonably conclude that there cannot
be life on Mercury in any respect analogous to the life which we know on
the earth. The heat of the sun and the light of the sun beat down on
Mercury with an intensity many times greater than that which we
experience. When this planet is at its utmost distance from the sun the
intensity of solar radiation is even then more than four times greater
than the greatest heat which ever reaches the earth. But when Mercury,
in the course of its remarkable changes of distance, draws in to the
warmest part of its orbit, it is exposed to a terrific scorching. The
intensity of the sun's heat must then be not less than nine times as
great as the greatest radiation to which we are exposed.

These tremendous climatic changes succeed each other much more rapidly
than do the variations of our seasons. On Mercury the interval between
midsummer and midwinter is only forty-four days, while the whole year
is only eighty-eight days. Such rapid variations in solar heat must in
themselves exercise a profound effect on the habitability of Mercury.
Mr. Ledger well remarks, in his interesting work,[14] that if there be
inhabitants on Mercury the notions of "perihelion" and "aphelion," which
are here often regarded as expressing ideas of an intricate or recondite
character, must on the surface of that planet be familiar to everybody.
The words imply "near the sun," and "away from the sun;" but we do not
associate these expressions with any obvious phenomena, because the
changes in the distance of the earth from the sun are inconsiderable.
But on Mercury, where in six weeks the sun rises to more than double his
apparent size, and gives more than double the quantity of light and of
heat, such changes as are signified by perihelion and aphelion embody
ideas obviously and intimately connected with the whole economy of the
planet.

It is nevertheless rash to found any inferences as to climate merely
upon the proximity or the remoteness of the sun. Climate depends upon
other matters besides the sun's distance. The atmosphere surrounding the
earth has a profound influence on heat and cold, and if Mercury have an
atmosphere--as has often been supposed--its climate may be thereby
modified to any necessary extent. It seems, however, hardly possible to
suppose that any atmosphere could form an adequate protection for the
inhabitants from the violent and rapid fluctuations of solar radiation.
All we can say is, that the problem of life in Mercury belongs to the
class of unsolved, and perhaps unsolvable, mysteries.

It was in the year 1629 that Kepler made an important announcement as to
impending astronomical events. He had been studying profoundly the
movements of the planets; and from his study of the past he had ventured
to predict the future. Kepler announced that in the year 1631 the
planets Venus and Mercury would both make a transit across the sun, and
he assigned the dates to be November 7th for Mercury, and December 6th
for Venus. This was at the time a very remarkable prediction. We are so
accustomed to turn to our almanacs and learn from them all the
astronomical phenomena which are anticipated during the year, that we
are apt to forget how in early times this was impossible. It has only
been by slow degrees that astronomy has been rendered so perfect as to
enable us to foretell, with accuracy, the occurrence of the more
delicate phenomena. The prediction of those transits by Kepler, some
years before they occurred, was justly regarded at the time as a most
remarkable achievement.

The illustrious Gassendi prepared to apply the test of actual
observation to the announcements of Kepler. We can now assign the time
of the transit accurately to within a few minutes, but in those early
attempts equal precision was not practicable. Gassendi considered it
necessary to commence watching for the transit of Mercury two whole days
before the time indicated by Kepler, and he had arranged an ingenious
plan for making his observations. The light of the sun was admitted into
a darkened room through a hole in the shutter, and an image of the sun
was formed on a white screen by a lens. This is, indeed, an admirable
and a very pleasing way of studying the surface of the sun, and even at
the present day, with our best telescopes, one of the methods of viewing
our luminary is founded on the same principle.

Gassendi commenced his watch on the 5th of November, and carefully
studied the sun's image at every available opportunity. It was not,
however, until five hours after the time assigned by Kepler that the
transit of Mercury actually commenced. Gassendi's preparations had been
made with all the resources which he could command, but these resources
seem very imperfect when compared with the appliances of our modern
observatories. He was anxious to note the time when the planet appeared,
and for this purpose he had stationed an assistant in the room beneath,
who was to observe the altitude of the sun at the moment indicated by
Gassendi. The signal to the assistant was to be conveyed by a very
primitive apparatus. Gassendi was to stamp on the floor when the
critical moment had arrived. In spite of the long delay, which
exhausted the patience of the assistant, some valuable observations were
obtained, and thus the first passage of a planet across the sun was
observed.

The transits of Mercury are not rare phenomena (there have been thirteen
of them during the nineteenth century), and they are chiefly of
importance on account of the accuracy which their observation infuses
into our calculations of the movements of the planet. It has often been
hoped that the opportunities afforded by a transit would be available
for procuring information as to the physical character of the globe of
Mercury, but these hopes have not been realised.

Spectroscopic observations of Mercury are but scanty. They seem to
indicate that water vapour is a probable constituent in the atmosphere
of Mercury, as it is in our own.

A distinguished Italian astronomer, Professor Schiaparelli, some years
ago announced a remarkable discovery with respect to the rotation of the
planet Mercury. He found that the planet rotates on its axis in the same
period as it revolves around the sun. The practical consequence of the
identity between these two periods is that Mercury always turns the same
face to the sun. If our earth were to rotate in a similar fashion, then
the hemisphere directed to the sun would enjoy eternal day, while the
opposite hemisphere would be relegated to perpetual night. According to
this discovery, Mercury revolves around the sun in the same way as the
moon revolves around the earth. As the velocity with which Mercury
travels round the sun is very variable, owing to the highly elliptic
shape of its orbit, while the rotation about its axis is performed with
uniform speed, it follows that rather more than a hemisphere (about
five-eighths of the surface) enjoys more or less the light of the sun in
the course of a Mercurial year.

This important discovery of Schiaparelli has lately been confirmed by an
American astronomer, Mr. Lowell, of Arizona, U.S.A., who observed the
planet under very favourable conditions with a refractor of twenty-four
inches aperture. He has detected on the globe of Mercury certain narrow,
dark lines, the very slow shifting of which points to a period of
rotation about its axis exactly coincident with the period of
revolution round the sun. The same observer shows that the axis of
rotation of Mercury is perpendicular to the plane of the orbit. Mr.
Lowell has perceived no sign of clouds or obscurations, and indeed no
indication of any atmospheric envelope; the surface of Mercury is
colourless, "a geography in black and white."

We may assert that, there is a strong _à priori_ probability in favour
of the reality of Schiaparelli's discovery. Mercury, being one of the
planets devoid of a moon, will be solely influenced by the sun in so far
as tidal phenomena are concerned. Owing, moreover, to the proximity of
Mercury to the sun, the solar tides on that planet possess an especial
vehemence. As the tendency of tides is to make Mercury present a
constant face to the sun, there need be little hesitation in accepting
testimony that tides have wrought exactly the result that we know they
were competent to perform.

Here we take leave of the planet Mercury--an interesting and beautiful
object, which stimulates our intellectual curiosity, while at the same
time it eludes our attempts to make a closer acquaintance. There is,
however, one point of attainable knowledge which we must mention in
conclusion. It is a difficult, but not by any means an impossible, task
to weigh Mercury in the celestial balance, and determine his mass in
comparison with the other globes of our system. This is a delicate
operation, but it leads us through some of the most interesting paths of
astronomical discovery. The weight of the planet, as recently determined
by Von Asten, is about one twenty-fourth part of the weight of the
earth, but the result is more uncertain than the determinations of the
mass of any of the other larger planets.




CHAPTER VIII.

VENUS.


     Interest attaching to this Planet--The Unexpectedness of its
     Appearance--The Evening Star--Visibility in Daylight--Lighted only
     by the Sun--The Phases of Venus--Why the Crescent is not Visible to
     the Unaided Eye--Variations in the Apparent Size of the Planet--The
     Rotation of Venus--Resemblance of Venus to the Earth--The Transit
     of Venus--Why of such Especial Interest--The Scale of the Solar
     System--Orbits of the Earth and Venus not in the same
     Plane--Recurrence of the Transits in Pairs--Appearance of Venus in
     Transit--Transits of 1874 and 1882--The Early Transits of 1631 and
     1639--The Observations of Horrocks and Crabtree--The Announcement
     of Halley--How the Track of the Planet differs from Different
     Places--Illustrations of Parallax--Voyage to Otaheite--The Result
     of Encke--Probable Value of the Sun's Distance--Observations at
     Dunsink of the Last Transit of Venus--The Question of an Atmosphere
     to Venus--Other Determinations of the Sun's Distance--Statistics
     about Venus.

It might, for one reason, have been not inappropriate to have commenced
our review of the planetary system by the description of the planet
Venus. This body is not especially remarkable for its size, for there
are other planets hundreds of times larger. The orbit of Venus is no
doubt larger than that of Mercury, but it is much smaller than that of
the outer planets. Venus has not even the splendid retinue of minor
attendants which gives such dignity and such interest to the mighty
planets of our system. Yet the fact still remains that Venus is peerless
among the planetary host. We speak not now of celestial bodies only seen
in the telescope; we refer to the ordinary observation which detected
Venus ages before telescopes were invented.

Who has not been delighted with the view of this glorious object? It is
not to be seen at all times. For months together the star of evening is
hidden from mortal gaze. Its beauties are even enhanced by the caprice
and the uncertainty which attend its appearance. We do not say that
there is any caprice in the movements of Venus, as known to those who
diligently consult their almanacs. The movements of the lovely planet
are there prescribed with a prosaic detail hardly in harmony with the
character usually ascribed to the Goddess of Love. But to those who do
not devote particular attention to the stars, the very unexpectedness of
its appearance is one of its greatest charms. Venus has not been
noticed, not been thought of, for many months. It is a beautifully clear
evening; the sun has just set. The lover of nature turns to admire the
sunset, as every lover of nature will. In the golden glory of the west a
beauteous gem is seen to glitter; it is the evening star--the planet
Venus. A few weeks later another beautiful sunset is seen, and now the
planet is no longer a point low down in the western glow; it has risen
high above the horizon, and continues a brilliant object long after the
shades of night have descended. Again, a little later, and Venus has
gained its full brilliancy and splendour. All the heavenly host--even
Sirius and even Jupiter--must pale before the splendid lustre of Venus,
the unrivalled queen of the firmament.

After weeks of splendour, the height of Venus at sunset diminishes, and
its lustre begins gradually to decline. It sinks to invisibility, and is
forgotten by the great majority of mankind; but the capricious goddess
has only moved from one side of the sky to the other. Ere the sun rises,
the morning star will be seen in the east. Its splendour gradually
augments until it rivals the beauty of the evening star. Then again the
planet draws near to the sun, and remains lost to view for many months,
until the same cycle of changes recommences, after an interval of a year
and seven months.

When Venus is at its brightest it can be easily seen in broad daylight
with the unaided eye. This striking spectacle proclaims in an
unmistakable manner the unrivalled supremacy of this planet as compared
with its fellow-planets and with the fixed stars. Indeed, at this time
Venus is from forty to sixty times more brilliant than any stellar
object in the northern heavens.

The beautiful evening star is often such a very conspicuous object that
it may seem difficult at first to realise that the body is not
self-luminous. Yet it is impossible to doubt that the planet is really
only a dark globe, and to that extent resembles our own earth. The
brilliance of the planet is not so very much greater than that of the
earth on a sunshiny day. The splendour of Venus entirely arises from the
reflected light of the sun, in the manner already explained with respect
to the moon.

We cannot distinguish the characteristic crescent shape of the planet
with the unaided eye, which merely shows a brilliant point too small to
possess sensible form. This is to be explained on physiological grounds.
The optical contrivances in the eye form an image of the planet on the
retina which is necessarily very small. Even when Venus is nearest to
the earth the diameter of the planet subtends an angle not much more
than one minute of arc. On the delicate membrane a picture of Venus is
thus drawn about one six-thousandth part of an inch in diameter. Great
as may be the delicacy of the retina, it is not adequate to the
perception of form in a picture so minute. The nervous structure, which
has been described as the source of vision, forms too coarse a canvas
for the reception of the details of this tiny picture. Hence it is that
to the unaided eye the brilliant Venus appears merely as a bright spot.
Ordinary vision cannot tell what shape it has; still less can it reveal
the true beauty of the crescent.

If the diameter of Venus were several times as great as it actually is;
were this body, for instance, as large as Jupiter or some of the other
great planets, then its crescent could be readily discerned by the
unaided eye. It is curious to speculate on what might have been the
history of astronomy had Venus only been as large as Jupiter. Were
everyone able to see the crescent form without a telescope, it would
then have been an elementary and almost obvious truth that Venus must be
a dark body revolving round the sun. The analogy between Venus and our
earth would have been at once perceived; and the doctrine which was left
to be discovered by Copernicus in comparatively modern times might not
improbably have been handed down to us with the other discoveries which
have come from the ancient nations of the East.

[Illustration: Fig. 43. Venus, May 29th, 1889.]

Perhaps the most perfect drawing of Venus that has been hitherto
obtained is that made (Fig. 43) by Professor E.E. Barnard, on 29th May,
1889, with a 12-inch equatorial, at the Lick Observatory, which for this
purpose and on this occasion Professor Barnard found to be superior to
the 36-inch. The markings shown seem undoubtedly to exist on the planet,
and in 1897 Professor Barnard writes: "The circumstances under which
this drawing was made are memorable with me, for I never afterwards had
such perfect conditions to observe Venus."

In Fig. 44 we show three views of Venus under different aspects. The
planet is so much closer to the earth when the crescent is seen, that it
appears to be part of a much larger circle than that made by Venus when
more nearly full. This drawing shows the different aspects of the globe
in their true relative proportions. It is very difficult to perceive
distinctly any markings on the brilliantly lighted surface. Sometimes
observers have seen spots or other features, and occasionally the
pointed extremities of the horns have been irregular, as if to show that
the surface of Venus is not smooth. Some observers report having seen
white spots at the poles of Venus, in some degree resembling the more
conspicuous features of the same character to be seen on Mars.

[Illustration: Fig. 44.--Different Aspects of Venus in the Telescope.]

As it is so very difficult to see any markings on Venus, we are hardly
yet able to give a definite answer to the important question as to the
period of rotation of this planet round its axis. Various observers
during the last two hundred years have from very insufficient data
concluded that Venus rotated in about twenty-three hours. Schiaparelli,
of Milan, turned his attention to this planet in 1877 and noticed a dark
shade and two bright spots, all situated not far from the southern end
of the crescent. This most painstaking astronomer watched these
markings for three months, and found that there was no change
perceptible in the position which they occupied. This was particularly
the case when he continued his watch for some consecutive hours. This
fact seemed to show conclusively that Venus could not rotate in
twenty-three hours nor in any other short period. Week after week the
spots remained unaltered, until Schiaparelli felt convinced that his
observations could only be reconciled with a period of rotation between
six and nine months. He naturally concluded that the period was 225
days--that is to say, the period which Venus takes to complete one
revolution round the sun; in other words, Venus always turns the same
face to the sun.

This remarkable result was confirmed by observations made at Nice; but
it has been vigorously assailed by several observers, who maintain that
their own drawings can only agree with a period about equal to that of
the rotation of our own earth. Schiaparelli's result is, however, well
supported by the letters of Mr. Lowell. He has published a number of
drawings of Venus made with his 24-inch refractor, and he finds that the
rotation is performed in the same time as the planet's orbital
revolution, the axis of rotation being perpendicular to the plane of the
orbit. The markings seen by Mr. Lowell were long and streaky, and they
were always visible whenever his own atmospheric conditions were fairly
good.

We have seen that the moon revolves so as to keep the same face always
turned towards the earth. We have now seen that the planets Venus and
Mercury each appear to revolve in such a way that they keep the same
face towards the sun. All these phenomena are of profound interest in
the higher departments of astronomical research. They are not mere
coincidences. They arise from the operation of the tides, in a manner
that will be explained in a later chapter.

It happens that our earth and Venus are very nearly equal in bulk. The
difference is hardly perceptible, but the earth has a diameter a few
miles greater than that of Venus. There are indications of the existence
of an atmosphere around Venus, and the evidence of the spectroscope
shows that water vapour is there present.

If there be oxygen in the atmosphere of Venus, then it would seem
possible that there might be life on that globe not essentially
different in character from some forms of life on the earth. No doubt
the sun's heat on Venus is greatly in excess of the sun's heat with
which we are acquainted, but this is not an insuperable difficulty. We
see at present on the earth, life in very hot regions and life in very
cold regions. Indeed, with each approach to the Equator we find life
more and more exuberant; so that, if water be present on the surface of
Venus and if oxygen be a constituent of its atmosphere, we might expect
to find in that planet a luxuriant tropical life, of a kind perhaps
analogous in some respects to life on the earth.

In our account of the planet Mercury, as well as in the brief
description of the hypothetical planet Vulcan, it has been necessary to
allude to the phenomena presented by the transit of a planet over the
face of the sun. Such an event is always of interest to astronomers, and
especially so in the case of Venus. We have in recent years had the
opportunity of witnessing two of these rare occurrences. It is perhaps
not too much to assert that the transits of 1874 and 1882 have received
a degree of attention never before accorded to any astronomical
phenomenon.

The transit of Venus cannot be described as a very striking or beautiful
spectacle. It is not nearly so fine a sight as a great comet or a shower
of shooting stars. Why is it, then, that it is regarded as of so much
scientific importance? It is because the phenomenon helps us to solve
one of the greatest problems which has ever engaged the mind of man. By
the transit of Venus we may determine the scale on which our solar
system is constructed. Truly this is a noble problem. Let us dwell upon
it for a moment. In the centre of our system we have the sun--a majestic
globe more than a million times as large as the earth. Circling round
the sun we have the planets, of which our earth is but one. There are
hundreds of small planets. There are a few comparable with our earth;
there are others vastly surpassing the earth. Besides the planets there
are other bodies in our system. Many of the planets are accompanied by
systems of revolving moons. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of
comets. Each member of this stupendous host moves in a prescribed orbit
around the sun, and collectively they form the solar system.

It is comparatively easy to learn the proportions of this system, to
measure the relative distances of the planets from the sun, and even the
relative sizes of the planets themselves. Peculiar difficulties are,
however, experienced when we seek to ascertain the actual _size_ of the
system as well as its shape. It is this latter question which the
transit of Venus offers us a method of solving.

Look, for instance, at an ordinary map of Europe. We see the various
countries laid down with precision; we can tell the courses of the
rivers; we can say that France is larger than England, and Russia larger
than France; but no matter how perfectly the map be constructed,
something else is necessary before we can have a complete conception of
the dimensions of the country. We must know _the scale on which the map
is drawn_. The map contains a reference line with certain marks upon it.
This line is to give the scale of the map. Its duty is to tell us that
an inch on the map corresponds with so many miles on the actual surface.
Unless it be supplemented by the scale, the map would be quite useless
for many purposes. Suppose that we consulted it in order to choose a
route from London to Vienna, we can see at once the direction to be
taken and the various towns and countries to be traversed; but unless we
refer to the little scale in the corner, the map will not tell how many
miles long the journey is to be.

A map of the solar system can be readily constructed. We can draw on it
the orbits of some of the planets and of their satellites, and we can
include many of the comets. We can assign to the planets and to the
orbits their proper proportions. But to render the map quite efficient
something more is necessary. We must have the scale which is to tell us
how many millions of miles on the heavens correspond to one inch of the
map. It is at this point we encounter a difficulty. There are, however,
several ways of solving the problem, though they are all difficult and
laborious. The most celebrated method (though far from the best) is that
presented on an occasion of the transit of Venus. Herein, then, lies the
importance of this rare event. It is one of the best-known means of
finding the actual scale on which our system is constructed. Observe the
full importance of the problem. Once the scale has been determined, then
all is known. We know the size of the sun; we know his distance; we know
the bulk of Jupiter, and the distances at which his satellites revolve;
we know the dimensions of the comets, and the number of miles to which
they recede in their wanderings; we know the velocity of the shooting
stars; and we learn the important lesson that our earth is but one of
the minor members of the sun's family.

As the path of Venus lies inside that of the earth, and as Venus moves
more quickly than the earth, it follows that the earth is frequently
passed by the planet, and just at the critical moment it will sometimes
happen that the earth, the planet, and the sun lie in the same straight
line. We can then see Venus on the face of the sun, and this is the
phenomenon which we call the _transit of Venus_. It is, indeed, quite
plain that if the three bodies were exactly in a line, an observer on
the earth, looking at the planet, would see it brought out vividly
against the brilliant background of the sun.

Considering that the earth is overtaken by Venus once every nineteen
months, it might seem that the transits of the planet should occur with
corresponding frequency. This is not the case; the transit of Venus is
an exceedingly rare occurrence, and a hundred years or more will often
elapse without a single one taking place. The rarity of these phenomena
arises from the fact that the path of the planet is inclined to the
plane of the earth's orbit; so that for half of its path Venus is above
the plane of the earth's orbit, and in the other half it is below. When
Venus overtakes the earth, the line from the earth to Venus will
therefore usually pass over or under the sun. If, however, it should
happen that Venus overtakes the earth at or near either of the points in
which the plane of the orbit of Venus passes through that of the earth,
then the three bodies will be in line, and a transit of Venus will be
the consequence. The rarity of the occurrence of a transit need no
longer be a mystery. The earth passes through one of the critical parts
every December, and through the other every June. If it happens that the
conjunction of Venus occurs on, or close to, June 6th or December 7th,
then a transit of Venus will occur at that conjunction, but in no other
circumstances.

The most remarkable law with reference to the repetition of the
phenomenon is the well-known eight-year interval. The transits may be
all grouped together into pairs, the two transits of any single pair
being separated by an interval of eight years. For instance, a transit
of Venus took place in 1761, and again in 1769. No further transits
occurred until those witnessed in 1874 and in 1882. Then, again, comes a
long interval, for another transit will not occur until 2004, but it
will be followed by another in 2012.

This arrangement of the transits in pairs admits of a very simple
explanation. It happens that the periodic time of Venus bears a
remarkable relation to the periodic time of the earth. The planet
accomplishes thirteen revolutions around the sun in very nearly the same
time that the earth requires for eight revolutions. If, therefore, Venus
and the earth were in line with the sun in 1874, then in eight years
more the earth will again be found in the same place; and so will Venus,
for it has just been able to accomplish thirteen revolutions. A transit
of Venus having occurred on the first occasion, a transit must also
occur on the second.

It is not, however, to be supposed that every eight years the planets
will again resume the same position with sufficient precision for a
regular eight-year transit interval. It is only approximately true that
thirteen revolutions of Venus are coincident with eight revolutions of
the earth. Each recurrence of conjunction takes place at a slightly
different position of the planets, so that when the two planets came
together again in the year 1890 the point of conjunction was so far
removed from the critical point that the line from the earth to Venus
did not intersect the sun, and thus, although Venus passed very near the
sun, yet no transit took place.

[Illustration: Fig. 45.--Venus on the Sun at the Transit of 1874.]

Fig. 45 represents the transit of Venus in 1874. It is taken from a
photograph obtained, during the occurrence, by M. Janssen. His telescope
was directed towards the sun during the eventful minutes while it
lasted, and thus an image of the sun was depicted on the photographic
plate placed in the telescope. The lighter circle represents the disc of
the sun. On that disc we see the round, sharp image of Venus, showing
the characteristic appearance of the planet during the progress of the
transit. The only other features to be noticed are a few of the solar
spots, rather dimly shown, and a network of lines which were marked on a
glass plate across the field of view of the telescope to facilitate
measurements.

The adjoining sketch (Fig. 46) exhibits the course which the planet
pursued in its passage across the sun on the two occasions in 1874 and
1882. Our generation has had the good fortune to witness the two
occurrences indicated on this picture. The white circle denotes the disc
of the sun; the planet encroaches on the white surface, and at first is
like a bite out of the sun's margin. Gradually the black spot steals in
front of the sun, until, after nearly half an hour, the black disc is
entirely visible. Slowly the planet wends its way across, followed by
hundreds of telescopes from every accessible part of the globe whence
the phenomenon is visible, until at length, in the course of a few
hours, it emerges at the other side.

It will be useful to take a brief retrospect of the different transits
of Venus of which there is any historical record. They are not numerous.
Hundreds of such phenomena have occurred since man first came on the
earth. It was not until the approach of the year 1631 that attention
began to be directed to the matter, though the transit which undoubtedly
occurred in that year was not noticed by anyone. The success of Gassendi
in observing the transit of Mercury, to which we have referred in the
last chapter, led him to hope that he would be equally fortunate in
observing the transit of Venus, which Kepler had also foretold. Gassendi
looked at the sun on the 4th, 5th, and 6th December. He looked at it
again on the 7th, but he saw no sign of the planet. We now know the
reason. The transit of Venus took place during the night, between the
6th and the 7th, and must therefore have been invisible to European
observers.

Kepler had not noticed that another transit would occur in 1639. This
discovery was made by another astronomer, and it is the one with which
the history of the subject may be said to commence. It was the first
occasion on which the phenomenon was ever actually witnessed; nor was it
then seen by many. So far as is known, it was witnessed by only two
persons.

[Illustration: Fig. 46.--The Path of Venus across the Sun in the
Transits of 1874 and 1882.]

A young and ardent English astronomer, named Horrocks, had undertaken
some computations about the motions of Venus. He made the discovery that
the transit of Venus would be repeated in 1639, and he prepared to
verify the fact. The sun rose bright on the morning of the day--which
happened to be a Sunday. The clerical profession, which Horrocks
followed, here came into collision with his desires as an astronomer. He
tells us that at nine he was called away by business of the highest
importance--referring, no doubt, to his official duties; but the service
was quickly performed, and a little before ten he was again on the
watch, only to find the brilliant face of the sun without any unusual
feature. It was marked with a spot, but nothing that could be mistaken
for a planet. Again, at noon, came an interruption; he went to church,
but he was back by one. Nor were these the only impediments to his
observations. The sun was also more or less clouded over during part of
the day. However, at a quarter past three in the afternoon his clerical
work was over; the clouds had dispersed, and he once more resumed his
observations. To his intense delight he then saw on the sun the round,
dark spot, which was at once identified as the planet Venus. The
observations could not last long; it was the depth of winter, and the
sun was rapidly setting. Only half an hour was available, but he had
made such careful preparations beforehand that it sufficed to enable him
to secure some valuable measurements.

Horrocks had previously acquainted his friend, William Crabtree, with
the impending occurrence. Crabtree was therefore on the watch, and
succeeded in seeing the transit; a striking picture of Crabtree's famous
observation is shown in one of the beautiful frescoes in the Town Hall
at Manchester. But to no one else had Horrocks communicated the
intelligence; as he says, "I hope to be excused for not informing other
of my friends of the expected phenomenon, but most of them care little
for trifles of this kind, rather preferring their hawks and hounds, to
say no worse; and although England is not without votaries of astronomy,
with some of whom I am acquainted, I was unable to convey to them the
agreeable tidings, having myself had so little notice."

It was not till long afterwards that the full importance of the transit
of Venus was appreciated. Nearly a century had rolled away when the
great astronomer, Halley (1656-1742), drew attention to the subject. The
next transit was to occur in 1761, and forty-five years before that
event Halley explained his celebrated method of finding the distance of
the sun by means of the transit of Venus.[15] He was then a man sixty
years of age; he could have no expectation that he would live to witness
the event; but in noble language he commends the problem to the notice
of the learned, and thus addresses the Royal Society of London:--"And
this is what I am now desirous to lay before this illustrious Society,
which I foretell will continue for ages, that I may explain beforehand
to young astronomers, who may, perhaps, live to observe these things, a
method by which the immense distance of the sun may be truly
obtained.... I recommend it, therefore, again and again to those curious
astronomers who, when I am dead, will have an opportunity of observing
these things, that they would remember this my admonition, and
diligently apply themselves with all their might in making the
observations, and I earnestly wish them all imaginable success--in the
first place, that they may not by the unseasonable obscurity of a cloudy
sky be deprived of this most desirable sight, and then that, having
ascertained with more exactness the magnitudes of the planetary orbits,
it may redound to their immortal fame and glory." Halley lived to a good
old age, but he died nineteen years before the transit occurred.

The student of astronomy who desires to learn how the transit of Venus
will tell the distance from the sun must prepare to encounter a
geometrical problem of no little complexity. We cannot give to the
subject the detail that would be requisite for a full explanation. All
we can attempt is to render a general account of the method, sufficient
to enable the reader to see that the transit of Venus really does
contain all the elements necessary for the solution of the problem.

We must first explain clearly the conception which is known to
astronomers by the name of _parallax_; for it is by parallax that the
distance of the sun, or, indeed, the distance of any other celestial
body, must be determined. Let us take a simple illustration. Stand near
a window whence you can look at buildings, or the trees, the clouds, or
any distant objects. Place on the glass a thin strip of paper vertically
in the middle of one of the panes. Close the right eye, and note with
the left eye the position of the strip of paper relatively to the
objects in the background. Then, while still remaining in the same
position, close the left eye and again observe the position of the
strip of paper with the right eye. You will find that the position of
the paper on the background has changed. As I sit in my study and look
out of the window I see a strip of paper, with my right eye, in front of
a certain bough on a tree a couple of hundred yards away; with my left
eye the paper is no longer in front of that bough, it has moved to a
position near the outline of the tree. This apparent displacement of the
strip of paper, relatively to the distant background, is what is called
parallax.

Move closer to the window, and repeat the observation, and you find that
_the apparent displacement of the strip increases_. Move away from the
window, and the displacement decreases. Move to the other side of the
room, the displacement is much less, though probably still visible. We
thus see that the change in the apparent place of the strip of paper, as
viewed with the right eye or the left eye, varies in amount as the
distance changes; but it varies in the opposite way to the distance, for
as either becomes greater the other becomes less. We can thus associate
with each particular distance a corresponding particular displacement.
From this it will be easy to infer that if we have the means of
measuring the amount of displacement, then we have the means of
calculating the distance from the observer to the window.

It is this principle, applied on a gigantic scale, which enables us to
measure the distances of the heavenly bodies. Look, for instance, at the
planet Venus; let this correspond to the strip of paper, and let the
sun, on which Venus is seen in the act of transit, be the background.
Instead of the two eyes of the observer, we now place two observatories
in distant regions of the earth; we look at Venus from one observatory,
we look at it from the other; we measure the amount of the displacement,
and from that we calculate the distance of the planet. All depends,
then, on the means which we have of measuring the displacement of Venus
as viewed from the two different stations. There are various ways of
accomplishing this, but the most simple is that originally proposed by
Halley.

From the observatory at A Venus seems to pursue the upper of the two
tracks shown in the adjoining figure (Fig. 47). From the observatory at
B it follows the lower track, and it is for us to measure the distance
between the two tracks. This can be accomplished in several ways.
Suppose the observer at A notes the time that Venus has occupied in
crossing the disc, and that similar observations be made at B. As the
track seen from B is the larger, it must follow that the time observed
at B will be greater than that at A. When the observations from the
different hemispheres are compared, the _times_ observed will enable the
lengths of the tracks to be calculated. The lengths being known, their
places on the circular disc of the sun are determined, and hence the
amount of displacement of Venus in transit is ascertained. Thus it is
that the distance of Venus is measured, and the scale of the solar
system is known.

[Illustration: Fig. 47.--To Illustrate the Observation of the Transit of
Venus from Two Localities, A and B, on the Earth.]

The two transits to which Halley's memorable researches referred
occurred in the years 1761 and 1769. The results of the first were not
very successful, in spite of the arduous labours of those who undertook
the observations. The transit of 1769 is of particular interest, not
only for the determination of the sun's distance, but also because it
gave rise to the first of the celebrated voyages of Captain Cook. It was
to see the transit of Venus that Captain Cook was commissioned to sail
to Otaheite, and there, on the 3rd of June, on a splendid day in that
exquisite climate, the phenomenon was carefully observed and measured by
different observers. Simultaneously with these observations others were
obtained in Europe and elsewhere, and from the combination of all the
observations an approximate knowledge of the sun's distance was gained.
The most complete discussion of these observations did not, however,
take place for some time. It was not until the year 1824 that the
illustrious Encke computed the distance of the sun, and gave as the
definite result 95,000,000 miles.

For many years this number was invariably adopted, and many of the
present generation will remember how they were taught in their
school-days that the sun was 95,000,000 miles away. At length doubts
began to be whispered as to the accuracy of this result. The doubts
arose in different quarters, and were presented with different degrees
of importance; but they all pointed in one direction, they all indicated
that the distance of the sun was not really so great as the result which
Encke had obtained. It must be remembered that there are several ways of
finding the distance of the sun, and it will be our duty to allude to
some other methods later on. It has been ascertained that the result
obtained by Encke from the observations made in 1761 and 1769, with
instruments inferior to our modern ones, was too great, and that the
distance of the sun may probably be now stated at 92,000,000 miles.

I venture to record our personal experience of the last transit of
Venus, which we had the good fortune to view from Dunsink Observatory on
the afternoon of the 6th of December, 1882.

The morning of the eventful day appeared to be about as unfavourable
for a grand astronomical spectacle as could well be imagined. Snow, a
couple of inches thick, covered the ground, and more was falling, with
but little intermission, all the forenoon. It seemed almost hopeless
that a view of the phenomenon could be obtained from that observatory;
but it is well in such cases to bear in mind the injunction given to the
observers on a celebrated eclipse expedition. They were instructed, no
matter what the day should be like, that they were to make all their
preparations precisely as they would have done were the sun shining with
undimmed splendour. By this advice no doubt many observers have
profited; and we acted upon it with very considerable success.

There were at that time at the observatory two equatorials, one of them
an old, but tolerably good, instrument, of about six inches aperture;
the other the great South equatorial, of twelve inches aperture, already
referred to. At eleven o'clock the day looked worse than ever; but we at
once proceeded to make all ready. I stationed Mr. Rambaut at the small
equatorial, while I myself took charge of the South instrument. The snow
was still falling when the domes were opened; but, according to our
prearranged scheme, the telescopes were directed, not indeed upon the
sun, but to the place where we knew the sun was, and the clockwork was
set in motion which carried round the telescopes, still constantly
pointing towards the invisible sun. The predicted time of the transit
had not yet arrived.

The eye-piece employed on the South equatorial must also receive a brief
notice. It will, of course, be obvious that the full glare of the sun
has to be greatly mitigated before the eye can view it with impunity.
The light from the sun falls upon a piece of transparent glass inclined
at a certain angle, and the chief portion of the sun's heat, as well as
a certain amount of its light, pass through the glass and are lost. A
certain fraction of the light is, however, reflected from the glass, and
enters the eye-piece. This light is already much reduced in intensity,
but it undergoes as much further reduction as we please by an ingenious
contrivance. The glass which reflects the light does so at what is
called the polarising angle, and between the eye-piece and the eye is a
plate of tourmaline. This plate of tourmaline can be turned round by the
observer. In one position it hardly interferes with the polarised light
at all, while in the position at right angles thereto it cuts off nearly
the whole of it. By simply adjusting the position of the tourmaline, the
observer has it in his power to render the image of any brightness that
may be convenient, and thus the observations of the sun can be conducted
with the appropriate degree of illumination.

But such appliances seemed on this occasion to be a mere mockery. The
tourmaline was all ready, but up to one o'clock not a trace of the sun
could be seen. Shortly after one o'clock, however, we noticed that the
day was getting lighter; and, on looking to the north, whence the wind
and the snow were coming, we saw, to our inexpressible delight, that the
clouds were clearing. At length, the sky towards the south began to
improve, and at last, as the critical moment approached, we could detect
the spot where the sun was becoming visible. But the predicted moment
arrived and passed, and still the sun had not broken through the clouds,
though every moment the certainty that it would do so became more
apparent. The external contact was therefore missed. We tried to console
ourselves by the reflection that this was not, after all, a very
important phase, and hoped that the internal contact would be more
successful.

At length the struggling beams pierced the obstruction, and I saw the
round, sharp disc of the sun in the finder, and eagerly glanced at the
point on which attention was concentrated. Some minutes had now elapsed
since the predicted moment of first contact, and, to my delight, I saw
the small notch in the margin of the sun showing that the transit had
commenced, and that the planet was then one-third on the sun. But the
critical moment had not yet arrived. By the expression "first internal
contact" we are to understand the moment when the planet has completely
entered _on_ the sun. This first contact was timed to occur twenty-one
minutes later than the external contact already referred to. But the
clouds again disappointed our hope of seeing the internal contact. While
steadily looking at the exquisitely beautiful sight of the gradual
advance of the planet, I became aware that there were other objects
besides Venus between me and the sun. They were the snowflakes, which
again began to fall rapidly. I must admit the phenomenon was singularly
beautiful. The telescopic effect of a snowstorm with the sun as a
background I had never before seen. It reminded me of the golden rain
which is sometimes seen falling from a flight of sky-rockets during
pyrotechnic displays; I would gladly have dispensed with the spectacle,
for it necessarily followed that the sun and Venus again disappeared
from view. The clouds gathered, the snowstorm descended as heavily as
ever, and we hardly dared to hope that we should see anything more; 1
hr. 57 min. came and passed, the first internal contact was over, and
Venus had fully entered on the sun. We had only obtained a brief view,
and we had not yet been able to make any measurements or other
observations that could be of service. Still, to have seen even a part
of a transit of Venus is an event to remember for a lifetime, and we
felt more delight than can be easily expressed at even this slight gleam
of success.

But better things were in store. My assistant came over with the report
that he had also been successful in seeing Venus in the same phase as I
had. We both resumed our posts, and at half-past two the clouds began to
disperse, and the prospect of seeing the sun began to improve. It was
now no question of the observations of contact. Venus by this time was
well on the sun, and we therefore prepared to make observations with the
micrometer attached to the eye-piece. The clouds at length dispersed,
and at this time Venus had so completely entered on the sun that the
distance from the edge of the planet to the edge of the sun was about
twice the diameter of the planet. We measured the distance of the inner
edge of Venus from the nearest limb of the sun. These observations were
repeated as frequently as possible, but it should be added that they
were only made with very considerable difficulty. The sun was now very
low, and the edges of the sun and of Venus were by no means of that
steady character which is suitable for micrometrical measurement. The
margin of the luminary was quivering, and Venus, though no doubt it was
sometimes circular, was very often distorted to such a degree as to make
the measures very uncertain.

We succeeded in obtaining sixteen measures altogether; but the sun was
now getting low, the clouds began again to interfere, and we saw that
the pursuit of the transit must be left to the thousands of astronomers
in happier climes who had been eagerly awaiting it. But before the
phenomena had ceased I spared a few minutes from the somewhat mechanical
work at the micrometer to take a view of the transit in the more
picturesque form which the large field of the finder presented. The sun
was already beginning to put on the ruddy hues of sunset, and there, far
in on its face, was the sharp, round, black disc of Venus. It was then
easy to sympathise with the supreme joy of Horrocks, when, in 1639, he
for the first time witnessed this spectacle. The intrinsic interest of
the phenomenon, its rarity, the fulfilment of the prediction, the noble
problem which the transit of Venus helps us to solve, are all present to
our thoughts when we look at this pleasing picture, a repetition of
which will not occur again until the flowers are blooming in the June of
A.D. 2004.

The occasion of a transit of Venus also affords an opportunity of
studying the physical nature of the planet, and we may here briefly
indicate the results that have been obtained. In the first place, a
transit will throw some light on the question as to whether Venus is
accompanied by a satellite. If Venus were attended by a small body in
close proximity, it would be conceivable that in ordinary circumstances
the brilliancy of the planet would obliterate the feeble beam of rays
from the minute companion, and thus the satellite would remain
undiscovered. It was therefore a matter of great interest to scrutinise
the vicinity of the planet while in the act of transit. If a satellite
existed--and the existence of one or more of such bodies has often been
suspected--then it would be capable of detection against the brilliant
background of the sun. Special attention was directed to this point
during the recent transits, but no satellite of Venus was to be found.
It seems, therefore, to be very unlikely that Venus can be attended by
any companion globe of appreciable dimensions.

The observations directed to the investigation of the atmosphere
surrounding Venus have been more successful. If the planet were devoid
of an atmosphere, then it would be totally invisible just before
commencing to enter on the sun, and would relapse into total
invisibility as soon as it had left the sun. The observations made
during the transits are not in conformity with such suppositions.
Special attention has been directed to this point during the recent
transits. The result has been very remarkable, and has proved in the
most conclusive manner the existence of an atmosphere around Venus. As
the planet gradually moved off the sun, the circular edge of the planet
extending out into the darkness was seen to be bounded by a circular arc
of light, and Dr. Copeland, who observed this transit in very favourable
circumstances, was actually able to follow the planet until it had
passed entirely away from the sun, at which time the globe, though
itself invisible, was distinctly marked by the girdle of light by which
it was surrounded. This luminous circle is inexplicable save by the
supposition that the globe of Venus is surrounded by an atmospheric
shell in the same way as the earth.

It may be asked, what is the advantage of devoting so much time and
labour to a celestial phenomenon like the transit of Venus which has so
little bearing on practical affairs? What does it matter whether the sun
be 95,000,000 miles off, or whether it be only 93,000,000, or any other
distance? We must admit at once that the enquiry has but a slender
bearing on matters of practical utility. No doubt a fanciful person
might contend that to compute our nautical almanacs with perfect
accuracy we require a precise knowledge of the distance of the sun. Our
vast commerce depends on skilful navigation, and one factor necessary
for success is the reliability of the "Nautical Almanac." The increased
perfection of the almanac must therefore bear some relation to increased
perfection in navigation. Now, as good authorities tell us that in
running for a harbour on a tempestuous night, or in other critical
emergencies, even a yard of sea-room is often of great consequence, so
it may conceivably happen that to the infinitesimal influence of the
transit of Venus on the "Nautical Almanac" is due the safety of a
gallant vessel.

But the time, the labour, and the money expended in observing the
transit of Venus are really to be defended on quite different grounds.
We see in it a fruitful source of information. It tells us the distance
of the sun, which is the foundation of all the great measurements of the
universe. It gratifies the intellectual curiosity of man by a view of
the true dimensions of the majestic solar system, in which the earth is
seen to play a dignified, though still subordinate, part; and it leads
us to a conception of the stupendous scale on which the universe is
constructed.

It is not possible for us, with a due regard to the limits of this
volume, to protract any longer our discussion of the transit of Venus.
When we begin to study the details of the observations, we are
immediately confronted with a multitude of technical and intricate
matters. Unfortunately, there are very great difficulties in making the
observations with the necessary precision. The moments when Venus enters
on and leaves the solar disc cannot be very accurately observed, partly
owing to a peculiar optical illusion known as "the black drop," whereby
Venus seems to cling to the sun's limb for many seconds, partly owing to
the influence of the planet's atmosphere, which helps to make the
observed time of contact uncertain. These circumstances make it
difficult to determine the distance of the sun from observations of
transits of Venus with the accuracy which modern science requires. It
seems therefore likely that the final determination of the sun's
distance will be obtained in quite a different manner. This will be
explained in Chapter XI., and hence we feel the less reluctance in
passing any from the consideration of the transit of Venus as a method
of celestial surveying.

We must now close our description of this lovely planet; but before
doing so, let us add--or in some cases repeat--a few statistical facts
as to the size and the dimensions of the planet and its orbit.

The diameter of Venus is about 7,660 miles, and the planet shows no
measurable departure from the globular form, though we can hardly doubt
that its polar diameter must really be somewhat shorter than the
equatorial diameter. This diameter is only about 258 miles less than
that of the earth. The mass of Venus is about three-quarters of the mass
of the earth; or if, as is more usual, we compare the mass of Venus with
the sun, it is to be represented by the fraction 1 divided by 425,000.
It is to be observed that the mass of Venus is not quite so great in
comparison with its bulk as might have been expected. The density of
this planet is about 0·850 of that of the earth. Venus would weigh 4·81
times as much as a globe of water of equal size. The gravitation at its
surface will, to a slight extent, be less than the gravitation at the
surface of the earth. A body here falls sixteen feet in a second; a body
let fall at the surface of Venus would fall about three feet less. It
seems not unlikely that the time of rotation of Venus may be equal to
the period of its revolution around the sun.

The orbit of Venus is remarkable for the close approach which it makes
to a circle. The greatest distance of this planet from the sun does not
exceed the least distance by one per cent. Its mean distance from the
sun is about 67,000,000 miles, and the movement in the orbit amounts to
a mean velocity of nearly 22 miles per second, the entire journey being
accomplished in 224·70 days.




CHAPTER IX.

THE EARTH.


     The Earth is a great Globe--How the Size of the Earth is
     Measured--The Base Line--The Latitude found by the Elevation of the
     Pole--A Degree of the Meridian--The Earth not a Sphere--The
     Pendulum Experiment--Is the Motion of the Earth slow or
     fast?--Coincidence of the Axis of Rotation and the Axis of
     Figure--The Existence of Heat in the Earth--The Earth once in a
     Soft Condition--Effects of Centrifugal Force--Comparison with the
     Sun and Jupiter--The Protuberance of the Equator--The Weighing of
     the Earth--Comparison between the Weight of the Earth and an equal
     Globe of Water--Comparison of the Earth with a Leaden Globe--The
     Pendulum--Use of the Pendulum in Measuring the Intensity of
     Gravitation--The Principle of Isochronism--Shape of the Earth
     measured by the Pendulum.

That the earth must be a round body is a truth immediately suggested by
simple astronomical considerations. The sun is round, the moon is round,
and telescopes show that the planets are round. No doubt comets are not
round, but then a comet seems to be in no sense a solid body. We can see
right through one of these frail objects, and its weight is too small
for our methods of measurement to appreciate. If, then, all the solid
bodies we can see are round globes, is it not likely that the earth is a
globe also? But we have far more direct information than mere surmise.

There is no better way of actually seeing that the surface of the ocean
is curved than by watching a distant ship on the open sea. When the ship
is a long way off and is still receding, its hull will gradually
disappear, while the masts will remain visible. On a fine summer's day
we can often see the top of the funnel of a steamer appearing above the
sea, while the body of the steamer is below. To see this best the eye
should be brought as close as possible to the surface of the sea. If the
sea were perfectly flat, there would be nothing to obscure the body of
the vessel, and it would therefore be visible so long as the funnel
remains visible. If the sea be really curved, the protuberant part
intercepts the view of the hull, while the funnel is still to be seen.

We thus learn how the sea is curved at every part, and therefore it is
natural to suppose that the earth is a sphere. When we make more careful
measurements we find that the globe is not perfectly round. It is
flattened to some extent at each of the poles. This may be easily
illustrated by an indiarubber ball, which can be compressed on two
opposite sides so as to bulge out at the centre. The earth is similarly
flattened at the poles, and bulged out at the equator. The divergence of
the earth from the truly globular form is, however, not very great, and
would not be noticed without very careful measurements.

The determination of the size of the earth involves operations of no
little delicacy. Very much skill and very much labour have been devoted
to the work, and the dimensions of the earth are known with a high
degree of accuracy, though perhaps not with all the precision that we
may ultimately hope to attain. The scientific importance of an accurate
measurement of the earth can hardly be over-estimated. The radius of the
earth is itself the unit in which many other astronomical magnitudes are
expressed. For example, when observations are made with the view of
finding the distance of the moon, the observations, when discussed and
reduced, tell us that the distance of the moon is equal to fifty-nine
times the equatorial radius of the earth. If we want to find the
distance of the moon in miles, we require to know the number of miles in
the earth's radius.

A level part of the earth's surface having been chosen, a line a few
miles long is measured. This is called the base, and as all the
subsequent measures depend ultimately on the base, it is necessary that
this measurement shall be made with scrupulous accuracy. To measure a
line four or five miles long with such precision as to exclude any
errors greater than a few inches demands the most minute precautions. We
do not now enter upon a description of the operations that are
necessary. It is a most laborious piece of work, and many ponderous
volumes have been devoted to the discussion of the results. But when a
few base lines have been obtained in different places on the earth's
surface, the measuring rods are to be laid aside, and the subsequent
task of the survey of the earth is to be conducted by the measurement of
angles from one station to another and trigonometrical calculations
based thereon. Starting from a base line a few miles long, distances of
greater length are calculated, until at length stretches 100 miles long,
or even more, can be accomplished. It is thus possible to find the
length of a long line running due north and south.

So far the work has been merely that of the terrestrial surveyor. The
distance thus ascertained is handed over to the astronomer to deduce
from it the dimensions of the earth. The astronomer fixes his
observatory at the northern end of the long line, and proceeds to
determine his latitude by observation. There are various ways by which
this can be accomplished. They will be found fully described in works on
practical astronomy. We shall here only indicate in a very brief manner
the principle on which such observations are to be made.

Everyone ought to be familiar with the Pole Star, which, though by no
means the most brilliant, is probably the most important star in the
whole heavens. In these latitudes we are accustomed to find the Pole
Star at a considerable elevation, and there we can invariably find it,
always in the same place in the northern sky. But suppose we start on a
voyage to the southern hemisphere: as we approach the equator we find,
night after night, the Pole Star coming closer to the horizon. At the
equator it is on the horizon; while if we cross the line, we find on
entering the southern hemisphere that this useful celestial body has
become invisible. This is in itself sufficient to show us that the earth
cannot be the flat surface that untutored experience seems to indicate.

On the other hand, a traveller leaving England for Norway observes that
the Pole Star is every night higher in the heavens than he has been
accustomed to see it. If he extend his journey farther north, the same
object will gradually rise higher and higher, until at length, when
approaching the pole of the earth, the Pole Star is high up over his
head. We are thus led to perceive that the higher our latitude, the
higher, in general, is the elevation of the Pole Star. But we cannot use
precise language until we replace the twinkling point by the pole of the
heavens itself. The pole of the heavens is near the Pole Star, which
itself revolves around the pole of the heavens, as all the other stars
do, once every day. The circle described by the Pole Star is, however,
so small that, unless we give it special attention, the motion will not
be perceived. The true pole is not a visible point, but it is capable of
being accurately defined, and it enables us to state with the utmost
precision the relation between the pole and the latitude. The statement
is, that the elevation of the pole above the horizon is equal to the
latitude of the place.

The astronomer stationed at one end of the long line measures the
elevation of the pole above the horizon. This is an operation of some
delicacy. In the first place, as the pole is invisible, he has to obtain
its position indirectly. He measures the altitude of the Pole Star when
that altitude is greatest, and repeats the operation twelve hours later,
when the altitude of the Pole Star is least; the mean between the two,
when corrected in various ways which it is not necessary for us now to
discuss, gives the true altitude of the pole. Suffice it to say that by
such operations the latitude of one end of the line is determined. The
astronomer then, with all his equipment of instruments, moves to the
other end of the line. He there repeats the process, and he finds that
the pole has now a different elevation, corresponding to the different
latitude. The difference of the two elevations thus gives him an
accurate measure of the number of degrees and fractional parts of a
degree between the latitudes of the two stations. This can be compared
with the actual distance in miles between the two stations, which has
been ascertained by the trigonometrical survey. A simple calculation
will then show the number of miles and fractional parts of a mile
corresponding to one degree of latitude--or, as it is more usually
expressed, the length of a degree of the meridian.

This operation has to be repeated in different parts of the earth--in
the northern hemisphere and in the southern, in high latitudes and in
low. If the sea-level over the entire earth were a perfect sphere, an
important consequence would follow--the length of a degree of the
meridian would be everywhere the same. It would be the same in Peru as
in Sweden, the same in India as in England. But the lengths of the
degrees are not all the same, and hence we learn that our earth is not
really a sphere. The measured lengths of the degrees enable us to see to
what extent the shape of the earth departs from a perfect sphere. Near
the pole the length of a degree is longer than near the equator. This
shows that the earth is flattened at the poles and protuberant at the
equator, and it provides the means by which we may calculate the actual
lengths of the polar and the equatorial axes. In this way the equatorial
diameter has been found equal to 7,927 miles, while the polar diameter
is 27 miles shorter.

The polar axis of the earth may be defined as the diameter about which
the earth rotates. This axis intersects the surface at the north and
south poles. The time which the earth occupies in making a complete
rotation around this axis is called a sidereal day. The sidereal day is
a little shorter than the ordinary day, being only 23 hours, 56 minutes,
and 4 seconds. The rotation is performed just as if a rigid axis passed
through the centre of the earth; or, to use the old and homely
illustration, the earth rotates just as a ball of worsted may be made to
rotate around a knitting-needle thrust through its centre.

It is a noteworthy circumstance that the axis about which the earth
rotates occupies a position identical with that of the shortest diameter
of the earth as found by actual surveying. This is a coincidence which
would be utterly inconceivable if the shape of the earth was not in some
way physically connected with the fact that the earth is rotating. What
connection can then be traced? Let us enquire into the subject, and we
shall find that the shape of the earth is a consequence of its rotation.

The earth at the present time is subject, at various localities, to
occasional volcanic outbreaks. The phenomena of such eruptions, the
allied occurrence of earthquakes, the well-known fact that the heat
increases the deeper we descend into the earth, the existence of hot
springs, the geysers found in Iceland and elsewhere, all testify to the
fact that heat exists in the interior of the earth. Whether that heat
be, as some suppose, universal in the interior of the earth, or whether
it be merely local at the several places where its manifestations are
felt, is a matter which need not now concern us. All that is necessary
for our present purpose is the admission that heat is present to some
extent.

This internal heat, be it much or little, has obviously a different
origin from the heat which we know on the surface. The heat we enjoy is
derived from the sun. The internal heat cannot have been derived from
the sun; its intensity is far too great, and there are other insuperable
difficulties attending the supposition that it has come from the sun.
Where, then, has this heat come from? This is a question which at
present we can hardly answer--nor, indeed, does it much concern our
argument that we should answer it. The fact being admitted that the heat
is there, all that we require is to apply one or two of the well-known
thermal laws to the interpretation of the facts. We have first to
consider the general principle by which heat tends to diffuse itself and
spread away from its original source. The heat, deep-seated in the
interior of the earth, is transmitted through the superincumbent rocks,
and slowly reaches the surface. It is true that the rocks and materials
with which our earth is covered are not good conductors of heat; most of
them are, indeed, extremely inefficient in this way; but, good or bad,
they are in some shape conductors, and through them the heat must creep
to the surface.

It cannot be urged against this conclusion that we do not feel this
heat. A few feet of brickwork will so confine the heat of a mighty blast
furnace that but little will escape through the bricks; but _some_ heat
does escape, and the bricks have never been made, and never could be
made, which would absolutely intercept all the heat. If a few feet of
brickwork can thus nearly mask the heat of a furnace, cannot some scores
of miles of rock nearly mask the heat in the depths of the earth, even
though that heat were seven times hotter than the mightiest furnace that
ever existed? The heat would escape slowly, and perhaps imperceptibly,
but, unless all our knowledge of nature is a delusion, no rocks, however
thick, can prevent, in the course of time, the leakage of the heat to
the surface. When this heat arrives at the surface of the earth it must,
in virtue of another thermal law, gradually radiate away and be lost to
the earth.

It would lead us too far to discuss fully the objections which may
perhaps be raised against what we have here stated. It is often said
that the heat in the interior of the earth is being produced by chemical
combination or by mechanical process, and thus that the heat may be
constantly renewed as fast or even faster than it escapes. This,
however, is more a difference in form than in substance. If heat be
produced in the way just supposed (and there can be no doubt that there
may be such an origin for some of the heat in the interior of the globe)
there must be a certain expenditure of chemical or mechanical energies
that produces a certain exhaustion. For every unit of heat which escapes
there will either be a loss of an unit of heat from the globe, or, what
comes nearly to the same thing, a loss of an unit of heat-making power
from the chemical or the mechanical energies. The substantial result is
the same; the heat, actual or potential, of the earth must be
decreasing. It should, of course, be observed that a great part of the
thermal losses experienced by the earth is of an obvious character, and
not dependent upon the slow processes of conduction. Each outburst of a
volcano discharges a stupendous quantity of heat, which disappears very
speedily from the earth; while in the hot springs found in so many
places there is a perennial discharge of the same kind, which in the
course of years attains enormous proportions.

The earth is thus losing heat, while it never acquires any fresh
supplies of the same kind to replace the losses. The consequence is
obvious; the interior of the earth must be growing colder. No doubt this
is an extremely slow process; the life of an individual, the life of a
nation, perhaps the life of the human race itself, has not been long
enough to witness any pronounced change in the store of terrestrial
heat. But the law is inevitable, and though the decline in heat may be
slow, yet it is continuous, and in the lapse of ages must necessarily
produce great and important results.

It is not our present purpose to offer any forecast as to the changes
which must necessarily arise from this process. We wish at present
rather to look back into past time and see what consequences we may
legitimately infer. Such intervals of time as we are familiar with in
ordinary life, or even in ordinary history, are for our present purpose
quite inappreciable. As our earth is daily losing internal heat, or the
equivalent of heat, it must have contained more heat yesterday than it
does to-day, more last year than this year, more twenty years ago than
ten years ago. The effect has not been appreciable in historic time; but
when we rise from hundreds of years to thousands of years, from
thousands of years to hundreds of thousands of years, and from hundreds
of thousands of years to millions of years, the effect is not only
appreciable, but even of startling magnitude.

There must have been a time when the earth contained much more heat than
at present. There must have been a time when the surface of the earth
was sensibly hot from this source. We cannot pretend to say how many
thousands or millions of years ago this epoch must have been; but we may
be sure that earlier still the earth was even hotter, until at length we
seem to see the temperature increase to a red heat, from a red heat we
look back to a still earlier age when the earth was white hot, back
further till we find the surface of our now solid globe was actually
molten. We need not push the retrospect any further at present, still
less is it necessary for us to attempt to assign the probable origin of
that heat. This, it will be observed, is not required in our argument.
We find heat now, and we know that heat is being lost every day. From
this the conclusion that we have already drawn seems inevitable, and
thus we are conducted back to some remote epoch in the abyss of time
past when our solid earth was a globe molten and soft throughout.

A dewdrop on the petal of a flower is nearly globular; but it is not
quite a globe, because the gravitation presses it against the flower and
somewhat distorts the shape. A falling drop of rain is a globe; a drop
of oil suspended in a liquid with which it does not mix forms a globe.
Passing from small things to great things, let us endeavour to conceive
a stupendous globe of molten matter. Let that globe be as large as the
earth, and let its materials be so soft as to obey the forces of
attraction exerted by each part of the globe on all the other parts.
There can be no doubt as to the effect of these attractions; they would
tend to smooth down any irregularities on the surface just in the same
way as the surface of the ocean is smooth when freed from the disturbing
influences of the wind. We might, therefore, expect that our molten
globe, isolated from all external interference, would assume the form of
a sphere.

But now suppose that this great sphere, which we have hitherto assumed
to be at rest, is made to rotate round an axis passing through its
centre. We need not suppose that this axis is a material object, nor are
we concerned with any supposition as to how the velocity of rotation was
caused. We can, however, easily see what the consequence of the rotation
would be. The sphere would become deformed, the centrifugal force would
make the molten body bulge out at the equator and flatten down at the
poles. The greater the velocity of rotation the greater would be the
bulging. To each velocity of rotation a certain degree of bulging would
be appropriate. The molten earth thus bulged out to an extent which was
dependent upon the fact that it turned round once a day. Now suppose
that the earth, while still rotating, commences to pass from the liquid
to the solid state. The form which the earth would assume on
consolidation would, no doubt, be very irregular on the surface; it
would be irregular in consequence of the upheavals and the outbursts
incident to the transformation of so mighty a mass of matter; but
irregular though it be, we can be sure that, on the whole, the form of
the earth's surface would coincide with the shape which it had assumed
by the movement of rotation. Hence we can explain the protuberant form
of the equator of the earth, and we can appeal to that form in
corroboration of the view that this globe was once in a soft or molten
condition.

The argument may be supported and illustrated by comparing the shape of
our earth with the shapes of some of the other celestial bodies. The
sun, for instance, seems to be almost a perfect globe. No measures that
we can make show that the polar diameter of the sun is shorter than the
equatorial diameter. But this is what we might have expected. No doubt
the sun is rotating on its axis, and, as it is the rotation that causes
the protuberance, why should not the rotation have deformed the sun like
the earth? The probability is that a difference really does exist
between the two diameters of the sun, but that the difference is too
small for us to measure. It is impossible not to connect this with the
_slowness_ of the sun's rotation. The sun takes twenty-five days to
complete a rotation, and the protuberance appropriate to so low a
velocity is not appreciable.

On the other hand, when we look at one of the quickly-rotating planets,
we obtain a very different result. Let us take the very striking
instance which is presented in the great planet Jupiter. Viewed in the
telescope, Jupiter is at once seen not to be a globe. The difference is
so conspicuous that accurate measures are not necessary to show that the
polar diameter of Jupiter is shorter than the equatorial diameter. The
departure of Jupiter from the truly spherical shape is indeed much
greater than the departure of the earth. It is impossible not to connect
this with the much more rapid rotation of Jupiter. We shall presently
have to devote a chapter to the consideration of this splendid orb. We
may, however, so far anticipate what we shall then say as to state that
the time of Jupiter's rotation is under ten hours, and this
notwithstanding the fact that Jupiter is more than one thousand times
greater than the earth. His enormously rapid rotation has caused him to
bulge out at the equator to a remarkable extent.

The survey of our earth and the measurement of its dimensions having
been accomplished, the next operation for the astronomer is the
determination of its weight. Here, indeed, is a problem which taxes the
resources of science to the very uttermost. Of the interior of the earth
we know little--I might almost say we know nothing. No doubt we sink
deep mines into the earth. These mines enable us to penetrate half a
mile, or even a whole mile, into the depths of the interior. But this
is, after all, only a most insignificant attempt to explore the interior
of the earth. What is an advance of one mile in comparison with the
distance to the centre of the earth? It is only about one
four-thousandth part of the whole. Our knowledge of the earth merely
reaches to an utterly insignificant depth below the surface, and we have
not a conception of what may be the nature of our globe only a few miles
below where we are standing. Seeing, then, our almost complete ignorance
of the solid contents of the earth, does it not seem a hopeless task to
attempt to weigh the entire globe? Yet that problem has been solved, and
the result is known--not, indeed, with the accuracy attained in other
astronomical researches, but still with tolerable approximation.

It is needless to enunciate the weight of the earth in our ordinary
units. The enumeration of billions of tons does not convey any distinct
impression. It is a far more natural course to compare the mass of the
earth with that of an equal globe of water. We should be prepared to
find that our earth was heavier than a like volume of water. The rocks
which form its surface are heavier, bulk for bulk, than the oceans which
repose on those rocks. The abundance of metals in the earth, the gradual
increase in the density of the earth, which must arise from the enormous
pressure at great depths--all these considerations will prepare us to
learn that the earth is very much heavier than a globe of water of equal
size.

Newton supposed that the earth was between five and six times as heavy
as an equal bulk of water. Nor is it hard to see that such a suggestion
is plausible. The rocks and materials on the surface are usually about
two or three times as heavy as water, but the density of the interior
must be much greater. There is good reason to believe that down in the
remote depths of the earth there is a very large proportion of iron. An
iron earth would weigh about seven times as much as an equal globe of
water. We are thus led to see that the earth's weight must be probably
more than three, and probably less than seven, times an equal globe of
water; and hence, in fixing the density between five and six, Newton
adopted a result plausible at the moment, and since shown to be probably
correct. Several methods have been proposed by which this important
question can be solved with accuracy. Of all these methods we shall here
only describe one, because it illustrates, in a very remarkable manner,
the law of universal gravitation.

In the chapter on Gravitation it was pointed out that the intensity of
this force between two masses of moderate dimensions was extremely
minute, and the difficulty in weighing the earth arises from this cause.
The practical application of the process is encumbered by multitudinous
details, which it will be unnecessary for us to consider at present. The
principle of the process is simple enough. To give definiteness to our
description, let us conceive a large globe about two feet in diameter;
and as it is desirable for this globe to be as heavy as possible, let us
suppose it to be made of lead. A small globe brought near the large one
is attracted by the force of gravitation. The amount of this attraction
is extremely small, but, nevertheless, it can be measured by a refined
process which renders extremely small forces sensible. The intensity of
the attraction depends both on the masses of the globes and on their
distance apart, as well as on the force of gravitation. We can also
readily measure the attraction of the earth upon the small globe. This
is, in fact, nothing more nor less than the weight of the small globe in
the ordinary acceptation of the word. We can thus compare the
attraction exerted by the leaden globe with the attraction exerted by
the earth.

If the centre of the earth and the centre of the leaden globe were at
the same distance from the attracted body, then the intensity of their
attractions would give at once the ratio of their masses by simple
proportion. In this case, however, matters are not so simple: the leaden
ball is only distant by a few inches from the attracted ball, while the
centre of the earth's attraction is nearly 4,000 miles away at the
centre of the earth. Allowance has to be made for this difference, and
the attraction of the leaden sphere has to be reduced to what it would
be were it removed to a distance of 4,000 miles. This can fortunately be
effected by a simple calculation depending upon the general law that the
intensity of gravitation varies inversely as the square of the distance.
We can thus, partly by calculation and partly by experiment, compare the
intensity of the attraction of the leaden sphere with the attraction of
the earth. It is known that the attractions are proportional to the
masses, so that the comparative masses of the earth and of the leaden
sphere have been measured; and it has been ascertained that the earth is
about half as heavy as a globe of lead of equal size would be. We may
thus state finally that the mass of the earth is about five and a half
times as great as the mass of a globe of water equal to it in bulk.

In the chapter on Gravitation we have mentioned the fact that a body let
fall near the surface of the earth drops through sixteen feet in the
first second. This distance varies slightly at different parts of the
earth. If the earth were a perfect sphere, then the attraction would be
the same at every part, and the body would fall through the same
distance everywhere. The earth is not round, so the distance which the
body falls in one second differs slightly at different places. At the
pole the radius of the earth is shorter than at the equator, and
accordingly the attraction of the earth at the pole is greater than at
the equator. Had we accurate measurements showing the distance a body
would fall in one second both at the pole and at the equator, we should
have the means of ascertaining the shape of the earth.

It is, however, difficult to measure correctly the distance a body will
fall in one second. We have, therefore, been obliged to resort to other
means for determining the force of attraction of the earth at the
equator and other accessible parts of its surface. The methods adopted
are founded on the pendulum, which is, perhaps, the simplest and
certainly one of the most useful of philosophical instruments. The ideal
pendulum is a small and heavy weight suspended from a fixed point by a
fine and flexible wire. If we draw the pendulum aside from its vertical
position and then release it, the weight will swing to and fro.

For its journey to and fro the pendulum requires a small period of time.
It is very remarkable that this period does not depend appreciably on
the length of the circular arc through which the pendulum swings. To
verify this law we suspend another pendulum beside the first, both being
of the same length. If we draw both pendulums aside and then release
them, they swing together and return together. This might have been
expected. But if we draw one pendulum a great deal to one side, and the
other only a little, the two pendulums still swing sympathetically.
This, perhaps, would not have been expected. Try it again, with even a
still greater difference in the arc of vibration, and still we see the
two weights occupy the same time for the swing.

We can vary the experiment in another way. Let us change the weights on
the pendulums, so that they are of unequal size, though both of iron.
Shall we find any difference in the periods of vibration? We try again:
the period is the same as before; swing them through different arcs,
large or small, the period is still the same. But it may be said that
this is due to the fact that both weights are of the same material. Try
it again, using a leaden weight instead of one of the iron weights; the
result is identical. Even with a ball of wood the period of oscillation
is the same as that of the ball of iron, and this is true no matter what
be the arc through which the vibration takes place.

If, however, we change the _length_ of the wire by which the weight is
supported, then the period will not remain unchanged. This can be very
easily illustrated. Take a short pendulum with a wire only one-fourth of
the length of that of the long one; suspend the two close together, and
compare the periods of vibration of the short pendulum with that of the
long one, and we find that the former has a period only half that of the
latter. We may state the result generally, and say that the time of
vibration of a pendulum is proportional to the square root of its
length. If we quadruple the length of the suspending cord we double the
time of its vibration; if we increase the length of the pendulum
ninefold, we increase its period of vibration threefold.

It is the gravitation of the earth which makes the pendulum swing. The
greater the attraction, the more rapidly will the pendulum oscillate.
This may be easily accounted for. If the earth pulls the weight down
very vigorously, the time will be short; if the power of the earth's
attraction be lessened, then it cannot pull the weight down so quickly,
and the period will be lengthened.

The time of vibration of the pendulum can be determined with great
accuracy. Let it swing for 10,000 oscillations, and measure the time
that these oscillations have consumed. The arc through which the
pendulum swings may not have remained quite constant, but this does not
appreciably affect the _time_ of its oscillation. Suppose that an error
of a second is made in the determination of the time of 10,000
oscillations; this will only entail an error of the ten-thousandth part
of the second in the time of a single oscillation, and will afford a
correspondingly accurate determination of the force of gravity at the
place where the experiment was made.

Take a pendulum to the equator. Let it perform 10,000 oscillations, and
determine carefully the _time_ that these oscillations have required.
Bring the same pendulum to another part of the earth, and repeat the
experiment. We have thus a means of comparing the gravitation at the two
places. There are, no doubt, a multitude of precautions to be observed
which need not here concern us. It is not necessary to enter into
details as to the manner in which the motion of the pendulum is to be
sustained, nor as to the effect of changes of temperature in the
alteration of its length. It will suffice for us to see how the time of
the pendulum's swing can be measured accurately, and how from that
measurement the intensity of gravitation can be calculated.

The pendulum thus enables us to make a gravitational survey of the
surface of the earth with the highest degree of accuracy. We cannot,
however, infer that gravity alone affects the oscillations of the
pendulum. We have seen how the earth rotates on its axis, and we have
attributed the bulging of the earth at the equator to this influence.
But the centrifugal force arising from the rotation has the effect of
decreasing the apparent weight of bodies, and the change is greatest at
the equator, and lessens gradually as we approach the poles. From this
cause alone the attraction of the pendulum at the equator is less than
elsewhere, and therefore the oscillations of the pendulum will take a
longer time there than at other localities. A part of the apparent
change in gravitation is accordingly due to the centrifugal force; but
there is, in addition, a real alteration.

In a work on astronomy it does not come within our scope to enter into
further detail on the subject of our planet. The surface of the earth,
its contour and its oceans, its mountain chains and its rivers, are for
the physical geographer; while its rocks and their contents, its
volcanoes and its earthquakes, are to be studied by the geologists and
the physicists.




CHAPTER X.

MARS.


     Our nearer Neighbours in the Heavens--Surface of Mars can be
     Examined in the Telescope--Remarkable Orbit of Mars--Resemblance of
     Mars to a Star--Meaning of Opposition--The Eccentricity of the
     Orbit of Mars--Different Oppositions of Mars--Apparent Movements of
     the Planet--Effect of the Earth's Movement--Measurement of the
     Distance of Mars--Theoretical Investigation of the Sun's
     Distance--Drawings of the Planet--Is there Snow on Mars?--The
     Rotation of the Planet--Gravitation on Mars--Has Mars any
     Satellites?--Prof. Asaph Hall's great Discovery--The Revolutions of
     the Satellites--Deimos and Phobos--"Gulliver's Travels."

The special relation in which we stand to one planet of our system has
necessitated a somewhat different treatment of that globe from the
treatment appropriate to the others. We discussed Mercury and Venus as
distant objects known chiefly by telescopic research, and by
calculations of which astronomical observations were the foundation. Our
knowledge of the earth is of a different character, and attained in a
different way. Yet it was necessary for symmetry that we should discuss
the earth after the planet Venus, in order to give to the earth its true
position in the solar system. But now that the earth has been passed in
our outward progress from the sun, we come to the planet Mars; and here
again we resume, though in a somewhat modified form, the methods that
were appropriate to Venus and to Mercury.

Venus and Mars have, from one point of view, quite peculiar claims on
our attention. They are our nearest planetary neighbours, on either
side. We may naturally expect to learn more of them than of the other
planets farther off. In the case of Venus, however, this anticipation
can hardly be realised, for, as we have already pointed out, its dense
atmosphere prevents us from making a satisfactory telescopic
examination. When we turn to our other planetary neighbour, Mars, we are
enabled to learn a good deal with regard to his appearance. Indeed, with
the exception of the moon, we are better acquainted with the details of
the surface of Mars than with those of any other celestial body.

This beautiful planet offers many features for consideration besides
those presented by its physical structure. The orbit of Mars is one of
remarkable proportions, and it was by the observations of this orbit
that the celebrated laws of Kepler were discovered. During the
occasional approaches of Mars to the earth it has been possible to
measure its distance with accuracy, and thus another method of finding
the sun's distance has arisen which, to say the least, may compete in
precision with that afforded by the transit of Venus. It must also be
observed that the greatest achievement in pure telescopic research which
this century has witnessed was that of the discovery of the satellites
of Mars.

To the unaided eye this planet generally appears like a star of the
first magnitude. It is usually to be distinguished by its ruddy colour,
but the beginner in astronomy cannot rely on its colour only for the
identification of Mars. There are several stars nearly, if not quite, as
ruddy as this globe. The bright star Aldebaran, the brightest star in
the constellation of the Bull, has often been mistaken for the planet.
It often resembles Betelgeuze, a brilliant point in the constellation of
Orion. Mistakes of this kind will be impossible if the learner has first
studied the principal constellations and the more brilliant stars. He
will then find great interest in tracing out the positions of the
planets, and in watching their ceaseless movements.

[Illustration: Fig. 48.--The Orbits of the Earth and of Mars, showing
the Favourable Opposition of 1877.]

The position of each orb can always be ascertained from the almanac.
Sometimes the planet will be too near the sun to be visible. It will
rise with the sun and set with the sun, and consequently will not be
above the horizon during the night. The best time for seeing one of the
planets situated like Mars will be during what is called its opposition.
This state of things occurs when the earth intervenes directly between
the planet and the sun. In this case, the distance from Mars to the
earth is less than at any other time. There is also another advantage in
viewing Mars during opposition. The planet is then at one side of the
earth and the sun at the opposite side, so that when Mars is high in the
heavens the sun is directly beneath the earth; in other words, the
planet is then at its greatest elevation above the horizon at midnight.
Some oppositions of Mars are, however, much more favourable than others.
This is distinctly shown in Fig. 48, which represents the orbit of Mars
and the orbit of the Earth accurately drawn to scale. It will be seen
that while the orbit of the earth is very nearly circular, the orbit of
Mars has a very decided degree of eccentricity; indeed, with the
exception of the orbit of Mercury, that of Mars has the greatest
eccentricity of any orbit of the larger planets in our system.

The value of an opposition of Mars for telescopic purposes will vary
greatly according to circumstances. The favourable oppositions will be
those which occur as near as possible to the 26th of August. The other
extreme will be found in an opposition which occurs near the 22nd of
February. In the latter case the distance between the planet and the
earth is nearly twice as great as the former. The last opposition which
was suitable for the highest class of work took place in the year 1877.
Mars was then a magnificent object, and received much, and deserved,
attention. The favourable oppositions follow each other at somewhat
irregular intervals; the last occurred in the year 1892, and another
will take place in the year 1909.

The apparent movements of Mars are by no means simple. We can imagine
the embarrassment of the early astronomer who first undertook the task
of attempting to decipher these movements. The planet is seen to be a
brilliant and conspicuous object. It attracts the astronomer's
attention; he looks carefully, and he sees how it lies among the
constellations with which he is familiar. A few nights later he observes
the same body again; but is it exactly in the same place? He thinks not.
He notes more carefully than before the place of the planet. He sees how
it is situated with regard to the stars. Again, in a few days, his
observations are repeated. There is no longer a trace of doubt about the
matter--Mars has decidedly changed his position. It is veritably a
wanderer.

Night after night the primitive astronomer is at his post. He notes the
changes of Mars. He sees that it is now moving even more rapidly than it
was at first. Is it going to complete the circuit of the heavens? The
astronomer determines to watch the orb and see whether this surmise is
justified. He pursues his task night after night, and at length he
begins to think that the body is not moving quite so rapidly as at
first. A few nights more, and he is sure of the fact: the planet is
moving more slowly. Again a few nights more, and he begins to surmise
that the motion may cease; after a short time the motion does cease, and
the object seems to rest; but is it going to remain at rest for ever?
Has its long journey been finished? For many nights this seems to be the
case, but at length the astronomer suspects that the planet must be
commencing to move backwards. A few nights more, and the fact is
confirmed beyond possibility of doubt, and the extraordinary discovery
of the direct and the retrograde movement of Mars has been accomplished.

[Illustration: Fig. 49.--The Apparent Movements of Mars In 1877.]

In the greater part of its journey around the heavens Mars seems to move
steadily from the west to the east. It moves backwards, in fact, as the
moon moves and as the sun moves. It is only during a comparatively small
part of its path that those elaborate movements are accomplished which
presented such an enigma to the primitive observer. We show in the
adjoining picture (Fig. 49) the track of the actual journey which Mars
accomplished in the opposition of 1877. The figure only shows that part
of its path which presents the anomalous features; the rest of the orbit
is pursued, not indeed with uniform velocity, but with unaltered
direction.

This complexity of the apparent movements of Mars seems at first sight
fatal to the acceptance of any simple and elementary explanation of the
planetary motion. If the motion of Mars were purely elliptic, how, it
may well be said, could it perform this extraordinary evolution? The
elucidation is to be found in the fact that the earth on which we stand
is itself in motion. Even if Mars were at rest, the fact that the earth
moves would make the planet appear to move. The apparent movements of
Mars are thus combined with the real movements. This circumstance will
not embarrass the geometer. He is able to disentangle the true movement
of the planet from its association with the apparent movement, and to
account completely for the complicated evolutions exhibited by Mars.
Could we transfer our point of view from the ever-shifting earth to an
immovable standpoint, we should then see that the shape of the orbit of
Mars was an ellipse, described around the sun in conformity with the
laws which Kepler discovered by observations of this planet.

Mars takes 687 days to travel round the sun, its average distance from
that body being 141,500,000 miles. Under the most favourable
circumstances the planet, at the time of opposition, may approach the
earth to a distance not greater than about 35,500,000 miles. No doubt
this seems an enormous distance, when estimated by any standard adapted
for terrestrial measurements; it is, however, hardly greater than the
distance of Venus when nearest, and it is much less than the distance
from the earth to the sun.

We have explained how the _form_ of the solar system is known from
Kepler's laws, and how the absolute size of the system and of its
various parts can be known when the direct measurement of any one part
has been accomplished. A close approach of Mars affords a favourable
opportunity for measuring his distance, and thus, in a different way,
solving the same problem as that investigated by the transit of Venus.
We are thus led a second time to a knowledge of the distance of the sun
and the distances of the planets generally, and to many other numerical
facts about the solar system.

On the occasion of the opposition of Mars in 1877 a successful attempt
was made to apply this refined process to the solution of the problem of
celestial measurement. It cannot be said to have been the first occasion
on which this method was suggested, or even practically attempted. The
observations of 1877 were, however, conducted with such skill and with
such minute attention to the necessary precautions as to render them an
important contribution to astronomy. Dr. David Gill, now her Majesty's
Astronomer at the Cape of Good Hope, undertook a journey to the Island
of Ascension for the purpose of observing the parallax of Mars in 1877.
On this occasion Mars approached to the earth so closely as to afford an
admirable opportunity for the application of the method. Dr. Gill
succeeded in obtaining a valuable series of measurements, and from them
he concluded the distance of the sun with an accuracy somewhat superior
to that attainable by the transit of Venus.

There is yet another method by which Mars can be made to give us
information as to the distance of the sun. This method is one of some
delicacy, and is interesting from its connection with the loftiest
enquiries in mathematical astronomy. It was foreshadowed in the
Dynamical theory of Newton, and was wrought to perfection by Le Verrier.
It is based upon the great law of gravitation, and is intimately
associated with the splendid discoveries in planetary perturbation which
form so striking a chapter in modern astronomical discovery.

There is a certain relation between two quantities which at first sight
seems quite independent. These quantities are the mass of the earth and
the distance of the sun. The distance of the sun bears to a certain
distance (which can be calculated when we know the intensity of
gravitation at the earth's surface, the size of the earth and the length
of the year) the same proportion that the cube root of the sun's mass
bears to the cube root of that of the earth. There is no uncertainty
about this result, and the consequence is obvious. If we have the means
of weighing the earth in comparison with the sun, then the distance of
the sun can be immediately deduced. How are we to place our great earth
in the weighing scales? This is the problem which Le Verrier has shown
us how to solve, and he does so by invoking the aid of the planet Mars.

If Mars in his revolution around the sun were solely swayed by the
attraction of the sun, he would, in accordance with the well-known laws
of planetary motion, follow for ever the same elliptic path. At the end
of one century, or even of many centuries, the shape, the size, and the
position of that ellipse would remain unaltered. Fortunately for our
present purpose, a disturbance in the orbit of Mars is produced by the
earth. Although the mass of our globe is so much less than that of the
sun, yet the earth is still large enough to exercise an appreciable
attraction on Mars. The ellipse described by the planet is consequently
not invariable. The shape of that ellipse and its position gradually
change, so that the position of the planet depends to some extent upon
the mass of the earth. The place in which the planet is found can be
determined by observation; the place which the planet would have had if
the earth were absent can be found by calculation. The difference
between the two is due to the attraction of the earth, and, when it has
been measured, the mass of the earth can be ascertained. The amount of
displacement increases from one century to another, but as the rate of
growth is small, ancient observations are necessary to enable the
measures to be made with accuracy.

A remarkable occurrence which took place more than two centuries ago
fortunately enables the place of Mars to be determined with great
precision at that date. On the 1st of October, 1672, three independent
observers witnessed the occultation of a star in Aquarius by the ruddy
planet. The place of the star is known with accuracy, and hence we are
provided with the means of indicating the exact point in the heavens
occupied by Mars on the day in question. From this result, combined with
the modern meridian observations, we learn that the displacement of Mars
by the attraction of the earth has, in the lapse of two centuries, grown
to about five minutes of arc (294 seconds). It has been maintained that
this cannot be erroneous to the extent of more than a second, and hence
it would follow that the earth's mass is determined to about one
three-hundredth part of its amount. If no other error were present, this
would give the sun's distance to about one nine-hundredth part.

[Illustration: Fig. 50.--Relative Sizes of Mars and the Earth.]

Notwithstanding the intrinsic beauty of this method, and the very high
auspices under which it has been introduced, it is, we think, at present
hardly worthy of reliance in comparison with some of the other methods.
As the displacement of Mars, due to the perturbing influence of the
earth, goes on increasing continually, it will ultimately attain
sufficient magnitude to give a very exact value of the earth's mass, and
then this method will give us the distance of the sun with great
precision. But interesting and beautiful though this method may be, we
must as yet rather regard it as a striking confirmation of the law of
gravitation than as affording an accurate means of measuring the sun's
distance.

[Illustration: Fig. 51.--Drawing of Mars (July 30th, 1894).]

[Illustration: Fig. 52.--Drawing of Mars (August 16th, 1894).]

[Illustration: Fig. 53.--Elevations and Depressions on the "Terminator"
of Mars (August 24th, 1894).]

[Illustration: Fig. 54.--The Southern Polar Cap on Mars (July 1, 1894).]

The close approaches of Mars to the earth afford us opportunities for
making a careful telescopic scrutiny of his surface. It must not be
expected that the details on Mars could be inspected with the same
minuteness as those on the moon. Even under the most favourable
circumstances, Mars is still more than a hundred times as far as the
moon, and, therefore, the features of the planet have to be at least one
hundred times as large if they are to be seen as distinctly as the
features on the moon. Mars is much smaller than the earth. The diameter
of the planet is 4,200 miles, but little more than half that of the
earth. Fig. 50 shows the comparative sizes of the two bodies. We here
reproduce two of the remarkable drawings[16] of Mars made by Professor
William H. Pickering at the Lowell Observatory, Flagstaff A.T. Fig. 51
was taken on the 30th of July, 1894, and Fig. 52 on the 16th of August,
1894.

The southern polar cap on Mars, as seen by Professor William H.
Pickering at Lowell Observatory on the 1st of July, 1894, is represented
in Fig. 54.[17] The remarkable black mark intruding into the polar area
will be noticed. In Fig. 53 are shown a series of unusually marked
elevations and depressions upon the "terminator" of the planet, drawn as
accurately as possible to scale by the same skilful hand on the 24th of
August, 1894.

In making an examination of the planet it is to be observed that it does
not, like the moon, always present the same face towards the observer.
Mars rotates upon an axis in exactly the same manner as the earth. It is
not a little remarkable that the period required by Mars for the
completion of one rotation should be only about half an hour greater
than the period of rotation of the earth. The exact period is 24 hours,
37 minutes, 22-3/4 seconds. It therefore follows that the aspect of the
planet changes from hour to hour. The western side gradually sinks from
view, the eastern side gradually assumes prominence. In twelve hours the
aspect of the planet is completely changed. These changes, together with
the inevitable effects of foreshortening, render it often difficult to
correlate the objects on the planet with those on the maps. The latter,
it must be confessed, fall short of the maps of the moon in definiteness
and in certainty; yet there is no doubt that the main features of the
planet are to be regarded as thoroughly established, and some
astronomers have given names to all the prominent objects.

The markings on the surface of Mars are of two classes. Some of them are
of an iron-grey hue verging on green, while the others are generally
dark yellow or orange, occasionally verging on white. The former have
usually been supposed to represent the tracts of ocean, the latter the
continental masses on the ruddy planet. We possess a great number of
drawings of Mars, the earliest being taken in the middle of the
seventeenth century. Though these early sketches are very rough, and are
not of much value for the solution of questions of topography, they have
been found very useful in aiding us to fix the period of rotation of the
planet on its axis by comparison with our modern drawings.

Early observers had already noticed that each of the poles of Mars is
distinguished by a white spot. It is, however, to William Herschel that
we owe the first systematic study of these remarkable polar caps. This
illustrious astronomer was rewarded by a very interesting discovery. He
found that these arctic tracts on Mars vary both in extent and
distinctness with the seasons of the hemisphere on which they are
situated. They attain a maximum development from three to six months
after the winter solstice on that planet, and then diminish until they
are smallest about three to six months after the summer solstice. The
analogy with the behaviour of the masses of snow and ice which surround
our own poles is complete, and there has until lately been hardly any
doubt that the white polar spots of Mars are somewhat similarly
constituted.

As the period of revolution of Mars around the sun is so much longer
than our year, 687 days instead of 365, the seasons of the planet are,
of course, also much longer than the terrestrial seasons. In the
northern hemisphere of Mars the summer lasts for no fewer than 381 days,
and the winter must be 306 days. In both hemispheres the white polar cap
in the course of the long winter season increases until it reaches a
diameter of 45° to 50°, while the long summer reduces it to a small area
only 4° or 5° in diameter. It is remarkable that one of these white
regions--that at the south pole--seems not to be concentric with the
pole, but is placed so much to one side that the south pole of Mars
appears to be quite free from ice or snow once a year.

Although many valuable observations of Mars were made in the course of
the nineteenth century, it is only since the very favourable opposition
of 1877 that the study of the surface of Mars has made that immense
progress which is one of the most remarkable features of modern
astronomy. Among the observers who produced valuable drawings of the
planet in 1877 we may mention Mr. Green, whose exquisite pictures were
published by the Royal Astronomical Society, and Professor Schiaparelli,
of Milan, who almost revolutionised our knowledge of this planet.
Schiaparelli had a refractor of only eight inches aperture at his
disposal, but he was doubtless much favoured by the purity of the
Italian sky, which enabled him to detect in the bright portions of the
surface of Mars a considerable number of long, narrow lines. To these he
gave the name of canals, inasmuch as they issued from the so-called
oceans, and could be traced across the reputed continents for
considerable distances, which sometimes reached thousands of miles.

The canals seemed to form a kind of network, which connected the various
seas with each other. A few of the more conspicuous of these so-called
canals appeared indeed on some of the drawings made by Dawes and others
before Schiaparelli's time. It was, however, the illustrious Italian
astronomer who detected that these narrow lines are present in such
great numbers as to form a notable feature of the planet. Some of these
remarkable features are shown in Figs. 51 and 52, which are copied from
drawings made by Professor William H. Pickering at the Lowell
Observatory in 1894.

Great as had been the surprise of astronomers when Schiaparelli first
proclaimed the discovery of these numerous canals, it was, perhaps,
surpassed by the astonishment with which his announcement was received
in 1882 that most of the canals had become double. Between December,
1881, and February, 1882, thirty of these duplications appear to have
taken place. Nineteen of these were cases of a well-traced parallel line
being formed near a previously existing canal. The remaining canals were
less certainly established, or were cases where the two lines did not
seem to be quite parallel. A copy of the map of Mars which Schiaparelli
formed from his observations of 1881-82 is given in Plate XVIII. It
brings out clearly these strange double canals, so unlike any features
that we know on any other globe.

[Illustration: PLATE XVIII.

SCHIAPARELLI'S MAP OF MARS IN 1881-82.]

Subsequent observations by Schiaparelli and several other observers
seem to indicate that this phenomenon of the duplication of the canals
is of a periodic character. It is produced about the times when Mars
passes through its equinoxes. One of the two parallel lines is often
superposed as exactly as possible upon the track of the old canal. It
does, however, sometimes happen that both the lines occupy opposite
sides of the former canal and are situated on entirely new ground. The
distance between the two lines varies from about 360 miles as a maximum
down to the smallest limit distinguishable in our large telescopes,
which is something less than thirty miles. The breadth of each of these
remarkable channels may range from the limits of visibility, say, up to
more than sixty miles.

The duplication of the canals is perhaps the most difficult problem
which Mars offers to us for solution. Even if we admit that the canals
themselves represent inlets or channels through which the melted polar
snow makes its way across the equatorial continents, it is not easy to
see how the duplicate canals can arise. This is especially true in those
cases where the original channel seems to vanish and to be replaced by
two quite new canals, each about the breadth of the English Channel, and
lying one on each side of the course of the old one. The very obvious
explanation that the whole duplication is an optical illusion has been
brought forward more than once, but never in a conclusive manner. We
must, perhaps, be content to let the solution of this matter rest for
the present, in the hope that the extraordinary attention which this
planet is now receiving will in due time explain the present enigma.

The markings on the surface of this planet are, generally speaking, of a
permanent character, so that when we compare drawings made one or two
hundred years ago with drawings made more recently we can recognise in
each the same features. This permanence is, however, not nearly so
absolute as it is in the case of the moon. In addition to the canals
which we have already considered, many other parts of the surface of
Mars alter their outlines from time to time. This is particularly the
case with those dark spots which we call oceans, the contours of which
sometimes undergo modifications in matters of detail which are quite
unmistakable. Changes of colour are often observed on parts of the
planet, and though some of these observations may perhaps be attributed
to the influence of our own atmosphere on the planet's appearance, they
cannot be all thus accounted for. Some of the phenomena must certainly
be due to actual changes which have taken place on the surface of Mars.

As an example of such changes, we may refer to the north-western part of
the notable feature, to which Schiaparelli has given the name of _Syrtis
major_.[18] This has at various times been recorded as grey, green,
blue, brown, and even violet. When this region (about the time of the
autumnal equinox of the northern hemisphere) is situated in the middle
of the visible disc, the eastern part is distinctly greener than the
western. As the season progresses this characteristic colour gets
feebler, until the green tint is to be perceived only on the shores of
the Syrtis. The atmosphere of Mars is usually very transparent, and
fortunately allows us to scrutinise the surface of the planet without
putting obstacles in the way m the shape of Martian clouds. Such clouds,
however, are not invariably absent. Our view of the surface is
occasionally obstructed in such a manner as to make it certain that
clouds or mist in the atmosphere of Mars must be the cause of the
trouble.

Would we form an idea of the physical constitution of the surface of
Mars, then the question as to the character of the atmosphere of the
planet is among the first to be considered. Spectroscopic observations
do not in this case render us much assistance. Of course, we know that
the planet has no intrinsic light. It merely shines by reflected
sunlight. The hemisphere which is turned towards the sun is bright, and
the hemisphere which is turned away from the sun is dark. The spectrum
ought, therefore, like that of the moon, to be an exact though faint
copy of the solar spectrum, unless the sun's rays, by passing twice
through the atmosphere of Mars, suffered some absorption which could
give rise to additional dark lines. Some of the earlier observers
thought that they could distinctly make out some such lines due, as was
supposed, to water vapour. The presence of such lines is, however,
denied by Mr. Campbell, of the Lick Observatory, and Professor Keeler,
at the Allegheny Observatory,[19] who, with their unrivalled
opportunities, both instrumental and climatic, could find no difference
between the spectra of Mars and the moon. If Mars had an atmosphere of
appreciable extent, its absorptive effect should be noticeable,
especially at the limb of the planet; but Mr. Campbell's observations do
not show any increased absorption at the limb. It would therefore seem
that Mars cannot have an extensive atmosphere, and this conclusion is
confirmed in several other ways.

The distinctness with which we see the surface of this planet tends to
show that the atmosphere must be very thin as compared with our own.
There can hardly be any doubt that an observer on Mars with a good
telescope would be unable to distinguish much of the features of the
earth's surface. This would be the case not only by reason of the strong
absorption of the light during the double passage through our
atmosphere, but also on account of the great diffusion of the light
caused by this same atmosphere. Also, it is needless to say, the great
amount of cloud generally floating over the earth would totally obscure
many parts of our planet from a Martian observer. But though, as already
mentioned, we occasionally find parts of Mars rendered indistinct, it
must be acknowledged that the clouds on Mars are very slight. We should
expect that the polar caps, if composed of snow, would, when melting,
produce clouds which would more or less hide the polar regions from our
inspection; yet nothing of the kind has ever been seen.

We have seen that there are very grave doubts as to the existence of
water on Mars. No doubt we have frequently spoken of the dark markings
as "oceans" and of the bright parts as "continents." That this language
was just has been the opinion of astronomers for a very long time. A few
years ago Mr. Schaeberle, of the Lick Observatory, came to the very
opposite conclusion. He contended that the dark parts were the
continents and the bright ones were the oceans of water, or some other
fluid. He pointed to the irregular shading of the dark parts, which does
not suggest the idea of light reflected from a spherical surface of
water, especially as the contrasts between light and shade are strongest
about the middle of the disc.

It is also to be noticed that the dark regions are not infrequently
traversed by still darker streaks, which can be traced for hundreds of
miles almost in straight lines, while the so-called canals in the bright
parts often seem to be continuations of these same lines. Mr. Schaeberle
therefore suggests that the canals may be chains of mountains stretching
over sea and land! The late Professor Phillips and Mr. H.D. Taylor have
pointed out that if there were lakes or seas in the tropical regions of
Mars we should frequently see the sun directly reflected from them, thus
producing a bright, star-like point which could not escape observation.
Even moderately disturbed water would make its presence known in this
manner, and yet nothing of the kind has ever been recorded.

On the question as to the possibility of life on Mars a few words may be
added. If we could be certain of the existence of water on Mars, then
one of the fundamental conditions would be fulfilled; and even though
the atmosphere on Mars had but few points of resemblance either in
composition or in density to the atmosphere of the earth, life might
still be possible. Even if we could suppose that a man would find
suitable nutriment for his body and suitable air for his respiration, it
seems very doubtful whether he would be able to live. Owing to the small
size of Mars and the smallness of its mass in comparison with the
earth, the intensity of the gravitation on the neighbouring planet would
be different from the attraction on the surface of the earth. We have
already alluded to the small gravitation on the moon, and in a lesser
degree the same remarks will apply to Mars. A body which weighs on the
earth two pounds would on the surface of Mars weigh rather less than one
pound. Nearly the same exertion which will raise a 56-lb. weight on the
earth would lift two similar weights on Mars.

The earth is attended by one moon. Jupiter is attended by four
conspicuous moons. Mars is a planet revolving between the orbits of the
earth and of Jupiter. It is a body of the same general type as the earth
and Jupiter. It is ruled by the same sun, and all three planets form
part of the same system; but as the earth has one moon and Jupiter four
moons, why should not Mars also have a moon? No doubt Mars is a small
body, less even than the earth, and much less than Jupiter. We could not
expect Mars to have large moons, but why should it be unlike its two
neighbours, and not have any moon at all? So reasoned astronomers, but
until modern times no satellite of Mars could be found. For centuries
the planet has been diligently examined with this special object, and as
failure after failure came to be recorded, the conclusion seemed almost
to be justified that the chain of analogical reasoning had broken down.
The moonless Mars was thought to be an exception to the rule that all
the great planets outside Venus were dignified by an attendant retinue
of satellites. It seemed almost hopeless to begin again a research which
had often been tried, and had invariably led to disappointment; yet,
fortunately, the present generation has witnessed still one more attack,
conducted with perfect equipment and with consummate skill This attempt
has obtained the success it so well merited, and the result has been the
memorable detection of two satellites of Mars.

This discovery was made by Professor Asaph Hall, the distinguished
astronomer at the observatory of Washington. Mr. Hall was provided with
an instrument of colossal proportions and of exquisite workmanship,
known as the great Washington refractor. It is the product of the
celebrated workshop of Messrs. Alvan Clark and Sons, from which so many
large telescopes have proceeded, and in its noble proportions far
surpassed any other telescope ever devoted to the same research. The
object-glass measures twenty-six inches in diameter, and is hardly less
remarkable for the perfection of its definition than for its size. But
even the skill of Mr. Hall, and the space-penetrating power of his
telescope, would not have been able on ordinary occasions to discover
the satellites of Mars. Advantage was accordingly taken of that
memorable opposition of Mars in 1877, when, as we have already
described, the planet came unusually near the earth.

Had Mars been attended by a moon one-hundredth part of the bulk of our
moon it must long ago have been discovered. Mr. Hall, therefore, knew
that if there were any satellites they must be extremely small bodies,
and he braced himself for a severe and diligent search. The
circumstances were all favourable. Not only was Mars as near as it well
could be to the earth; not only was the great telescope at Washington
the most powerful refractor then in existence; but the situation of
Washington is such that Mars was seen from the observatory at a high
elevation. It was while the British Association were meeting at
Plymouth, in 1877, that a telegram flashed across the Atlantic.
Brilliant success had rewarded Mr. Hall's efforts. He had hoped to
discover one satellite. The discovery of even one would have made the
whole scientific world ring; but fortune smiled on Mr. Hall. He
discovered first one satellite, and then he discovered a second; and, in
connection with these satellites, he further discovered a unique fact in
the solar system.

Deimos, the outer of the satellites, revolves around the planet in the
period of 30 hours, 17 mins., 54 secs.; it is the inner satellite,
Phobos, which has commanded the more special attention of every
astronomer in the world. Mars turns round on his axis in a Martial day,
which is very nearly the same length as our day of twenty-four hours.
The inner satellite of Mars moves round in 7 hours, 39 mins., 14 secs.
Phobos, in fact, revolves three times round Mars in the same time that
Mars can turn round once. This circumstance is unparalleled in the solar
system; indeed, as far as we know, it is unparalleled in the universe.
In the case of our own planet, the earth rotates twenty-seven times for
one revolution of the moon. To some extent the same may be said of
Jupiter and of Saturn; while in the great system of the sun himself and
the planets, the sun rotates on his axis several times for each
revolution of even the most rapidly moving of the planets. There is no
other known case where the satellite revolves around the primary more
quickly than the primary rotates on its axis. The anomalous movement of
the satellite of Mars has, however, been accounted for. In a subsequent
chapter we shall again allude to this, as it is connected with an
important department of modern astronomy.

The satellites are so small that we are unable to measure their
diameters directly, but from observations of their brightness it is
evident that their diameters cannot exceed twenty or thirty miles, and
may be even smaller. Owing to their rapid motion the two satellites must
present some remarkable peculiarities to an observer on Mars. Phobos
rises in the west, passes across the heavens, and sets in the east after
about five and a half hours, while Deimos rises in the east and remains
more than two days above the horizon.

As the satellites revolve in paths vertically above the equator of their
primary, the one less than 4,000 miles and the other only some 14,500
miles above the surface, it follows that they can never be visible from
the poles of Mars; indeed, to see Phobos, the observer's planetary
latitude must not be above 68-3/4°. If it were so, the satellite would
be hidden by the body of Mars, just as we, in the British Islands, would
be unable to see an object revolving round the earth a few hundred miles
above the equator.

Before passing from the attractive subject of the satellites, we may
just mention two points of a literary character. Mr. Hall consulted his
classical friends as to the designation to be conferred on the two
satellites. Homer was referred to, and a passage in the "Iliad"
suggested the names of Deimos and Phobos. These personages were the
attendants of Mars, and the lines in which they occur have been thus
construed by my friend Professor Tyrrell:--

  "Mars spake, and called Dismay and Rout
  To yoke his steeds, and he did on his harness sheen."

A curious circumstance with respect to the satellites of Mars will be
familiar to those who are acquainted with "Gulliver's Travels." The
astronomers on board the flying Island of Laputa had, according to
Gulliver, keen vision and good telescopes. The traveller says that they
had found two satellites to Mars, one of which revolved around him in
ten hours, and the other in twenty-one and a half. The author has thus
not only made a correct guess about the number of the satellites, but he
actually stated the periodic time with considerable accuracy! We do not
know what can have suggested the latter guess. A few years ago any
astronomer reading the voyage to Laputa would have said this was absurd.
There might be two satellites to Mars, no doubt; but to say that one of
them revolves in ten hours would be to assert what no one could believe.
Yet the truth has been even stranger than the fiction.

And now we must bring to a close our account of this beautiful and
interesting planet. There are many additional features over which we are
tempted to linger, but so many other bodies claim our attention in the
solar system, so many other bodies which exceed Mars in size and
intrinsic importance, that we are obliged to desist. Our next step will
not, however, at once conduct us to the giant planets. We find outside
Mars a host of objects, small indeed, but of much interest; and with
these we shall find abundant occupation for the following chapter.




CHAPTER XI.

THE MINOR PLANETS.


     The Lesser Members of our System--Bode's Law--The Vacant Region in
     the Planetary System--The Research--The Discovery of Piazzi--Was
     the small Body a Planet?--The Planet becomes Invisible--Gauss
     undertakes the Search by Mathematics--The Planet Recovered--Further
     Discoveries--Number of Minor Planets now known--The Region to be
     Searched--The Construction of the Chart for the Search for Small
     Planets--How a Minor Planet is Discovered--Physical Nature of the
     Minor Planets--Small Gravitation on the Minor Planets--The Berlin
     Computations--How the Minor Planets tell us the Distance of the
     Sun--Accuracy of the Observations--How they may be
     Multiplied--Victoria and Sappho--The most Perfect Method.

In our chapters on the Sun and Moon, on the Earth and Venus, and on
Mercury and Mars, we have been discussing the features and the movements
of globes of vast dimensions. The least of all these bodies is the moon,
but even that globe is 2,000 miles from one side to the other. In
approaching the subject of the minor planets we must be prepared to find
objects of dimensions quite inconsiderable in comparison with the great
spheres of our system. No doubt these minor planets are all of them some
few miles, and some of them a great many miles, in diameter. Were they
close to the earth they would be conspicuous, and even splendid,
objects; but as they are so distant they do not, even in our greatest
telescopes, become very remarkable, while to the unaided eye they are
almost all invisible.

In the diagram (p. 234) of the orbits of the various planets, it is
shown that a wide space exists between the orbit of Mars and that of
Jupiter. It was often surmised that this ample region must be tenanted
by some other planet. The presumption became much stronger when a
remarkable law was discovered which exhibited, with considerable
accuracy, the relative distances of the great planets of our system.
Take the series of numbers, 0, 3, 6, 12, 24, 48, 96, whereof each number
(except the second) is double of the number which precedes it. If we now
add four to each, we have the series 4, 7, 10, 16, 28, 52, 100. With the
exception of the fifth of these numbers (28), they are all sensibly
proportional to the distances of the various planets from the sun. In
fact, the distances are as follows:--Mercury, 3·9; Venus, 7·2; Earth,
10; Mars, 15·2; Jupiter, 52·9; Saturn, 95·4. Although we have no
physical reason to offer why this law--generally known as Bode's--should
be true, yet the fact that it is so nearly true in the case of all the
known planets tempts us to ask whether there may not also be a planet
revolving around the sun at the distance represented by 28.

So strongly was this felt at the end of the eighteenth century that some
energetic astronomers decided to make a united effort to search for the
unknown planet. It seemed certain that the planet could not be a large
one, as otherwise it must have been found long ago. If it should exist,
then means were required for discriminating between the planet and the
hosts of stars strewn along its path.

The search for the small planet was soon rewarded by a success which has
rendered the evening of the first day in the nineteenth century
memorable in astronomy. It was in the pure skies of Palermo that the
observatory was situated where the memorable discovery of the first
known minor planet was made by Piazzi. This laborious and accomplished
astronomer had organised an ingenious system of exploring the heavens
which was eminently calculated to discriminate a planet among the starry
host. On a certain night he would select a series of stars to the number
of fifty, more or less, according to circumstances. With his meridian
circle he determined the places of the chosen objects. The following
night, or, at all events, as soon as convenient, he re-observed the
whole fifty stars with the same instrument and in the same manner, and
the whole operation was afterwards repeated on two, or perhaps more,
nights. When the observations were compared together he was in
possession of some four or more places of each one of the stars on
different nights, and the whole series was complete. He was persevering
enough to carry on these observations for very many groups, and at
length he was rewarded by a success which amply compensated him for all
his toil.

It was on the 1st of January, 1801, that Piazzi commenced for the one
hundred and fifty-ninth time to observe a new series. Fifty stars this
night were viewed in his telescope, and their places were carefully
recorded. Of these objects the first twelve were undoubtedly stellar,
and so to all appearance was the thirteenth, a star of the eighth
magnitude in the constellation of Taurus. There was nothing to
distinguish the telescopic appearance of this object from all the others
which preceded or followed it. The following night Piazzi, according to
his custom, re-observed the whole fifty stars, and he did the same again
on the 3rd of January, and once again on the 4th. He then, as usual,
brought together the four places he had found for each of the several
bodies. When this was done it was at once seen that the thirteenth
object on the list was quite a different body from the remainder and
from all the other stars which he had ever observed before. The four
places of this mysterious object were all different; in other words, it
was in movement, and was therefore a planet.

A few days' observation sufficed to show how this little body,
afterwards called Ceres, revolved around the sun, and how it circulated
in that vacant path intermediate between the path of Mars and the path
of Jupiter. Great, indeed, was the interest aroused by this discovery
and the influence which it has exercised on the progress of astronomy.
The majestic planets of our system had now to admit a much more humble
object to a share of the benefits dispensed by the sun.

After Piazzi had obtained a few further observations, the season for
observing this part of the heavens passed away, and the new planet of
course ceased to be visible. In a few months, no doubt, the same part of
the sky would again be above the horizon after dark, and the stars would
of course be seen as before. The planet, however, was moving, and would
continue to move, and by the time the next season had arrived it would
have passed off into some distant region, and would be again confounded
with the stars which it so closely resembled. How, then, was the planet
to be pursued through its period of invisibility and identified when it
again came within reach of observation?

This difficulty attracted the attention of astronomers, and they sought
for some method by which the place of the planet could be recovered so
as to prevent Piazzi's discovery from falling into oblivion. A young
German mathematician, whose name was Gauss, opened his distinguished
career by a successful attempt to solve this problem. A planet, as we
have shown, describes an ellipse around the sun, and the sun lies at a
focus of that curve. It can be demonstrated that when three positions of
a planet are known, then the ellipse in which the planet moves is
completely determined. Piazzi had on each occasion measured the place
which it then occupied. This information was available to Gauss, and the
problem which he had to solve may be thus stated. Knowing the place of
the planet on three nights, it is required, without any further
observations, to tell what the place of the planet will be on a special
occasion some months in the future. Mathematical calculations, based on
the laws of Kepler, will enable this problem to be solved, and Gauss
succeeded in solving it. Gauss demonstrated that though the telescope of
the astronomer was unable to detect the wanderer during its season of
invisibility, yet the pen of the mathematician could follow it with
unfailing certainty. When, therefore, the progress of the seasons
permitted the observations to be renewed, the search was recommenced.
The telescope was directed to the point which Gauss's calculations
indicated, and there was the little Ceres. Ever since its re-discovery,
the planet has been so completely bound in the toils of mathematical
reasoning that its place every night of the year can be indicated with a
fidelity approaching to that attainable in observing the moon or the
great planets of our system.

The discovery of one minor planet was quickly followed by similar
successes, so that within seven years Pallas, Juno, and Vesta were added
to the solar system. The orbits of all these bodies lie in the region
between the orbit of Mars and of Jupiter, and for many years it seems to
have been thought that our planetary system was now complete. Forty
years later systematic research was again commenced. Planet after planet
was added to the list; gradually the discoveries became a stream of
increasing volume, until in 1897 the total number reached about 430.
Their distribution in the solar system is somewhat as represented in
Fig. 55. By the improvement of astronomical telescopes, and by the
devotion with which certain astronomers have applied themselves to this
interesting research, a special method of observing has been created for
the distinct purpose of searching out these little objects.

It is known that the paths in which all the great planets move through
the heavens coincide very nearly with the path which the sun appears to
follow among the stars, and which is known as the ecliptic. It is
natural to assume that the small planets also move in the same great
highway, which leads them through all the signs of the zodiac in
succession. Some of the small planets, no doubt, deviate rather widely
from the track of the sun, but the great majority are approximately near
it. This consideration at once simplifies the search for new planets. A
certain zone extending around the heavens is to be examined, but there
is in general little advantage in pushing the research into other parts
of the sky.

The next step is to construct a map containing all the stars in this
region. This is a task of very great labour; the stars visible in the
large telescopes are so numerous that many tens of thousands, perhaps we
should say hundreds of thousands, are included in the region so narrowly
limited. The fact is that many of the minor planets now known are
objects of extreme minuteness; they can only be seen with very powerful
telescopes, and for their detection it is necessary to use charts on
which even the faintest stars have been depicted. Many astronomers have
concurred in the labour of producing these charts; among them may be
mentioned Palisa, of Vienna, who by means of his charts has found
eighty-three minor planets, and the late Professor Peters, of Clinton,
New York, who in a similar way found forty-nine of these bodies.

[Illustration: Fig. 55.--The Zone of Minor Planets between Mars and
Jupiter.]

The astronomer about to seek for a new planet directs his telescope
towards that part of the sun's path which is on the meridian at
midnight; there, if anywhere, lies the chance of success, because that
is the region in which such a body is nearer to the earth than at any
other part of its course. He steadfastly compares his chart with the
heavens, and usually finds the stars in the heavens and the stars in the
chart to correspond; but sometimes it will happen that a point in the
heavens is missing from the chart. His attention is at once arrested; he
follows the object with care, and if it moves it is a planet. Still he
cannot be sure that he has really made a discovery; he has found a
planet, no doubt, but it may be one of the large number already known.
To clear up this point he must undertake a further, and sometimes a very
laborious, enquiry; he must search the Berlin Year-Book and other
ephemerides of such planets and see whether it is possible for one of
them to have been in the position on the night in question. If he can
ascertain that no previously discovered body could have been there, he
is then entitled to announce to his brother astronomers the discovery of
a new member of the solar system. It seems certain that all the more
important of the minor planets have been long since discovered. The
recent additions to the list are generally extremely minute objects,
beyond the powers of small telescopes.

Since 1891 the method of searching for minor planets which we have just
described has been almost abandoned in favour of a process greatly
superior. It has been found feasible to employ photography for making
charts of the heavens. A photographic plate is exposed in the telescope
to a certain region of the sky sufficiently long to enable very faint
telescopic stars to imprint their images. Care has to be taken that the
clock which moves the camera shall keep pace most accurately with the
rotation of the earth, so that fixed stars appear on the plate as sharp
points. If, on developing the plate, a star is found to have left a
trail, it is evident that this star must during the time of exposure
(generally some hours) have had an independent motion of its own; in
other words, it must be a planet. For greater security a second picture
is generally taken of the same region after a short interval. If the
place occupied by the trail on the first plate is now vacant, while on
the second plate a new trail appears in a line with the first one, there
remains no possible doubt that we have genuine indications of a planet,
and that we have not been led astray by some impurity on the plate or by
a few minute stars which happened to lie very closely together. Wolf,
of Heidelberg, and following in his footsteps Charlois, of Nice, have in
this manner discovered a great number of new minor planets, while they
have also recovered a good many of those which had been lost sight of
owing to an insufficiency of observations.

On the 13th of August, 1898, Herr G. Witt, of the observatory of Urania
in Berlin, discovered a new asteroid by the photographic method. This
object was at first regarded merely as forming an addition of no special
importance to the 432 asteroids whose discovery had preceded it. It
received, as usual, a provisional designation in accordance with a
simple alphabetical device. This temporary label affixed to Witt's
asteroid was "D Q." But the formal naming of the asteroid has now
superseded this label. Herr Witt has given to his asteroid the name of
"Eros." This has been duly accepted by astronomers, and thus for all
time the planet is to be known.

The feature which makes the discovery of Eros one of the most remarkable
incidents in recent astronomy is that on those rare occasions when this
asteroid comes nearest to the earth it is closer to the earth than the
planet Mars can ever be. Closer than the planet Venus can ever be.
Closer than any other known asteroid can ever be. Thus we assign to Eros
the exceptional position of being our nearest planetary neighbour in the
whole host of heaven. Under certain circumstances it will have a
distance from the earth not exceeding one-seventh of the mean distance
of the sun.

Of the physical composition of the asteroids and of the character of
their surfaces we are entirely ignorant. It may be, for anything we can
tell, that these planets are globes like our earth in miniature,
diversified by continents and by oceans. If there be life on such
bodies, which are often only a few miles in diameter, that life must be
something totally different from anything with which we are familiar.
Setting aside every other difficulty arising from the possible absence
of water and from the great improbability of finding there an atmosphere
of a density and a composition suitable for respiration, gravitation
itself would prohibit organic beings adapted for this earth from
residing on a minor planet.

Let us attempt to illustrate this point, and suppose that we take the
case of a minor planet eight miles in diameter, or, in round numbers,
one-thousandth part of the diameter of the earth. If we further suppose
that the materials of the planet are of the same nature as the
substances in the earth, it is easy to prove that the gravity on the
surface of the planet will be only one-thousandth part of the gravity of
the earth. It follows that the weight of an object on the earth would be
reduced to the thousandth part if that object were transferred to the
planet. This would not be disclosed by an ordinary weighing scales,
where the weights are to be placed in one pan and the body to be weighed
in the other. Tested in this way, a body would, of course, weigh
precisely the same anywhere; for if the gravitation of the body is
altered, so is also in equal proportion the gravitation of the
counterpoising weights. But, weighed with a spring balance, the change
would be at once evident, and the effort with which a weight could be
raised would be reduced to one-thousandth part. A load of one thousand
pounds could be lifted from the surface of the planet by the same effort
which would lift one pound on the earth; the effects which this would
produce are very remarkable.

In our description of the moon it was mentioned (p. 103) that we can
calculate the velocity with which it would be necessary to discharge a
projectile so that it would never again fall back on the globe from
which it was expelled. We applied this reasoning to explain why the moon
has apparently altogether lost any atmosphere it might have once
possessed.

If we assume for the sake of illustration that the densities of all
planets are identical, then the law which expresses the critical
velocity for each planet can be readily stated. It is, in fact, simply
proportional to the diameter of the globe in question. Thus, for a minor
planet whose diameter was one-thousandth part of that of the earth, or
about eight miles, the critical velocity would be the thousandth part of
six miles a second--that is, about thirty feet per second. This is a low
velocity compared with ordinary standards. A child easily tosses a ball
up fifteen or sixteen feet high, yet to carry it up this height it must
be projected with a velocity of thirty feet per second. A child,
standing upon a planet eight miles in diameter, throws his ball
vertically upwards; up and up the ball will soar to an amazing
elevation. If the original velocity were less than thirty feet per
second, the ball would at length cease to move, would begin to turn, and
fall with a gradually accelerating pace, until at length it regained the
surface with a speed equal to that with which it had been projected. If
the original velocity had been as much as, or more than, thirty feet per
second, then the ball would soar up and up never to return. In a future
chapter it will be necessary to refer again to this subject.

A few of the minor planets appear in powerful telescopes as discs with
appreciable dimensions, and they have even been measured with the
micrometer. In this way Professor Barnard, late of the Lick Observatory,
determined the following values for the diameters of the four first
discovered minor planets:--

  Ceres       485 miles.
  Pallas      304 miles.
  Juno        118 miles.
  Vesta       243 miles.

The value for Juno is, however, very uncertain, and by far the greater
number of the minor planets are very much smaller than the figures here
given would indicate. It is possible by a certain calculation to form an
estimate of the aggregate mass of all the minor planets, inasmuch as
observations disclose to us the extent of their united disturbing
influences on the motion of Mars. In this manner Le Verrier concluded
that the collected mass of the small planets must be about equal to
one-fourth of the mass of the earth. Harzer, repeating the enquiry in an
improved manner, deduced a collected mass one-sixth of that of the
earth. There can be no doubt that the total mass of all the minor
planets at present known is not more than a very small fraction of the
amount to which these calculations point. We therefore conclude that
there must be a vast number of minor planets which have not yet been
recognised in the observatory. These unknown planets must be extremely
minute.

The orbits of this group of bodies differ in remarkable characteristics
from those of the larger planets. Some of them are inclined at angles of
30° to the plane of the earth's orbit, the inclinations of the great
planets being not more than a few degrees. Some of the orbits of the
minor planets are also greatly elongated ellipses, while, of course, the
orbits of the large planets do not much depart from the circular form.
The periods of revolution of these small objects round the sun range
from three years to nearly nine years.

A great increase in the number of minor planets has rewarded the zeal of
those astronomers who have devoted their labours to this subject. Their
success has entailed a vast amount of labour on the computers of the
"Berlin Year-Book." That useful work occupies in this respect a position
which has not been taken by our own "Nautical Almanac," nor by the
similar publications of other countries. A skilful band of computers
make it their duty to provide for the "Berlin Year-Book" detailed
information as to the movements of the minor planets. As soon as a few
complete observations have been obtained, the little object passes into
the secure grasp of the mathematician; he is able to predict its career
for years to come, and the announcements with respect to all the known
minor planets are to be found in the annual volumes of the work referred
to.

The growth of discovery has been so rapid that the necessary labour for
the preparation of such predictions is now enormous. It must be
confessed that many of the minor planets are very faint and otherwise
devoid of interest, so that astronomers are sometimes tempted to concur
with the suggestion that a portion of the astronomical labour now
devoted to the computation of the paths of these bodies might be more
profitably applied. For this it would be only necessary to cast adrift
all the less interesting members of the host, and allow them to pursue
their paths unwatched by the telescope, or by the still more ceaseless
tables of the mathematical computer.

The sun, which controls the mighty orbs of our system, does not disdain
to guide, with equal care, the tiny globes which form the minor planets.
At certain times some of them approach near enough to the earth to merit
the attention of those astronomers who are specially interested in
determining the dimensions of the solar system. The observations are of
such a nature that they can be made with considerable precision; they
can also be multiplied to any extent that may be desired. Some of these
little bodies have consequently a great astronomical future, inasmuch as
they seem destined to indicate the true distance from the earth to the
sun more accurately than Venus or than Mars. The smallest of these
planets will not answer for this purpose; they can only be seen in
powerful telescopes, and they do not admit of being measured with the
necessary accuracy. It is also obvious that the planets to be chosen for
observation must come as near the earth as possible. In favourable
circumstances, some of the minor planets will approach the earth to a
distance which is about three-quarters of the distance of the sun. These
various conditions limit the number of bodies available for this purpose
to about a dozen, of which one or two will usually be suitably placed
each year.

For the determination of the sun's distance this method by the minor
planets offers unquestionable advantages. The orb itself is a minute
star-like point in the telescope, and the measures are made from it to
the stars which are seen near it. A few words will, perhaps, be
necessary at this place as to the nature of the observations referred
to. When we speak of the measures from the planet to the star, we do not
refer to what would be perhaps the most ordinary acceptation of the
expression. We do _not_ mean the actual measurement of the number of
miles in a straight line between the planet and the star. This element,
even if attainable, could only be the result of a protracted series of
observations of a nature which will be explained later on when we come
to speak of the distances of the stars. The measures now referred to are
of a more simple character; they are merely to ascertain the apparent
distance of the objects expressed in angular measure. This angular
measurement is of a wholly different character from the linear
measurement, and the two methods may, indeed, lead to results that would
at first seem paradoxical.

We may take, as an illustration, the case of the group of stars forming
the Pleiades, and those which form the Great Bear. The latter is a large
group, the former is a small one. But why do we think the words large
and small rightly applied here? Each pair of stars of the Great Bear
makes a large angle with the eye. Each pair of stars in the Pleiades
makes a small angle, and it is these angles which are the direct object
of astronomical measurement. We speak of the distance of two stars,
meaning thereby the angle which is bounded by the two lines from the eye
to the two stars. This is what our instruments are able to measure, and
it is to be observed that no reference to linear magnitude is implied.
Indeed, if we are to mention actual dimensions, it is quite possible,
for anything we can tell, that the Pleiades may form a much larger group
than the Great Bear, and that the apparent superiority of the latter is
merely due to its being closer to us. The most accurate of these angular
measures are obtained when two stars, or two star-like points, are so
close together as to enable them to be included in one field of view of
the telescope. There are special forms of apparatus which enable the
astronomer in this case to give to his observations a precision
unattainable in the measurement of objects less definitely marked, or at
a greater apparent distance. The determination of the distance of the
small star-like planet from a star is therefore characterised by great
accuracy.

But there is another and, perhaps, a weightier argument in favour of the
determination of the scale of the solar system by this process. The real
strength of the minor planet method rests hardly so much on the
individual accuracy of the observations, as on the fact that from the
nature of the method a considerable number of repetitions can be
concentrated on the result. It will, of course, be understood that when
we speak of the accuracy of an observation, it is not to be presumed
that it can ever be entirely free from error. Errors always exist, and
though they may be small, yet if the quantity to be measured is minute,
an error of intrinsic insignificance may amount to an appreciable
fraction of the whole. The one way by which their effect can be subdued
is by taking the mean of a large number of observations. This is the
real source of the value of the minor planet method. We have not to wait
for the occurrence of rare events like the transit of Venus. Each year
will witness the approach of some one or more minor planets sufficiently
close to the earth to render the method applicable. The varied
circumstances attending each planet, and the great variety of the
observations which may be made upon it, will further conduce to
eliminate error.

As the planet pursues its course through the sky, which is everywhere
studded over with countless myriads of minute stars, it is evident that
this body, itself so like a star, will always have some stars in its
immediate neighbourhood. As the movements of the planet are well known,
we can foretell where it will be on each night that it is to be
observed. It is thus possible to prearrange with observers in
widely-different parts of the earth as to the observations to be made on
each particular night.

An attempt has been made, on the suggestion of Dr. Gill, to carry out
this method on a scale commensurate with its importance. The planets
Iris, Victoria, and Sappho happened, in the years 1888 and 1889, to
approach so close to the earth that arrangements were made for
simultaneous measurements in both the northern and the southern
hemispheres. A scheme was completely drawn up many months before the
observations were to commence. Each observer who participated in the
work was thus advised beforehand of the stars which were to be employed
each night. Viewed from any part of the earth, from the Cape of Good
Hope or from Great Britain, the positions of the stars remain absolutely
unchanged. Their distance is so stupendous that a change of place on the
earth displaces them to no appreciable extent. But the case is different
with a minor planet. It is hardly one-millionth part of the distance of
the stars, and the displacement of the planet when viewed from the Cape
and when viewed from Europe is a measurable quantity.

The magnitude we are seeking is to be elicited by comparison between the
measurements made in the northern hemisphere with those made in the
southern. The observations in the two localities must be as nearly
simultaneous as possible, due allowance being made for the motion of the
planet in whatever interval may have elapsed. Although every precaution
is taken to eliminate the errors of each observation, yet the fact
remains that we compare the measures made by observers in the northern
hemisphere with those made by different observers, using of course
different instruments, thousands of miles away. But in this respect we
are at no greater disadvantage than in observing the transit of Venus.

It is, however, possible to obviate even this objection, and thus to
give the minor planet method a supremacy over its rival which cannot be
disputed. The difficulty would be overcome if we could arrange that an
astronomer, after making a set of observations on a fine night in the
northern hemisphere, should be instantly transferred, instruments and
all, to the southern station, and there repeat the observations. An
equivalent transformation can be effected without any miraculous agency,
and in it we have undoubtedly the most perfect mode of measuring the
sun's distance with which we are acquainted. This method has already
been applied with success by Dr. Gill in the case of Juno, and there are
other members of the host of minor planets still more favourably
circumstanced.

Consider, for instance, a minor planet, which sometimes approaches to
within 70,000,000 miles of the earth. When the opposition is drawing
near, a skilled observer is to be placed at some suitable station near
the equator. The instrument he is to use should be that marvellous piece
of mechanical and optical skill known as the heliometer.[20] It can be
used to measure the angular distance between objects too far apart for
the filar micrometer. The measurements are to be made in the evening as
soon as the planet has risen high enough to enable it to be seen
distinctly. The observer and the observatory are then to be transferred
to the other side of the earth. How is this to be done? Say, rather, how
we could prevent it from being done. Is not the earth rotating on its
axis, so that in the course of a few hours the observatory on the
equator is carried bodily round for thousands of miles? As the morning
approaches the observations are to be repeated. The planet is found to
have changed its place very considerably with regard to the stars. This
is partly due to its own motion, but it is also largely due to the
parallactic displacement arising from the rotation of the earth, which
may amount to so much as twenty seconds. The measures on a single night
with the heliometer should not have a mean error greater than one-fifth
of a second, and we might reasonably expect that observations could be
secured on about twenty-five nights during the opposition. Four such
groups might be expected to give the sun's distance without any
uncertainty greater than the thousandth part of the total amount. The
chief difficulty of the process arises from the movement of the planet
during the interval which divides the evening from the morning
observations. This drawback can be avoided by diligent and repeated
measurements of the place of the planet with respect to the stars among
which it passes.

In the monumental piece of work which issued in 1897 from the Cape
Observatory, under the direction of Dr. Gill, the final results from the
observations of Iris, Victoria, and Sappho have been obtained. From this
it appears that the angle which the earth's equatorial radius subtends
at the centre of the sun when at its mean distance has the value
8"·802. If we employ the best value of the earth's equatorial radius we
obtain 92,870,000 miles as the mean distance of the centre of the sun
from the centre of the earth. This is probably the most accurate
determination of the scale of the solar system which has yet been made.




CHAPTER XII.

JUPITER.


     The Great Size of Jupiter--Comparison of his Diameter with that of
     the Earth--Dimensions of the Planet and his Orbit--His
     Rotation--Comparison of his Weight and Bulk with that of the
     Earth--Relative Lightness of Jupiter--How Explained--Jupiter still
     probably in a Heated Condition--The Belts on Jupiter--Spots on his
     Surface--Time of Rotation of different Spots various--Storms on
     Jupiter--Jupiter not Incandescent--The Satellites--Their
     Discovery--Telescopic Appearance--Their Orbits--The Eclipses and
     Occultations--A Satellite in Transit--The Velocity of Light
     Discovered--How is this Velocity to be Measured
     Experimentally?--Determination of the Sun's Distance by the
     Eclipses of Jupiter's Satellites--Jupiter's Satellites
     demonstrating the Copernican System.

In our exploration of the beautiful series of bodies which form the
solar system, we have proceeded step by step outwards from the sun. In
the pursuit of this method we have now come to the splendid planet
Jupiter, which wends its majestic way in a path immediately outside
those orbits of the minor planets which we have just been considering.
Great, indeed, is the contrast between these tiny globes and the
stupendous globe of Jupiter. Had we adopted a somewhat different method
of treatment--had we, for instance, discussed the various bodies of our
planetary system in the order of their magnitude--then the minor planets
would have been the last to be considered, while the leader of the host
would be Jupiter. To this position Jupiter is entitled without an
approach to rivalry. The next greatest on the list, the beautiful and
interesting Saturn, comes a long distance behind. Another great descent
in the scale of magnitude has to be made before we reach Uranus and
Neptune, while still another step downwards must be made before we
reach that lesser group of planets which includes our earth. So
conspicuously does Jupiter tower over the rest, that even if Saturn were
to be augmented by all the other globes of our system rolled into one,
the united mass would still not equal the great globe of Jupiter.

[Illustration: Fig. 56.--The Relative Dimensions of Jupiter and the
Earth.]

The adjoining picture (Fig. 56) shows the relative dimensions of Jupiter
and the earth, and it conveys to the eye a more vivid impression of the
enormous bulk of Jupiter than we can readily obtain by merely
considering the numerical statements by which his bulk is to be
accurately estimated. As, however, it will be necessary to place the
numerical facts before our readers, we do so at the outset of this
chapter.

Jupiter revolves in an elliptic orbit around the sun in the focus, at a
mean distance of 483,000,000 miles. The path of Jupiter is thus about
5·2 times as great in diameter as the path pursued by the earth. The
shape of Jupiter's orbit departs very appreciably from a circle, the
greatest distance from the sun being 5·45, while the least distance is
about 4·95, the earth's distance from the sun being taken as unity. In
the most favourable circumstances for seeing Jupiter at opposition, it
must still be about four times as far from the earth as the earth is
from the sun. This great globe will also illustrate the law that the
more distant a planet is, the slower is the velocity with which its
orbital motion is accomplished. While the earth passes over eighteen
miles each second, Jupiter only accomplishes eight miles. Thus for a
twofold reason the time occupied by an exterior planet in completing a
revolution is greater than the period of the earth. Not only has the
outer planet to complete a longer course than the earth, but the speed
is less; it thus happens that Jupiter requires 4,332·6 days, or about
fifty days less than twelve years, to make a circuit of the heavens.

The mean diameter of the great planet is about 87,000 miles. We say the
_mean_ diameter, because there is a conspicuous difference in the case
of Jupiter between his equatorial and his polar diameters. We have
already seen that there is a similar difference in the case of the
earth, where we find the polar diameter to be shorter than the
equatorial; but the inequality of these two dimensions is very much
larger in Jupiter than in the earth. The equatorial diameter of Jupiter
is 89,600 miles, while the polar is not more than 84,400 miles. The
ellipticity of Jupiter indicated by these figures is sufficiently marked
to be obvious without any refined measures. Around the shortest diameter
the planet spins with what must be considered an enormous velocity when
we reflect on the size of the globe. Each rotation is completed in about
9 hrs. 55 mins.

We may naturally contrast the period of rotation of Jupiter with the
much slower rotation of our earth in twenty-four hours. The difference
becomes much more striking if we consider the relative speeds at which
an object on the equator of the earth and on that of Jupiter actually
moves. As the diameter of Jupiter is nearly eleven times that of the
earth, it will follow that the speed of the equator on Jupiter must be
about twenty-seven times as great as that on the earth. It is no doubt
to this high velocity of rotation that we must ascribe the extraordinary
ellipticity of Jupiter; the rapid rotation causes a great centrifugal
force, and this bulges out the pliant materials of which he seems to be
formed.

Jupiter is not, so far as we can see, a solid body. This is an important
circumstance; and therefore it will be necessary to discuss the matter
at some little length, as we here perceive a wide contrast between this
great planet and the other planets which have previously occupied our
attention. From the measurements already given it is easy to calculate
the bulk or the volume of Jupiter. It will be found that this planet is
about 1,300 times as large as the earth; in other words, it would take
1,300 globes, each as large as our earth, all rolled into one, to form a
single globe as large as Jupiter.

If the materials of which Jupiter is composed were of a nature analogous
to the materials of the earth, we might expect that the weight of the
planet would exceed the weight of the earth in something like the
proportion of their volumes. This is the matter now proposed to be
brought to trial. Here we may at once be met with the query, as to how
we are to find the weight of Jupiter. It is not even an easy matter to
weigh the earth on which we stand. How, then, can we weigh a mighty
planet vastly larger than the earth, and distant from us by some
hundreds of millions of miles? Truly, this is a bold problem. Yet the
intellectual resources of man have proved sufficient to achieve this
feat of celestial engineering. They are not, it is true, actually able
to make the ponderous weighing scales in which the great planet is to be
cast, but they are able to divert to this purpose certain natural
phenomena which yield the information that is required.

Such investigations are based on the principle of universal gravitation.
The mass of Jupiter attracts other masses in the solar system. The
efficiency of that attraction is more particularly shown on the bodies
which are near the planet. In virtue of this attraction certain
movements are performed by those bodies. We can observe their character
with our telescopes, we can ascertain their amount, and from our
measurements we can calculate the mass of the body by which the
movements have been produced. This is the sole method which we possess
for the investigation of the masses of the planets; and though it may
be difficult in its application--not only from the observations which
are required, but also from the intricacy and the profundity of the
calculations to which those observations must be submitted--yet, in the
case of Jupiter at least, there is no uncertainty about the result.

The task is peculiarly simplified in the case of the greatest planet of
our system by the beautiful system of moons with which he is attended.
These little moons revolve under the guidance of Jupiter, and their
movements are not otherwise interfered with so as to prevent their use
for our present purpose. It is from the observations of the satellites
of Jupiter that we are enabled to measure his attractive power, and
thence to calculate the mass of the mighty planet.

To those not specially conversant with the principles of mechanics, it
may seem difficult to realise the degree of accuracy of which such a
method is capable. Yet there can be no doubt that his moons inform us of
the mass of Jupiter, and do not leave a margin of inaccuracy so great as
one hundredth part of the total amount. If other confirmation be needed,
then it is forthcoming in abundance. A minor planet occasionally draws
near the orbit of Jupiter and experiences his attraction; the planet is
forced to swerve from its path, and the amount of the deviation can be
measured. From that measurement the mass of Jupiter can be computed by a
calculation, of which it would be impossible to give an account in this
place. The mass of Jupiter, as determined by this method, agrees with
the mass obtained in a totally different manner from the satellites.

Nor have we yet exhausted the resources of astronomy in its bearing on
this question. We can discard the planetary system, and invite the
assistance of a comet which, flashing through the orbits of the planets,
occasionally experiences large and sometimes enormous disturbances. For
the present it suffices to remark, that on one or two occasions it has
happened that venturous comets have been near enough to Jupiter to be
much disturbed by his attraction, and then to proclaim in their altered
movements the magnitude of the mass which has affected them. The
satellites of Jupiter, the minor planets, and the comets, all tell the
weight of the giant orb; and, as they all concur in the result (at least
within extremely narrow limits), we cannot hesitate to conclude that the
mass of the greatest planet of our system has been determined with
accuracy.

The results of these measures must now be stated. They show, of course,
that Jupiter is vastly inferior to the sun--that, in fact, it would take
about 1,047 Jupiters, all rolled into one, to form a globe equal in
_weight_ to the sun. They also show us that it would take 316 globes as
heavy as our Earth to counterbalance the weight of Jupiter.

No doubt this proves Jupiter to be a body of magnificent proportions;
but the remarkable circumstance is not that Jupiter should be 316 times
as heavy as the earth, but that he is not a great deal more. Have we not
stated that Jupiter is 1,300 times as _large_ as the earth? How then
comes it that he is only 316 times as _heavy_? This points at once to
some fundamental contrast between the constitution of Jupiter and of the
earth. How are we to account for this difference? We can conceive of two
explanations. In the first place, it might be supposed that Jupiter is
constituted of materials partly or wholly unknown on the earth. There
is, however, an alternative supposition at once more philosophical and
more consistent with the evidence. It is true that we know little or
nothing of what the elementary substances on Jupiter may be, but one of
the great discoveries of modern astronomy has taught us something of the
elementary bodies present in other bodies of the universe, and has
demonstrated that to a large extent they are identical with the
elementary bodies on the earth. If Jupiter be composed of bodies
resembling those on the earth, there is one way, and only one, in which
we can account for the disparity between his size and his mass. Perhaps
the best way of stating the argument will be found in a glance at the
remote history of the earth itself, for it seems not impossible that the
present condition of Jupiter was itself foreshadowed by the condition of
our earth countless ages ago.

In a previous chapter we had occasion to point out how the earth seemed
to be cooling from an earlier and highly heated condition. The further
we look back, the hotter our globe seems to have been; and if we project
our glance back to an epoch sufficiently remote, we see that it must
once have been so hot that life on its surface would have been
impossible. Back still earlier, we find the heat to have been such that
water could not rest on the earth; and hence it seems likely that at
some incredibly remote epoch all the oceans now reposing in the deeps on
the surface, and perhaps a considerable portion of its now solid crust,
must have been in a state of vapour. Such a transformation of the globe
would not alter its _mass_, for the materials weigh the same whatever be
their condition as to temperature, but it would alter the _size_ of our
globe to a very considerable extent. If these oceans were transformed
into vapour, then the atmosphere, charged with mighty clouds, would have
a bulk some hundreds of times greater than that which it has at present.
Viewed from a distant planet, the cloud-laden atmosphere would indicate
the visible size of our globe, and its average density would accordingly
appear to be very much less than it is at present.

From these considerations it will be manifest that the discrepancy
between the size and the weight of Jupiter, as contrasted with our
earth, would be completely removed if we supposed that Jupiter was at
the present day a highly heated body in the condition of our earth
countless ages ago. Every circumstance of the case tends to justify this
argument. We have assigned the smallness of the moon as a reason why the
moon has cooled sufficiently to make its volcanoes silent and still. In
the same way the smallness of the earth, as compared with Jupiter,
accounts for the fact that Jupiter still retains a large part of its
original heat, while the smaller earth has dissipated most of its store.
This argument is illustrated and strengthened when we introduce other
planets into the comparison. As a general rule we find that the smaller
bodies, like the earth and Mars, have a high density, indicative of a
low temperature, while the giant planets, like Jupiter and Saturn, have
a low density, suggesting that they still retain a large part of their
original heat. We say "original heat" for the want, perhaps, of a more
correct expression; it will, however, indicate that we do not in the
least refer to the solar heat, of which, indeed, the great outer planets
receive much less than those nearer the sun. Where the original heat may
have come from is a matter still confined to the province of
speculation.

A complete justification of these views with regard to Jupiter is to be
found when we make a minute telescopic scrutiny of its surface; and it
fortunately happens that the size of the planet is so great that, even
at a distance of more millions of miles than there are days in the year,
we can still trace on its surface some significant features.

Plate XI. gives a series of four different views of Jupiter. They have
been taken from a series of admirable drawings of the great planet made
by Mr. Griffiths in 1897. The first picture shows the appearance of the
globe at 10h. 20m. Greenwich time on February 17th, 1897, through a
powerful refracting telescope. We at once notice in this drawing that
the outline of Jupiter is distinctly elliptical. The surface of the
planet usually shows the remarkable series of belts here represented.
They are nearly parallel to each other and to the planet's equator.

When Jupiter is observed for some hours, the appearance of the belts
undergoes certain changes. These are partly due to the regular rotation
of the planet on its axis, which, in a period of less than five hours,
will completely carry away the hemisphere we first saw, and replace it
by the hemisphere originally at the other side. But besides the changes
thus arising, the belts and other features on the planet are also very
variable. Sometimes new stripes or marks appear, and old ones disappear;
in fact, a thorough examination of Jupiter will demonstrate the
remarkable fact that there are no permanent features whatever to be
discerned. We are here immediately struck by the contrast between
Jupiter and Mars; on the smaller planet the main topographical outlines
are almost invariable, and it has been feasible to construct maps of the
surface with tolerably accurate detail; a map of Jupiter is, however, an
impossibility--the drawing of the planet which we make to-night will be
different from the drawing of the same hemisphere made a few weeks
hence.

It should, however, be noticed that objects occasionally appear on the
planet which seem of a rather more persistent character than the belts.
We may especially mention the object known as the great oblong Red Spot,
which has been a very remarkable feature upon the southern hemisphere of
Jupiter since 1878. This object, which has attracted a great deal of
attention from observers, is about 30,000 miles long by about 7,000 in
breadth. Professor Barnard remarks that the older the spots on Jupiter
are, the more ruddy do they tend to become.

The conclusion is irresistibly forced upon us that when we view the
surface of Jupiter we are not looking at any solid body. The want of
permanence in the features of the planet would be intelligible if what
we see be merely an atmosphere laden with clouds of impenetrable
density. The belts especially support this view; we are at once reminded
of the equatorial zones on our own earth, and it is not at all unlikely
that an observer sufficiently remote from the earth to obtain a just
view of its appearance would detect upon its surface more or less
perfect cloud-belts suggestive of those on Jupiter. A view of our earth
would be, as it were, intermediate between a view of Jupiter and of
Mars. In the latter case the appearance of the permanent features of the
planet is only to a trifling extent obscured by clouds floating over the
surface. Our earth would always be partly, and often perhaps very
largely, covered with cloud, while Jupiter seems at all times completely
enveloped.

From another class of observations we are also taught the important
truth that Jupiter is not, superficially at least, a solid body. The
period of rotation of the planet around its axis is derived from the
observation of certain marks, which present sufficient definiteness and
sufficient permanence to be suitable for the purpose. Suppose one of
these objects to lie at the centre of the planet's disc; its position is
carefully measured, and the time is noted. As the hours pass on, the
mark moves to the edge of the disc, then round the other side of the
planet, and back again to the visible disc. When it has returned to the
position originally occupied the time is again taken, and the interval
which has elapsed is called the period of rotation of the spot.

If Jupiter were a solid, and if these features were engraved upon its
surface, then it is perfectly clear that the time of rotation as found
by any one spot must coincide precisely with the time yielded by any
other spot; but this is not observed to be the case. In fact, it would
be nearer the truth to say that each spot gives a special period of its
own. Nor are the differences very minute. It has been found that the
time in which the red spot (the latitude of which is about 25° south) is
carried round is five minutes longer than that required by some peculiar
white marks near the equator. The red spot has now been watched for
about twenty years, and during most of that time has had a tendency to
rotate more and more slowly, as may be seen from the following values of
its rotation period:--

  In 1879, 9h. 55m. 33·9s.
  In 1886, 9h. 55m. 40·6s.
  In 1891, 9h. 55m. 41·7s.

Since 1891 this tendency seems to have ceased, while the spot has been
gradually fading away. Generally speaking, we may say that the
equatorial regions rotate in about 9h. 50m. 20s., and the temperate
zones in about 9h. 55m. 40s. Remarkable exceptions are occasionally met
with. Some small black spots in north latitude 22°, which broke out in
1880 and again in 1891, rotated in 9h. 48m. to 9h. 49-1/2m. It may,
therefore, be regarded as certain that the globe of Jupiter, so far as
we can see it, is not a solid body. It consists, on the exterior at all
events, of clouds and vaporous masses, which seem to be agitated by
storms of the utmost intensity, if we are to judge from the ceaseless
changes of the planet's surface.

[Illustration: PLATE XI.

Feb. 2nd. Feb. 4th.

Feb. 12th. Feb. 28th.

THE PLANET JUPITER.

1897.]

[Illustration: Fig. 57.--The Occultation of Jupiter (1).]

[Illustration: Fig. 58.--The Occultation of Jupiter (2).]

[Illustration: Fig. 59.--The Occultation of Jupiter (3).]

[Illustration: Fig. 60.--The Occultation of Jupiter (4).]

Various photographs of Jupiter have been obtained; those which have been
taken at the Lick Observatory being specially interesting and
instructive. Pictures of the planet obtained with the camera in
remarkable circumstances are represented in Figs. 57-60, which were
taken by Professor Wm. H. Pickering at Arequipa, Peru, on the 12th of
August, 1892.[21] The small object with the belts is the planet Jupiter.
The large advancing disc (of which only a small part can be shown) is
the moon. The phenomenon illustrated is called the "occultation" of the
planet. The planet is half-way behind the moon in Fig. 59, while in Fig.
60 half of the planet is still hidden by the dark limb of the moon.

It is well known that the tempests by which the atmosphere surrounding
the earth is convulsed are to be ultimately attributed to the heat of
the sun. It is the rays from the great luminary which, striking on the
vast continents, warm the air in contact therewith. This heated air
becomes lighter, and rises, while air to supply its place must flow in
along the surface. The currents so produced form a breeze or a wind;
while, under exceptional circumstances, we have the phenomena of
cyclones and hurricanes, all originated by the sun's heat. Need we add
that the rains, which so often accompany the storms, have also arisen
from the solar beams, which have distilled from the wide expanse of
ocean the moisture by which the earth is refreshed?

The storms on Jupiter seem to be vastly greater than those on the earth.
Yet the intensity of the sun's heat on Jupiter is only a mere
fraction--less, indeed, than the twenty-fifth part--of that received by
the earth. It is incredible that the motive power of the appalling
tempests on the great planet can be entirely, or even largely, due to
the feeble influence of solar heat. We are, therefore, led to seek for
some other source of such disturbances. What that source is to be will
appear obvious when we admit that Jupiter still retains a large
proportion of primitive internal heat. Just as the sun itself is
distracted by violent tempests as an accompaniment of its intense
internal fervour, so, in a lesser degree, do we observe the same
phenomena in Jupiter. It may also be noticed that the spots on the sun
usually lie in more or less regular zones, parallel to its equator, the
arrangement being in this respect not dissimilar to that of the belts on
Jupiter.

It being admitted that the mighty planet still retains some of its
internal heat, the question remains as to how much. It is, of course,
obvious that the heat of the planet is inconsiderable when compared
with the heat of the sun. The brilliance of Jupiter, which makes it an
object of such splendour in our midnight sky, is derived from the same
great source which illuminates the earth, the moon, or the other
planets. Jupiter, in fact, shines by reflected sunlight, and not in
virtue of any intrinsic light in his globe. A beautiful proof of this
truth is familiar to every user of a telescope. The little satellites of
the planet sometimes intrude between him and the sun, and cast a shadow
on Jupiter. The shadow is black, or, at all events, it seems black,
relatively to the brilliant surrounding surface of the planet. It must,
therefore, be obvious that Jupiter is indebted to the sun for its
brilliancy. The satellites supply another interesting proof of this
truth. One of these bodies sometimes enters the shadow of Jupiter and
lo! the little body vanishes. It does so because Jupiter has cut off the
supply of sunlight which previously rendered the satellite visible. But
the planet is not himself able to offer the satellite any light in
compensation for the sunlight which he has intercepted.[22]

Enough, however, has been demonstrated to enable us to pronounce on the
question as to whether the globe of Jupiter can be inhabited by living
creatures resembling those on this earth. Obviously this cannot be so.
The internal heat and the fearful tempests seem to preclude the
possibility of organic life on the great planet, even were there not
other arguments tending to the same conclusion. It may, however, be
contended, with perhaps some plausibility, that Jupiter has in the
distant future the prospect of a glorious career as the residence of
organic life. The time will assuredly come when the internal heat must
decline, when the clouds will gradually condense into oceans. On the
surface dry land may then appear, and Jupiter be rendered habitable.

From this sketch of the planet itself we now turn to the interesting and
beautiful system of five satellites by which Jupiter is attended. We
have, indeed, already found it necessary to allude more than once to
these little bodies, but not to such an extent as to interfere with the
more formal treatment which they are now to receive.

The discovery of the four chief satellites may be regarded as an
important epoch in the history of astronomy. They are objects situated
in a remarkable manner on the border-line which divides the objects
visible to the unaided eye from those which require telescopic aid. It
has been frequently asserted that these objects have been seen with the
unaided eye; but without entering into any controversy on the matter, it
is sufficient to recite the well-known fact that, although Jupiter had
been a familiar object for countless centuries, yet the sharpest eyes
under the clearest skies never discovered the satellites until Galileo
turned the newly invented telescope upon them. This tube was no doubt a
very feeble instrument, but very little power suffices to show objects
so dose to the limit of visibility.

[Illustration: Fig. 61.--Jupiter and his Four Satellites as seen in a
Telescope of Low Power.]

The view of the planet and its elaborate system of satellites as shown
in a telescope of moderate power, is represented in Fig. 61. We here see
the great globe, and nearly in a line parsing through its centre lie
four small objects, three on one side and one on the other. These little
bodies resemble stars, but they can be distinguished therefrom by their
ceaseless movements around the planet, which they never fail to
accompany during his entire circuit of the heavens. There is no more
pleasing spectacle for the student than to follow with his telescope the
movements of this beautiful system.

[Illustration: Fig. 62.--Disappearances of Jupiter's Satellites.]

In Fig. 62 we have represented some of the various phenomena which the
satellites present. The long black shadow is that produced by the
interposition of Jupiter in the path of the sun's rays. In consequence
of the great distance of the sun this shadow will extend, in the form of
a very elongated cone, to a distance far beyond the orbit of the outer
satellite. The second satellite is immersed in this shadow, and
consequently eclipsed. The eclipse of a satellite must not be attributed
to the intervention of the body of Jupiter between the satellite and the
earth. Such an occurrence is called an occultation, and the third
satellite is shown in this condition. The second and the third
satellites are thus alike invisible, but the cause of the invisibility
is quite different in the two cases. The eclipse is much the more
striking phenomenon of the two, because the satellite, at the moment it
plunges into the darkness, may be still at some apparent distance from
the edge of the planet, and is thus seen up to the moment of the
eclipse. In an occultation the satellite in passing behind the planet
is, at the time of disappearance, close to the planet's bright edge,
and the extinction of the light from the small body cannot be observed
with the same impressiveness as the occurrence of an eclipse.

A satellite also assumes another remarkable situation when in the course
of transit over the face of the planet. The satellite itself is not
always very easy to see in such circumstances, but the beautiful shadow
which it casts forms a sharp black spot on the brilliant orb: the
satellite will, indeed, frequently cast a visible shadow when it passes
between the planet and the sun, even though it be not actually at the
moment in front of the planet, as it is seen from the earth.

The periods in which the four principal moons of Jupiter revolve around
their primary are respectively, 1 day 18 hrs. 27 min. 34 secs. for the
first; 3 days 13 hrs. 13 min. 42 secs., for the second; 7 days 3 hrs. 42
min. 33 secs, for the third; and 16 days 16 hrs. 32 min. 11 secs. for
the fourth. We thus observe that the periods of Jupiter's satellites are
decidedly briefer than that of our moon. Even the satellite most distant
from the great planet requires for each revolution less than two-thirds
of an ordinary lunar month. The innermost of these bodies, revolving as
it does in less than two days, presents a striking series of ceaseless
and rapid changes, and it becomes eclipsed during every revolution. The
distance from the centre of Jupiter to the orbit of the innermost of
these four attendants is a quarter of a million miles, while the radius
of the outermost is a little more than a million miles. The second of
the satellites proceeding outwards from the planet is almost the same
size as our moon; the other three bodies are larger; the third being the
greatest of all (about 3,560 miles in diameter). Owing to the minuteness
of the satellites as seen from the earth, it is extremely difficult to
perceive any markings on their surfaces, but the few observations made
seem to indicate that the satellites (like our moon) always turn the
same face towards their primary. Professor Barnard has, with the great
Lick refractor, seen a white equatorial belt on the first satellite,
while its poles were very dark. Mr. Douglass, observing with Mr.
Lowell's great refractor, has also reported certain streaky markings on
the third satellite.

A very interesting astronomical discovery was that made by Professor
E.E. Barnard in 1892. He detected with the 36-inch Lick refractor an
extremely minute fifth satellite to Jupiter at a distance of 112,400
miles, and revolving in a period of 11 hrs. 57 min. 22·6 secs. It can
only be seen with the most powerful telescopes.

The eclipses of Jupiter's satellites had been observed for many years,
and the times of their occurrence had been recorded. At length it was
perceived that a certain order reigned among the eclipses of these
bodies, as among all other astronomical phenomena. When once the laws
according to which the eclipses recurred had been perceived, the usual
consequence followed. It became possible to foretell the time at which
the eclipses would occur in future. Predictions were accordingly made,
and it was found that they were approximately verified. Further
improvements in the calculations were then perfected, and it was sought
to predict the times with still greater accuracy. But when it came to
naming the actual minute at which the eclipse should occur, expectations
were not always realised. Sometimes the eclipse was five or ten minutes
too soon. Sometimes it was five or ten minutes too late. Discrepancies
of this kind always demand attention. It is, indeed, by the right use of
them that discoveries are often made, and one of the most interesting
examples is that now before us.

The irregularity in the occurrence of the eclipses was at length
perceived to observe certain rules. It was noticed that when the earth
was near to Jupiter the eclipse generally occurred before the predicted
time; while when the earth happened to be at the side of its orbit away
from Jupiter, the eclipse occurred after the predicted time. Once this
was proved, the great discovery was quickly made by Roemer, a Danish
astronomer, in 1675. When the satellite enters the shadow, its light
gradually decreases until it disappears. It is the last ray of light
from the eclipsed satellite that gives the time of the eclipse; but that
ray of light has to travel from the satellite to the earth, and enter
our telescope, before we can note the occurrence. It used to be thought
that light travelled instantaneously, so that the moment the eclipse
occurred was assumed to be the moment when the eclipse was seen in the
telescope. This was now perceived to be incorrect. It was found that
light took time to travel. When the earth was comparatively near Jupiter
the light had only a short journey, the intelligence of the eclipse
arrived quickly, and the eclipse was seen sooner than the calculations
indicated. When the earth occupied a position far from Jupiter, the
light had a longer journey, and took more than the average time, so that
the eclipse was later than the prediction. This simple explanation
removed the difficulty attending the predictions of the eclipses of the
satellites. But the discovery had a significance far more momentous. We
learned from it that light had a measurable velocity, which, according
to recent researches, amounts to 186,300 miles per second.

One of the most celebrated attempts to ascertain the distance of the sun
is derived from a combination of experiments on the velocity of light
with astronomical measurements. This is a method of considerable
refinement and interest, and although it does not so fulfil all the
necessary conditions as to make it perfectly satisfactory, yet it is
impossible to avoid some reference to it here. Notwithstanding that the
velocity of light is so stupendous, it has been found possible to
measure that velocity by actual trial. This is one of the most delicate
experimental researches that have ever been undertaken. If it be
difficult to measure the speed of a rifle bullet, what shall we say of
the speed of a ray of light, which is nearly a million times as great?
How shall we devise an apparatus subtle enough to determine the velocity
which would girdle the earth at the equator no less than seven times in
a single second of time? Ordinary contrivances for measurement are here
futile; we have to devise an instrument of a wholly different character.

In the attempt to discover the speed of a moving body we first mark out
a certain distance, and then measure the time which the body requires to
traverse that distance. We determine the velocity of a railway train by
the time it takes to pass from one mile-post to the next. We learn the
speed of a rifle bullet by an ingenious contrivance really founded on
the same principle. The greater the velocity, the more desirable is it
that the distance traversed during the experiment shall be as large as
possible. In dealing with the measurement of the velocity of light, we
therefore choose for our measured distance the greatest length that may
be convenient. It is, however, necessary that the two ends of the line
shall be visible from each other. A hill a mile or two away will form a
suitable site for the distant station, and the distance of the selected
point on the hill from the observer must be carefully measured.

The problem is now easily stated. A ray of light is to be sent from the
observer to the distant station, and the time occupied by that ray in
the journey is to be measured. We may suppose that the observer, by a
suitable contrivance, has arranged a lantern from which a thin ray of
light issues. Let us assume that this travels all the way to the distant
station, and there falls upon the surface of a reflecting mirror.
Instantly it will be diverted by reflection into a new direction
depending upon the inclination of the mirror. By suitable adjustment the
latter can be so placed that the light shall fall perpendicularly upon
it, in which case the ray will of course return along the direction in
which it came. Let the mirror be fixed in this position throughout the
course of the experiments. It follows that a ray of light starting from
the lantern will be returned to the lantern after it has made the
journey to the distant station and back again. Imagine, then, a little
shutter placed in front of the lantern. We open the shutter, the ray
streams forth to the remote reflector, and back again through the
opening. But now, after having allowed the ray to pass through the
shutter, suppose we try and close it before the ray has had time to get
back again. What fingers could be nimble enough to do this? Even if the
distant station were ten miles away, so that the light had a journey of
ten miles in going to the mirror and ten miles in coming back, yet the
whole course would be accomplished in about the nine-thousandth part of
a second--a period so short that even were it a thousand times as long
it would hardly enable manual dexterity to close the aperture. Yet a
shutter can be constructed which shall be sufficiently delicate for the
purpose.

[Illustration: Fig. 63.--Mode of Measuring the Velocity of Light.]

The principle of this beautiful method will be sufficiently obvious from
the diagram on this page (Fig. 63), which has been taken from Newcomb's
"Popular Astronomy." The figure exhibits the lantern and the observer,
and a large wheel with projecting teeth. Each tooth as it passes round
eclipses the beam of light emerging from the lantern, and also the eye,
which is of course directed to the mirror at the distant station. In the
position of the wheel here shown the ray from the lantern will pass to
the mirror and back so as to be visible to the eye; but if the wheel be
rotating, it may so happen that the beam after leaving the lantern will
not have time to return before the next tooth of the wheel comes in
front of the eye and screens it. If the wheel be urged still faster, the
next tooth may have passed the eye, so that the ray again becomes
visible. The speed at which the wheel is rotating can be measured. We
can thus determine the time taken by one of the teeth to pass in front
of the eye; we have accordingly a measure of the time occupied by the
ray of light in the double journey, and hence we have a measurement of
the velocity of light.

It thus appears that we can tell the velocity of light either by the
observations of Jupiter's satellites or by experimental enquiry. If we
take the latter method, then we are entitled to deduce remarkable
astronomical consequences. We can, in fact, employ this method for
solving that great problem so often referred to--the distance from the
earth to the sun--though it cannot compete in accuracy with some of the
other methods.

The dimensions of the solar system are so considerable that a sunbeam
requires an appreciable interval of time to span the abyss which
separates the earth from the sun. Eight minutes is approximately the
duration of the journey, so that at any moment we see the sun as it
appeared eight minutes earlier to an observer in its immediate
neighbourhood. In fact, if the sun were to be suddenly blotted out it
would still be seen shining brilliantly for eight minutes after it had
really disappeared. We can determine this period from the eclipses of
Jupiter's satellites.

So long as the satellite is shining it radiates a stream of light across
the vast space between Jupiter and the earth. When the eclipse has
commenced, the little orb is no longer luminous, but there is,
nevertheless, a long stream of light on its way, and until all this has
poured into our telescopes we still see the satellite shining as before.
If we could calculate the moment when the eclipse really took place, and
if we could observe the moment at which the eclipse is seen, the
difference between the two gives the time which the light occupies on
the journey. This can be found with some accuracy; and, as we already
know the velocity of light, we can ascertain the distance of Jupiter
from the earth; and hence deduce the scale of the solar system. It must,
however, be remarked that at both extremities of the process there are
characteristic sources of uncertainty. The occurrence of the eclipse is
not an instantaneous phenomenon. The satellite is large enough to
require an appreciable time in crossing the boundary which defines the
shadow, so that the observation of an eclipse cannot be sufficiently
precise to form the basis of an important and accurate measurement.[23]
Still greater difficulties accompany the attempt to define the true
moment of the occurrence of the eclipse as it would be seen by an
observer in the vicinity of the satellite. For this we should require a
far more perfect theory of the movements of Jupiter's satellites than is
at present attainable. This method of finding the sun's distance holds
out no prospect of a result accurate to the one-thousandth part of its
amount, and we may discard it, inasmuch as the other methods available
seem to admit of much higher accuracy.

The four chief satellites of Jupiter have special interest for the
mathematician, who finds in them a most striking instance of the
universality of the law of gravitation. These bodies are, of course,
mainly controlled in their movements by the attraction of the great
planet; but they also attract each other, and certain curious
consequences are the result.

The mean motion of the first satellite in each day about the centre of
Jupiter is 203°·4890. That of the second is 101°·3748, and that of the
third is 50°·3177. These quantities are so related that the following
law will be found to be observed:

The mean motion of the first satellite added to twice the mean motion of
the third is exactly equal to three times the mean motion of the second.

There is another law of an analogous character, which is thus expressed
(the mean longitude being the angle between a fixed line and the radius
to the mean place of the satellite): If to the mean longitude of the
first satellite we add twice the mean longitude of the third, and
subtract three times the mean longitude of the second, the difference is
always 180°.

It was from observation that these principles were first discovered.
Laplace, however, showed that if the satellites revolved nearly in this
way, then their mutual perturbations, in accordance with the law of
gravitation, would preserve them in this relative position for ever.

We shall conclude with the remark, that the discovery of Jupiter's
satellites afforded the great confirmation of the Copernican theory.
Copernicus had asked the world to believe that our sun was a great
globe, and that the earth and all the other planets were small bodies
revolving round the great one. This doctrine, so repugnant to the
theories previously held, and to the immediate evidence of our senses,
could only be established by a refined course of reasoning. The
discovery of Jupiter's satellites was very opportune. Here we had an
exquisite ocular demonstration of a system, though, of course, on a much
smaller scale, precisely identical with that which Copernicus had
proposed. The astronomer who had watched Jupiter's moons circling around
their primary, who had noticed their eclipses and all the interesting
phenomena attendant on them, saw before his eyes, in a manner wholly
unmistakable, that the great planet controlled these small bodies, and
forced them to revolve around him, and thus exhibited a miniature of the
great solar system itself. "As in the case of the spots on the sun,
Galileo's announcement of this discovery was received with incredulity
by those philosophers of the day who believed that everything in nature
was described in the writings of Aristotle. One eminent astronomer,
Clavius, said that to see the satellites one must have a telescope which
would produce them; but he changed his mind as soon as he saw them
himself. Another philosopher, more prudent, refused to put his eye to
the telescope lest he should see them and be convinced. He died shortly
afterwards. 'I hope,' said the caustic Galileo, 'that he saw them while
on his way to heaven'"[24]




CHAPTER XIII.

SATURN.


     The Position of Saturn in the System--Saturn one of the Three most
     Interesting Objects in the Heavens--Compared with Jupiter--Saturn
     to the Unaided Eye--Statistics relating to the Planet--Density of
     Saturn--Lighter than Water--The Researches of Galileo--What he
     found in Saturn--A Mysterious Object--The Discoveries made by
     Huyghens half a Century later--How the Existence of the Ring was
     Demonstrated--Invisibility of the Rings every Fifteen Years--The
     Rotation of the Planet--The Celebrated Cypher--The
     Explanation--Drawing of Saturn--The Dark Line--W. Herschel's
     Researches--Is the Division in the Ring really a
     Separation?--Possibility of Deciding the Question--The Ring in a
     Critical Position--Are there other Divisions in the Ring?--The
     Dusky Ring--Physical Nature of Saturn's Rings--Can they be
     Solid?--Can they even be Slender Rings?--A Fluid?--True Nature of
     the Rings--A Multitude of Small Satellites--Analogy of the Rings of
     Saturn to the Group of Minor Planets--Problems Suggested by
     Saturn--The Group of Satellites to Saturn--The Discoveries of
     Additional Satellites--The Orbit of Saturn not the Frontier of our
     System.

At a profound distance in space, which, on an average, is 886,000,000
miles, the planet Saturn performs its mighty revolution around the sun
in a period of twenty-nine and a half years. This gigantic orbit formed
the boundary to the planetary system, so far as it was known to the
ancients.

Although Saturn is not so great a body as Jupiter, yet it vastly exceeds
the earth in bulk and in mass, and is, indeed, much greater than any one
of the planets, Jupiter alone excepted. But while Saturn must yield the
palm to Jupiter so far as mere dimensions are concerned, yet it will be
generally admitted that even Jupiter, with all the retinue by which he
is attended, cannot compete in beauty with the marvellous system of
Saturn. To the present writer it has always seemed that Saturn is one of
the three most interesting celestial objects visible to observers in
northern latitudes. The other two will occupy our attention in future
chapters. They are the great nebula in Orion, and the star cluster in
Hercules.

So far as the globe of Saturn is concerned, we do not meet with any
features which give to the planet any exceptional interest. The globe is
less than that of Jupiter, and as the latter is also much nearer to us,
the apparent size of Saturn is in a twofold way much smaller than that
of Jupiter. It should also be noticed that, owing to the greater
distance of Saturn from the sun, its intrinsic brilliancy is less than
that of Jupiter. There are, no doubt, certain marks and bands often to
be seen on Saturn, but they are not nearly so striking nor so
characteristic as the ever-variable belts upon Jupiter. The telescopic
appearance of the globe of Saturn must also be ranked as greatly
inferior in interest to that of Mars. The delicacy of detail which we
can see on Mars when favourably placed has no parallel whatever in the
dim and distant Saturn. Nor has Saturn, regarded again merely as a
globe, anything like the interest of Venus. The great splendour of Venus
is altogether out of comparison with that of Saturn, while the brilliant
crescent of the evening star is infinitely more pleasing than any
telescopic view of the globe of Saturn. Yet even while we admit all this
to the fullest extent, it does not invalidate the claim of Saturn to be
one of the most supremely beautiful and interesting objects in the
heavens. This interest is not due to his globe; it is due to that
marvellous system of rings by which Saturn is surrounded--a system
wonderful from every point of view, and, so far as our knowledge goes,
without a parallel in the wide extent of the universe.

[Illustration: Fig. 64. Saturn. (July 2nd, 1894. 36-in. equatorial.)
(Prof. E.E. Barnard.)]

To the unaided eye Saturn usually appears like a star of the first
magnitude. Its light alone would hardly be sufficient to discriminate it
from many of the brighter fixed stars. Yet the ancients were acquainted
with Saturn, and they knew it as a planet. It was included with the
other four great planets--Mercury, Venus, Mars, and Jupiter--in the
group of wanderers, which were bound to no fixed points of the sky like
the stars. On account of the great distance of Saturn, its movements are
much slower than those of the other planets known to the ancients.
Twenty-nine years and a half are required for this distant object to
complete its circuit of the heavens; and, though this movement is slow
compared with the incessant changes of Venus, yet it is rapid enough to
attract the attention of any careful observer. In a single year Saturn
moves through a distance of about twelve degrees, a quantity
sufficiently large to be conspicuous to casual observation. Even in a
month, or sometimes in a week, the planet traverses an arc of the sky
which can be detected by anyone who will take the trouble to mark the
place of the planet with regard to the stars in its vicinity. Those who
are privileged to use accurate astronomical instruments can readily
detect the motion of Saturn in a few hours.

The average distance from the sun to Saturn is about 886 millions of
miles. The path of Saturn, as of every other planet, is really an
ellipse with the sun in one focus. In the case of Saturn the shape of
this ellipse is very appreciably different from a purely circular path.
Around this path Saturn moves with an average velocity of 5·96 miles per
second.

The mean diameter of the globe of Saturn is about 71,000 miles. Its
equatorial diameter is about 75,000 miles, and its polar diameter 67,000
miles--the ratio of these numbers being approximately that of 10 to 9.
It is thus obvious that Saturn departs from the truly spherical shape to
a very marked extent. The protuberance at its equator must, no doubt, be
attributed to the high velocity with which the planet is rotating. The
velocity of rotation of Saturn is more than double as fast as that of
the earth, though it is not quite so fast as that of Jupiter. Saturn
makes one complete rotation in about 10 hrs. 14 min. Mr. Stanley
Williams has, however, observed with great care a number of spots which
he has discovered, and he finds that some of these spots in about 27°
north latitude indicate rotation in a period of 10 hrs. 14 mins. to 15
min., while equatorial spots require no more than 10 hrs. 12 min. to 13
min. There is, however, the peculiarity that spots in the same latitude,
but at different parts of the planet, rotate at rates which differ by a
minute or more, while the period found by various groups of spots seems
to change from year to year.

These facts prove that Saturn and the spots do not form a rigid system.
The lightness of this planet is such as to be wholly incompatible with
the supposition that its globe is constituted of solid materials at all
comparable with those of which the crust of our earth is composed. The
satellites, which surround Saturn and form a system only less
interesting than the renowned rings themselves, enable us to weigh the
planet in comparison with the sun, and hence to deduce its actual mass
relatively to the earth. The result is not a little remarkable. It
appears that the density of the earth is eight times as great as that of
Saturn. In fact, the density of the latter is less than that of water
itself, so that a mighty globe of water, equal in bulk to Saturn, would
actually weigh more. If we could conceive a vast ocean into which a
globe equal to Saturn in size and weight were cast, the great globe
would not sink like our earth or like any of the other planets; it would
float buoyantly at the surface with one-fourth of its bulk out of the
water.

We thus learn with high probability that what our telescopes show upon
Saturn is not a solid surface, but merely a vast envelope of clouds
surrounding a heated interior. It is impossible to resist the suggestion
that this planet, like Jupiter, has still retained its heat because its
mass is so large. We must, however, allude to a circumstance which
perhaps may seem somewhat inconsistent with the view here taken. We have
found that Jupiter and Saturn are, both of them, much less dense than
the earth. When we compare the two planets together, it appears that
Saturn is much less dense than Jupiter. In fact, every cubic mile of
Jupiter weighs nearly twice as much as each cubic mile of Saturn. This
would seem to point to the conclusion that Saturn is the more heated of
the two bodies. Yet, as Jupiter is the larger, it might more reasonably
have been expected to be hotter than the other planet. We do not attempt
to reconcile this discrepancy; in fact, in our ignorance as to the
material constitution of these bodies, it would be idle to discuss the
question.

Even if we allow for the lightness of Saturn, as compared bulk for bulk
with the earth, yet the volume of Saturn is so enormous that the planet
weighs more than ninety-five times as much as the earth. The adjoining
view represents the relative sizes of Saturn and the earth (Fig. 65).

[Illustration: Fig. 65.--Relative Sizes of Saturn and the Earth.]

As the unaided eye discloses none of those marvels by which Saturn is
surrounded, the interest which attaches to this planet may be said to
commence from the time when it began to be observed with the telescope.
The history must be briefly alluded to, for it was only by degrees that
the real nature of this complicated object was understood. When Galileo
completed his little refracting telescope, which, though it only
magnified thirty times, was yet an enormous addition to the powers of
unaided vision, he made with it his memorable review of the heavens. He
saw the spots on the sun and the mountains on the moon; he noticed the
crescent of Venus and the satellites of Jupiter. Stimulated and
encouraged by such brilliant discoveries, he naturally sought to examine
the other planets, and accordingly directed his telescope to Saturn.
Here, again, Galileo at once made a discovery. He saw that Saturn
presented a visible form like the other planets, but that it differed
from any other telescopic object, inasmuch as it appeared to him to be
composed of three bodies which always touched each other and always
maintained the same relative positions. These three bodies were in a
line--the central one was the largest, and the two others were east and
west of it. There was nothing he had hitherto seen in the heavens which
filled his mind with such astonishment, and which seemed so wholly
inexplicable.

In his endeavours to understand this mysterious object, Galileo
continued his observations during the year 1610, and, to his amazement,
he saw the two lesser bodies gradually become smaller and smaller,
until, in the course of the two following years, they had entirely
vanished, and the planet simply appeared with a round disc like Jupiter.
Here, again, was a new source of anxiety to Galileo. He had at that day
to contend against the advocates of the ancient system of astronomy, who
derided his discoveries and refused to accept his theories. He had
announced his observation of the composite nature of Saturn; he had now
to tell of the gradual decline and the ultimate extinction of these two
auxiliary globes, and he naturally feared that his opponents would seize
the opportunity of pronouncing that the whole of his observations were
illusory.[25] "What," he remarks, "is to be said concerning so strange a
metamorphosis? Are the two lesser stars consumed after the manner of the
solar spots? Have they vanished and suddenly fled? Has Saturn perhaps,
devoured his own children? Or were the appearances indeed illusion or
fraud, with which the glasses have so long deceived me, as well as many
others to whom I have shown them? Now, perhaps, is the time come to
revive the well-nigh withered hopes of those who, guided by more
profound contemplations, have discovered the fallacy of the new
observations, and demonstrated the utter impossibility of their
existence. I do not know what to say in a case so surprising, so
unlooked for, and so novel. The shortness of the time, the unexpected
nature of the event, the weakness of my understanding, and the fear of
being mistaken, have greatly confounded me."

But Galileo was not mistaken. The objects were really there when he
first began to observe, they really did decline, and they really
disappeared; but this disappearance was only for a time--they again came
into view. They were then subjected to ceaseless examination, until
gradually their nature became unfolded. With increased telescopic power
it was found that the two bodies which Galileo had described as globes
on either side of Saturn were not really spherical--they were rather two
luminous crescents with the concavity of each turned towards the central
globe. It was also perceived that these objects underwent a remarkable
series of periodic changes. At the beginning of such a series the planet
was found with a truly circular disc. The appendages first appeared as
two arms extending directly outwards on each side of the planet; then
these arms gradually opened into two crescents, resembling handles to
the globe, and attained their maximum width after about seven or eight
years; then they began to contract, until after the lapse of about the
same time they vanished again.

The true nature of these objects was at length discovered by Huyghens in
1655, nearly half a century after Galileo had first detected their
appearance. He perceived the shadow thrown by the ring upon the globe,
and his explanation of the phenomena was obtained in a very
philosophical manner. He noticed that the earth, the sun, and the moon
rotated upon their axes, and he therefore regarded it as a general law
that each one of the bodies in the system rotates about an axis. It is
true, observations had not yet been made which actually showed that
Saturn was also rotating; but it would be highly, nay, indeed,
infinitely, improbable that any planet should be devoid of such
movement. All the analogies of the system pointed to the conclusion that
the velocity of rotation would be considerable. One satellite of Saturn
was already known to revolve in a period of sixteen days, being little
more than half our month. Huyghens assumed--and it was a most reasonable
assumption--that Saturn in all probability rotated rapidly on its axis.
It was also to be observed that if these remarkable appendages were
attached by an actual bodily connection to the planet they must rotate
with Saturn. If, however, the appendages were not actually attached it
would still be necessary that they should rotate if the analogy of
Saturn to other objects in the system were to be in any degree
preserved. We see satellites near Jupiter which revolve around him. We
see, nearer home, how the moon revolves around the earth. We see how all
the planetary system revolves around the sun. All these considerations
were present to Huyghens when he came to the conclusion that, whether
the curious appendages were actually attached to the planet or were
physically free from it, they must still be in rotation.

Provided with such reasonings, it soon became easy to conjecture the
true nature of the Saturnian system. We have seen how the appendages
declined to invisibility once every fifteen years, and then gradually
reappeared in the form, at first, of rectilinear arms projecting
outwards from the planet. The progressive development is a slow one, and
for weeks and months, night after night, the same appearance is
presented with but little change. But all this time both Saturn and the
mysterious objects around him are rotating. Whatever these may be, they
present the same appearance to the eye, notwithstanding their ceaseless
motion of rotation.

What must be the shape of an object which satisfies the conditions here
implied? It will obviously not suffice to regard the projections as two
spokes diverging from the planet. They would change from visibility to
invisibility in every rotation, and thus there would be ceaseless
alterations of the appearance instead of that slow and gradual change
which requires fifteen years for a complete period. There are, indeed,
other considerations which preclude the possibility of the objects being
anything of this character, for they are always of the same length as
compared with the diameter of the planet. A little reflection will show
that one supposition--and indeed only one--will meet all the facts of
the case. If there were a thin symmetrical ring rotating in its own
plane around the equator of Saturn, then the persistence of the object
from night to night would be accounted for. This at once removes the
greater part of the difficulty. For the rest, it was only necessary to
suppose that the ring was so thin that when turned actually edgewise to
the earth it became invisible, and then as the illuminated side of the
plane became turned more and more towards the earth the appendages to
the planet gradually increased. The handle-shaped appearance which the
object periodically assumed demonstrated that the ring could not be
attached to the globe.

At length Huyghens found that he had the clue to the great enigma which
had perplexed astronomers for the last fifty years. He saw that the ring
was an object of astonishing interest, unique at that time, as it is,
indeed, unique still. He felt, however, that he had hardly demonstrated
the matter with all the certainty which it merited, and which he thought
that by further attention he could secure. Yet he was loath to hazard
the loss of his discovery by an undue postponement of its announcement,
lest some other astronomer might intervene. How, then, was he to secure
his priority if the discovery should turn out correct, and at the same
time be enabled to perfect it at his leisure? He adopted the course,
usual at the time, of making his first announcement in cipher, and
accordingly, on March 5th, 1656, he published a tract, which contained
the following proposition:--

  aaaaaaa   ccccc   d     eeeee    g       h
  iiiiiii   llll   mm           nnnnnnnnn
  oooo pp   q rr  s ttttt         uuuuu

Perhaps some of those curious persons whose successors now devote so
much labour to double acrostics may have pondered on this renowned
cryptograph, and even attempted to decipher it. But even if such
attempts were made, we do not learn that they were successful. A few
years of further study were thus secured to Huyghens. He tested his
theory in every way that he could devise, and he found it verified in
every detail. He therefore thought that it was needless for him any
longer to conceal from the world his great discovery, and accordingly in
the year 1659--about three years after the appearance of his
cryptograph--he announced the interpretation of it. By restoring the
letters to their original arrangement the discovery was enunciated in
the following words:--"_Annulo cingitur_, _tenui_, _plano_, _nusquam
cohærente_, _ad eclipticam inclinato_," which may be translated into the
statement:--"The planet is surrounded by a slender flat ring everywhere
distinct from its surface, and inclined to the elliptic."

Huyghens was not content with merely demonstrating how fully this
assumption explained all the observed phenomena. He submitted it to the
further and most delicate test which can be applied to any astronomical
theory. He attempted by its aid to make a prediction the fulfilment of
which would necessarily give his theory the seal of certainty. From his
calculations he saw that the planet would appear circular about July or
August in 1671. This anticipation was practically verified, for the ring
was seen to vanish in May of that year. No doubt, with our modern
calculations founded on long-continued and accurate observation, we are
now enabled to make forecasts as to the appearance or the disappearance
of Saturn's ring with far greater accuracy; but, remembering the early
stage in the history of the planet at which the prediction of Huyghens
was made, we must regard its fulfilment as quite sufficient, and as
confirming in a satisfactory manner the theory of Saturn and his ring.

The ring of Saturn having thus been thoroughly established as a fact in
celestial architecture, each generation of astronomers has laboured to
find out more and more of its marvellous features. In the frontispiece
(Plate I.) we have a view of the planet as seen at the Harvard College
Observatory, U.S.A., between July 28th and October 20th, 1872. It has
been drawn by the skilful astronomer and artist--Mr. L. Trouvelot--and
gives a faithful and beautiful representation of this unique object.

Fig. 64 is a drawing of the same object taken on July 2nd, 1894, by
Prof. E.E. Barnard, at the Lick Observatory.

The next great discovery in the Saturnian system after those of Huyghens
showed that the ring surrounding the planet was marked by a dark
concentric line, which divided it into two parts--the outer being
narrower than the inner. This line was first seen by J.D. Cassini, when
Saturn emerged from the rays of the sun in 1675. That this black line
is not merely a black mark on the ring, but that it is actually a
separation, was rendered very probable by the researches of Maraldi in
1715, followed many years later by those of Sir William Herschel, who,
with that thoroughness which was a marked characteristic of the man,
made a minute and scrupulous examination of Saturn. Night after night he
followed it for hours with his exquisite instruments, and considerably
added to our knowledge of the planet and his system.

Herschel devoted very particular attention to the examination of the
line dividing the ring. He saw that the colour of this line was not to
be distinguished from the colour of the space intermediate between the
globe and the ring. He observed it for ten years on the northern face of
the ring, and during that time it continued to present the same breadth
and colour and sharpness of outline. He was then fortunate enough to
observe the southern side of the ring. There again could the black line
be seen, corresponding both in appearance and in position with the dark
line as seen on the northern side. No doubt could remain as to the fact
that Saturn was girdled by two concentric rings equally thin, the outer
edge of one closely approaching to the inner edge of the other.

At the same time it is right to add that the only absolutely
indisputable proof of the division between the rings has not yet been
yielded by the telescope. The appearances noted by Herschel would be
consistent with the view that the black line was merely a part of the
ring extending through its thickness, and composed of materials very
much less capable of reflecting light than the rest of the ring. It is
still a matter of doubt how far it is ever possible actually to see
through the dark line. There is apparently only one satisfactory method
of accomplishing this. It would only occur in rare circumstances, and it
does not seem that the opportunity has as yet arisen. Suppose that in
the course of its motion through the heavens the path of Saturn happened
to cross directly between the earth and a fixed star. The telescopic
appearance of a star is merely a point of light much smaller than the
globes and rings of Saturn. If the ring passed in front of the star and
the black line on the ring came over the star, we should, if the black
line were really an opening, see the star shining through the narrow
aperture.

Up to the present, we believe, there has been no opportunity of
submitting the question of the duplex character of the ring to this
crucial test. Let us hope that as there are now so many telescopes in
use adequate to deal with the subject, there may, ere long, be
observations made which will decide the question. It can hardly be
expected that a very small star would be suitable. No doubt the
smallness of the star would render the observations more delicate and
precise if the star were visible; but we must remember that it will be
thrown into contrast with the bright rings of Saturn on each margin so
that unless the star were of considerable magnitude it would hardly
answer. It has, however, been recently observed that the globe of the
planet can be, in some degree, discerned through the dark line; this is
practically a demonstration of the fact that the line is at all events
partly transparent.

The outer ring is also divided into two by a line much fainter than that
just described. It requires a good telescope and a fine night, combined
with a favourable position of the planet, to render this line a
well-marked object. It is most easily seen at the extremities of the
ring most remote from the planet. To the present writer, who has
examined the planet with the twelve-inch refractor of the South
equatorial at Dunsink Observatory, this outer line appears as broad as
the well-known line; but it is unquestionably fainter, and has a more
shaded appearance. It certainly does not suggest the appearance of being
actually an opening in the ring, and it is often invisible for a long
time. It seems rather as if the ring were at this place thinner and less
substantial without being actually void of substance.

On these points it may be expected that much additional information will
be acquired when next the ring places itself in such a position that its
plane, if produced, would pass between the earth and the sun. Such
occasions are but rare, and even when they do occur it may happen that
the planet will not be well placed for observation. The next really
good opportunity will not be till 1907. In this case the sunlight
illuminates one side of the ring, while it is the other side of the ring
that is presented towards the earth. Powerful telescopes are necessary
to deal with the planet under such circumstances; but it may be
reasonably hoped that the questions relating to the division of the
ring, as well as to many other matters, will then receive some further
elucidation.

Occasionally, other divisions of the ring, both inner and outer, have
been recorded. It may, at all events, be stated that no such divisions
can be regarded as permanent features. Yet their existence has been so
frequently enunciated by skilful observers that it is impossible to
doubt that they have been sometimes seen.

It was about 200 years after Huyghens had first explained the true
theory of Saturn that another very important discovery was effected. It
had, up to the year 1850, been always supposed that the two rings,
divided by the well-known black line, comprised the entire ring system
surrounding the planet. In the year just mentioned, Professor Bond, the
distinguished astronomer of Cambridge, Mass., startled the astronomical
world by the announcement of his discovery of a third ring surrounding
Saturn. As so often happens in such cases, the same object was
discovered independently by another--an English astronomer named Dawes.
This third ring lies just inside the inner of the two well-known rings,
and extends to about half the distance towards the body of the planet.
It seems to be of a totally different character from the two other rings
in so far as they present a comparatively substantial appearance. We
shall, indeed, presently show that they are not solid--not even liquid
bodies--but still, when compared with the third ring, the others were of
a substantial character. They can receive and exhibit the deeply-marked
shadow of Saturn, and they can throw a deep and black shadow upon Saturn
themselves; but the third ring is of a much less compact texture. It has
not the brilliancy of the others, it is rather of a dusky,
semi-transparent appearance, and the expression "crape ring," by which
it is often designated, is by no means inappropriate. It is the
faintness of this crape ring which led to its having been so frequently
overlooked by the earlier observers of Saturn.

It has often been noticed that when an astronomical discovery has been
made with a good telescope, it afterwards becomes possible for the same
object to be observed with instruments of much inferior power. No doubt,
when the observer knows what to look for, he will often be able to see
what would not otherwise have attracted his attention. It may be
regarded as an illustration of this principle, that the crape ring of
Saturn has become an object familiar to those who are accustomed to work
with good telescopes; but it may, nevertheless, be doubted whether the
ease and distinctness with which the crape ring is now seen can be
entirely accounted for by this supposition. Indeed, it seems possible
that the crape ring has, from some cause or other, gradually become more
and more visible. The supposed increased brightness of the crape ring is
one of those arguments now made use of to prove that in all probability
the rings of Saturn are at this moment undergoing gradual
transformation; but observations of Hadley show that the crape ring was
seen by him in 1720, and it was previously seen by Campani and Picard,
as a faint belt crossing the planet. The partial transparency of the
crape ring was beautifully illustrated in an observation by Professor
Barnard of the eclipse of Iapetus on November 1st, 1889. The satellite
was faintly visible in the shadow of the crape ring, while wholly
invisible in the shadow of the better known rings.

The various features of the rings are well shown in the drawing of
Trouvelot already referred to. We here see the inner and the outer ring,
and the line of division between them. We see in the outer ring the
faint traces of the line by which it is divided, and inside the inner
ring we have a view of the curious and semi-transparent crape ring. The
black shadow of the planet is cast upon the ring, thus proving that the
ring, no less than the body of the planet, shines only in virtue of the
sunlight which falls upon it. This shadow presents some anomalous
features, but its curious irregularity may be, to some extent, an
optical illusion.

There can be no doubt that any attempt to depict the rings of Saturn
only represents the salient features of that marvellous system. We are
situated at such a great distance that all objects not of colossal
dimensions are invisible. We have, indeed, only an outline, which makes
us wish to be able to fill in the details. We long, for instance, to see
the actual texture of the rings, and to learn of what materials they are
made; we wish to comprehend the strange and filmy crape ring, so unlike
any other object known to us in the heavens. There is no doubt that much
may even yet be learned under all the disadvantageous conditions of our
position; there is still room for the labour of whole generations of
astronomers provided with splendid instruments. We want accurate
drawings of Saturn under every conceivable aspect in which it may be
presented. We want incessantly repeated measurements, of the most
fastidious accuracy. These measures are to tell us the sizes and the
shapes of the rings; they are to measure with fidelity the position of
the dark lines and the boundaries of the rings. These measures are to be
protracted for generations and for centuries; then and then only can
terrestrial astronomers learn whether this elaborate system has really
the attributes of permanence, or whether it may be undergoing changes.

We have been accustomed to find that the law of universal gravitation
pervades every part of our system, and to look to gravitation for the
explanation of many phenomena otherwise inexplicable. We have good
reasons for knowing that in this marvellous Saturnian system the law of
gravitation is paramount. There are satellites revolving around Saturn
as well as a ring; these satellites move, as other satellites do, in
conformity with the laws of Kepler; and, therefore, any theory as to the
nature of Saturn's ring must be formed subject to the condition that it
shall be attracted by the gigantic planet situated in its interior.

To a hasty glance nothing might seem easier than to reconcile the
phenomena of the ring with the attraction of the planet. We might
suppose that the ring stands at rest symmetrically around the planet. At
its centre the planet pulls in the ring equally on all sides, so that
there is no tendency in it to move in one way rather than another; and,
therefore, it will stay at rest. This will not do. A ring composed of
materials almost infinitely rigid might possibly, under such
circumstances, be for a moment at rest; but it could not remain
permanently at rest any more than can a needle balanced vertically on
its point. In each case the equilibrium is unstable. If the slightest
cause of disturbance arise, the equilibrium is destroyed, and the ring
would inevitably fall in upon the planet. Such causes of derangement are
incessantly present, so that unstable equilibrium cannot be an
appropriate explanation of the phenomena.

Even if this difficulty could be removed, there is still another, which
would be quite insuperable if the ring be composed of any materials with
which we are acquainted. Let us ponder for a moment on the matter, as it
will lead up naturally to that explanation of the rings of Saturn which
is now most generally accepted.

Imagine that you stood on the planet Saturn, near his equator; over your
head stretches the ring, which sinks down to the horizon in the east and
in the west. The half-ring above your horizon would then resemble a
mighty arch, with a span of about a hundred thousand miles. Every
particle of this arch is drawn towards Saturn by gravitation, and if the
arch continue to exist, it must do so in obedience to the ordinary
mechanical laws which regulate the railway arches with which we are
familiar.

The continuance of these arches depends upon the resistance of the
stones forming them to a crushing force. Each stone of an arch is
subjected to a vast pressure, but stone is a material capable of
resisting such pressure, and the arch remains. The wider the span of the
arch the greater is the pressure to which each stone is exposed. At
length a span is reached which corresponds to a pressure as great as the
stones can safely bear, and accordingly we thus find the limiting span
over which a single arch of masonry can be constructed. Apply these
principles to the stupendous arch formed by the ring of Saturn. It can
be shown that the pressure on the materials of the arch capable of
spanning an abyss of such awful magnitude would be something so enormous
that no materials we know of would be capable of bearing it. Were the
ring formed of the toughest steel that was ever made, the pressure would
be so great that the metal would be squeezed like a liquid, and the
mighty structure would collapse and fall down on the surface of the
planet. It is not credible that any materials could exist capable of
sustaining a stress so stupendous. The law of gravitation accordingly
bids us search for a method by which the intensity of this stress can be
mitigated.

One method is at hand, and is obviously suggested by analogous phenomena
everywhere in our system. We have spoken of the ring as if it were at
rest; let us now suppose it to be animated by a motion of rotation in
its plane around Saturn as a centre. Instantly we have a force developed
antagonistic to the gravitation of Saturn. This force is the so-called
centrifugal force. If we imagine the ring to rotate, the centrifugal
force at all points acts in an opposite direction to the attractive
force, and hence the enormous stress on the ring can be abated and one
difficulty can be overcome.

We can thus attribute to each ring a rotation which will partly relieve
it from the stress the arch would otherwise have to sustain. But we
cannot admit that the difficulty has been fully removed. Suppose that
the outer ring revolve at such a rate as shall be appropriate to
neutralise the gravitation on its outer edge, the centrifugal force will
be less at the interior of the ring, while the gravitation will be
greater; and hence vast stresses will be set up in the interior parts of
the outer ring. Suppose the ring to rotate at such a rate as would be
adequate to neutralise the gravitation at its inner margin; then the
centrifugal force at the outer parts will largely exceed the
gravitation, and there will be a tendency to disruption of the ring
outwards.

To obviate this tendency we may assume the outer parts of each ring to
rotate more slowly than the inner parts. This naturally requires that
the parts of the ring shall be mobile relatively to one another, and
thus we are conducted to the suggestion that perhaps the rings are
really composed of matter in a fluid state. The suggestion is, at first
sight, a plausible one; each part of each ring would then move with an
appropriate velocity, and the rings would thus exhibit a number of
concentric circular currents with different velocities. The
mathematician can push this inquiry a little farther, and he can study
how this fluid would behave under such circumstances. His symbols can
pursue the subject into the intricacies which cannot be described in
general language. The mathematician finds that waves would originate in
the supposed fluid, and that as these waves would lead to disruption of
the rings, the fluid theory must be abandoned.

But we can still make one or two more suppositions. What if it be really
true that the ring consist of an incredibly large number of concentric
rings, each animated precisely with the velocity which would be suitable
to the production of a centrifugal force just adequate to neutralise the
attraction? No doubt this meets many of the difficulties: it is also
suggested by those observations which have shown the presence of several
dark lines on the ring. Here again dynamical considerations must be
invoked for the reply. Such a system of solid rings is not compatible
with the laws of dynamics.

We are, therefore, compelled to make one last attempt, and still further
to subdivide the ring. It may seem rather startling to abandon entirely
the supposition that the ring is in any sense a continuous body, but
there remains no alternative. Look at it how we will, we seem to be
conducted to the conclusion that the ring is really an enormous shoal of
extremely minute bodies; each of these little bodies pursues an orbit of
its own around the planet, and is, in fact, merely a satellite. These
bodies are so numerous and so close together that they seem to us to be
continuous, and they may be very minute--perhaps not larger than the
globules of water found in an ordinary cloud over the surface of the
earth, which, even at a short distance, seems like a continuous body.

Until a few years ago this theory of the constitution of Saturn's rings,
though unassailable from a mathematical point of view, had never been
confirmed by observation. The only astronomer who maintained that he had
actually seen the rings rotate was W. Herschel, who watched the motion
of some luminous points on the ring in 1789, at which time the plane of
the ring happened to pass through the earth. From these observations
Herschel concluded that the ring rotated in ten hours and thirty-two
minutes. But none of the subsequent observers, even though they may have
watched Saturn with instruments very superior to that used by Herschel,
were ever able to succeed in verifying his rotation of these appendages
of Saturn. If the ring were composed of a vast number of small bodies,
then the third law of Kepler will enable us to calculate the time which
these tiny satellites would require to travel completely round the
planet. It appears that any satellite situated at the outer edge of the
ring would require as long a period as 13 hrs. 46 min., those about the
middle would not need more than 10 hrs. 28 min., while those at the
inner edge of the ring would accomplish their rotation in 7 hrs. 28 min.
Even our mightiest telescopes, erected in the purest skies and employed
by the most skilful astronomers, refuse to display this extremely
delicate phenomenon. It would, indeed, have been a repetition on a grand
scale of the curious behaviour of the inner satellite of Mars, which
revolves round its primary in a shorter time than the planet itself
takes to turn round on its own axis.

[Illustration: Fig. 66.--Prof. Keeler's Method of Measuring the
Rotation of Saturn's Ring.]

But what the telescope could not show, the spectroscope has lately
demonstrated in a most effective and interesting manner. We have
explained in the chapter on the sun how the motion of a source of light
along the line of vision, towards or away from the observer, produces a
slight shift in the position of the lines of the spectrum. By the
measurement of the displacement of the lines the direction and amount of
the motion of the source of light may be determined. We illustrated the
method by showing how it had actually been used to measure the speed of
rotation of the solar surface. In 1895 Professor Keeler,[26] Director of
the Allegheny Observatory, succeeded in measuring the rotation of
Saturn's ring in this manner. He placed the slit of his spectroscope
across the ball, in the direction of the major axis of the elliptic
figure which the effect of perspective gives the ring as shown by the
parallel lines in Fig. 66 stretching from E to W. His photographic
plate should then show three spectra close together, that of the ball of
Saturn in the middle, separated by dark intervals from the narrower
spectra above and below it of the two handles (or ansæ, as they are
generally called) of the ring. In Fig. 67 we have represented the
behaviour of any one line of the spectrum under various suppositions as
to rotation or non-rotation of Saturn and the ring. At the top (1) we
see how each line would look if there was no rotatory motion; the three
lines produced by ring, planet, and ring are in a straight line. Of
course the spectrum, which is practically a very faint copy of the solar
spectrum, shows the principal dark Fraunhofer lines, so that the reader
must imagine these for himself, parallel to the one we show in the
figure. But Saturn and the ring are not standing still, they are
rotating, the eastern part (at E) moving towards us, and the western
part (W) moving away from us.[27] At E the line will therefore be
shifted towards the violet end of the spectrum and at W towards the red,
and as the actual linear velocity is greater the further we get away
from the centre of Saturn (assuming ring and planet to rotate together),
the lines would be turned as in Fig. 67 (2), but the three would remain
in a straight line. If the ring consisted of two independent rings
separated by Cassini's division and rotating with different velocities,
the lines would be situated as in Fig. 67 (3), the lines due to the
inner ring being more deflected than those due to the outer ring, owing
to the greater velocity of the inner ring.

[Illustration: Fig. 67.--Prof. Keeler's Method of Measuring the Rotation
of Saturn's Ring.]

Finally, let us consider the case of the rings, consisting of
innumerable particles moving round the planet in accordance with
Kepler's third law. The actual velocities of these particles would be
per second:--

  At outer edge of ring                    10·69 miles.
  At middle of ring                        11·68 miles.
  At inner edge of ring                    13·01 miles.
  Rotation speed at surface of planet       6·38 miles.

The shifting of the lines of the spectrum should be in accordance with
these velocities, and it is easy to see that the lines ought to lie as
in the fourth figure. When Professor Keeler came to examine the
photographed spectra, he found the lines of the three spectra tilted
precisely in this manner, showing that the outer edge of the ring was
travelling round the planet with a smaller linear velocity than the
inner one, as it ought to do if the sources of light (or, rather, the
reflectors of sunlight) were independent particles free to move
according to Kepler's third law, and as it ought not to do if the ring,
or rings, were rigid, in which case the outer edge would have the
greatest linear speed, as it had to travel through the greatest
distance. Here, at last, was the proof of the meteoritic composition of
Saturn's ring. Professor Keeler's beautiful discovery has since been
verified by repeated observations at the Allegheny, Lick, Paris, and
Pulkova Observatories; the actual velocities resulting from the observed
displacements of the lines have been measured and found to agree well
(within the limits of the errors of observation) with the calculated
velocities, so that this brilliant confirmation of the mathematical
deductions of Clerk Maxwell is raised beyond the possibility of doubt.

The spectrum of Saturn is so faint that only the strongest lines of the
solar spectrum can be seen in it, but the atmosphere of the planet seems
to exert a considerable amount of general absorption in the blue and
violet parts of the spectrum, which is especially strong near the
equatorial belt, while a strong band in the red testifies to the density
of the atmosphere. This band is not seen in the spectrum of the rings,
around which there can therefore be no atmosphere.

As Saturn's ring is itself unique, we cannot find elsewhere any very
pertinent illustration of a structure so remarkable as that now claimed
for the ring. Yet the solar system does show some analogous phenomena.
There is, for instance, one on a very grand scale surrounding the sun
himself. We allude to the multitude of minor planets, all confined
within a certain region of the system. Imagine these planets to be
vastly increased in number, and those orbits which are much inclined to
the rest flattened down and otherwise adjusted, and we should have a
ring surrounding the sun, thus producing an arrangement not dissimilar
from that now attributed to Saturn.

It is tempting to linger still longer over this beautiful system, to
speculate on the appearance which the ring would present to an
inhabitant of Saturn, to conjecture whether it is to be regarded as a
permanent feature of our system in the same way as we attribute
permanence to our moon or to the satellites of Jupiter. Looked at from
every point of view, the question is full of interest, and it provides
occupation abundant for the labours of every type of astronomer. If he
be furnished with a good telescope, then has he ample duties to fulfil
in the task of surveying, of sketching, and of measuring. If he be one
of those useful astronomers who devote their energies not to actual
telescopic work, but to forming calculations based on the observations
of others, then the beautiful system of Saturn provides copious
material. He has to foretell the different phases of the ring, to
announce to astronomers when each feature can be best seen, and at what
hour each element can be best determined. He has also to predict the
times of the movements of Saturn's satellites, and the other phenomena
of a system more elaborate than that of Jupiter.

Lastly, if the astronomer be one of that class--perhaps, from some
points of view, the highest class of all--who employ the most profound
researches of the human intellect to unravel the dynamical problems of
astronomy, he, too, finds in Saturn problems which test to the utmost,
even if they do not utterly transcend, the loftiest flights of analysis.
He discovers in Saturn's ring an object so utterly unlike anything else,
that new mathematical weapons have to be forged for the encounter. He
finds in the system so many extraordinary features, and such delicacy of
adjustment, that he is constrained to admit that if he did not actually
see Saturn's rings before him, he would not have thought that such a
system was possible. The mathematician's labours on this wondrous system
are at present only in their infancy. Not alone are the researches of so
abstruse a character as to demand the highest genius for this branch of
science, but even yet the materials for the inquiry have not been
accumulated. In a discussion of this character, observation must precede
calculation. The scanty observations hitherto obtained, however they may
illustrate the beauty of the system, are still utterly insufficient to
form the basis of that great mathematical theory of Saturn which must
eventually be written.

But Saturn possesses an interest for a far more numerous class of
persons than those who are specially devoted to astronomy. It is of
interest, it must be of interest, to every cultivated person who has the
slightest love for nature. A lover of the picturesque cannot behold
Saturn in a telescope without feelings of the liveliest emotion; while,
if his reading and reflection have previously rendered him aware of the
colossal magnitude of the object at which he is looking, he will be
constrained to admit that no more remarkable spectacle is presented in
the whole of nature.

We have pondered so long over the fascinations of Saturn's ring that we
can only give a very brief account of that system of satellites by which
the planet is attended. We have already had occasion to allude more than
once to these bodies; it only remains now to enumerate a few further
particulars.

It was on the 25th of March, 1655, that the first satellite of Saturn
was detected by Huyghens, to whose penetration we owe the discovery of
the true form of the ring. On the evening of the day referred to,
Huyghens was examining Saturn with a telescope constructed with his own
hands, when he observed a small star-like object near the planet. The
next night he repeated his observations, and it was found that the star
was accompanying the planet in its progress through the heavens. This
showed that the little object was really a satellite to Saturn, and
further observations revealed the fact that it was revolving around him
in a period of 15 days, 22 hours, 41 minutes. Such was the commencement
of that numerous series of discoveries of satellites which accompany
Saturn. One by one they were detected, so that at the present time no
fewer than nine are known to attend the great planet through his
wanderings. The subsequent discoveries were, however, in no case made by
Huyghens, for he abandoned the search for any further satellites on
grounds which sound strange to modern ears, but which were quite in
keeping with the ideas of his time. It appears that from some principle
of symmetry, Huyghens thought that it would accord with the fitness of
things that the number of satellites, or secondary planets, should be
equal in number to the primary planets themselves. The primary planets,
including the earth, numbered six; and Huyghens' discovery now brought
the total number of satellites to be also six. The earth had one,
Jupiter had four, Saturn had one, and the system was complete.

Nature, however, knows no such arithmetical doctrines as those which
Huyghens attributed to her. Had he been less influenced by such
prejudices, he might, perhaps, have anticipated the labours of Cassini,
who, by discovering other satellites of Saturn, demonstrated the
absurdity of the doctrine of numerical equality between planets and
satellites. As further discoveries were made, the number of satellites
was at first raised above the number of planets; but in recent times,
when the swarm of minor planets came to be discovered, the number of
planets speedily reached and speedily passed the number of their
attendant satellites.

It was in 1671, about sixteen years after the discovery of the first
satellite of Saturn, that a second was discovered by Cassini. This is
the outermost of the older satellites; it takes 79 days to travel round
Saturn. In the following year he discovered another; and twelve years
later, in 1684, still two more; thus making a total of five satellites
to this planet.

[Illustration: Fig. 68.--Transit of Titan and its Shadow, by F. Terby
Louvain, 12th April, 1892.]

The complexity of the Saturnian system had now no rival in the heavens.
Saturn had five satellites, and Jupiter had but four, while at least one
of the satellites of Saturn, named Titan, was larger than any satellite
of Jupiter.[28] Some of the discoveries of Cassini had been made with
telescopes of quite monstrous dimensions. The length of the instrument,
or rather the distance at which the object-glass was placed, was one
hundred feet or more from the eye of the observer. It seemed hardly
possible to push telescopic research farther with instruments of this
cumbrous type. At length, however, the great reformation in the
construction of astronomical instruments began to dawn. In the hands of
Herschel, it was found possible to construct reflecting telescopes of
manageable dimensions, which were both more powerful and more accurate
than the long-focussed lenses of Cassini. A great instrument of this
kind, forty feet long, just completed by Herschel, was directed to
Saturn on the 28th of August, 1789. Never before had the wondrous planet
been submitted to a scrutiny so minute. Herschel was familiar with the
labours of his predecessors. He had often looked at Saturn and his five
moons in inferior telescopes; now again he saw the five moons and a
star-like object so near the plane of the ring that he conjectured this
to be a sixth satellite. A speedy method of testing this conjecture was
at hand. Saturn was then moving rapidly over the heavens. If this new
object were in truth a satellite, then it must be carried on by Saturn.
Herschel watched with anxiety to see whether this would be the case. A
short time sufficed to answer the question; in two hours and a half the
planet had moved to a distance quite appreciable, and had carried with
him not only the five satellites already known, but also this sixth
object. Had this been a star it would have been left behind; it was not
left behind, and hence it, too, was a satellite. Thus, after the long
lapse of a century, the telescopic discovery of satellites to Saturn
recommenced. Herschel, as was his wont, observed this object with
unremitting ardour, and discovered that it was much nearer to Saturn
than any of the previously known satellites. In accordance with the
general law, that the nearer the satellite the shorter the period of
revolution, Herschel found that this little moon completed a revolution
in about 1 day, 8 hours, 53 minutes. The same great telescope, used with
the same unrivalled skill, soon led Herschel to a still more interesting
discovery. An object so small as only to appear like a very minute
point in the great forty-foot reflector was also detected by Herschel,
and was by him proved to be a satellite, so close to the planet that it
completed a revolution in the very brief period of 22 hours and 37
minutes. This is an extremely delicate object, only to be seen by the
best telescopes in the brief intervals when it is not entirely screened
from view by the ring.

Again another long interval elapsed, and for almost fifty years the
Saturnian system was regarded as consisting of the series of rings and
of the seven satellites. The next discovery has a singular historical
interest. It was made simultaneously by two observers--Professor Bond,
of Cambridge, Mass., and Mr. Lassell, of Liverpool--for on the 19th
September, 1848, both of these astronomers verified that a small point
which they had each seen on previous nights was really a satellite. This
object is, however, at a considerable distance from the planet, and
requires 21 days, 7 hours, 28 minutes for each revolution; it is the
seventh in order from the planet.

Yet one more extremely faint outer satellite was discerned by
photography on the 16th, 17th, and 18th August, 1898, by Professor W.H.
Pickering. This object is much more distant from the planet than the
larger and older satellites. Its motion has not yet been fully
determined, but probably it requires not less than 490 days to perform a
single revolution.

From observations of the satellites it has been found that 3,500 globes
as heavy as Saturn would weigh as much as the sun.

A law has been observed by Professor Kirkwood, which connects together
the movements of the four interior satellites of Saturn. This law is
fulfilled in such a manner as leads to the supposition that it arises
from the mutual attraction of the satellites. We have already described
a similar law relative to three of the satellites of Jupiter. The
problem relating to Saturn, involving as it does no fewer than four
satellites, is one of no ordinary complexity. It involves the theory of
Perturbations to a greater degree than that to which mathematicians are
accustomed in their investigation of the more ordinary features of our
system. To express this law it is necessary to have recourse to the
daily movements of the satellites; these are respectively--

  SATELLITE.      DAILY MOVEMENT.
          I.          382°·2.
         II.          262°·74.
        III.          190°·7.
         IV.          131°·4.

The law states that if to five times the movement of the first satellite
we add that of the third and four times that of the fourth, the whole
will equal ten times the movement of the second satellite. The
calculation stands thus:--

  5 times  I. equals 1911°·0
         III. equals  190°·7     II. 262°·74
  4 times IV. equals  525°·6              10
                    --------        --------
                     2627°·3  equal  2627°·4 nearly.

Nothing can be simpler than the verification of this law; but the task
of showing the physical reason why it should be fulfilled has not yet
been accomplished.

Saturn was the most distant planet known to the ancients. It revolves in
an orbit far outside the other ancient planets, and, until the discovery
of Uranus in the year 1781, the orbit of Saturn might well be regarded
as the frontier of the solar system. The ringed planet was indeed a
worthy object to occupy a position so distinguished. But we now know
that the mighty orbit of Saturn does not extend to the frontiers of the
solar system; a splendid discovery, leading to one still more splendid,
has vastly extended the boundary, by revealing two mighty planets,
revolving in dim telescopic distance, far outside the path of Saturn.
These objects have not the beauty of Saturn; they are, indeed, in no
sense effective telescopic pictures. Yet these outer planets awaken an
interest of a most special kind. The discovery of each is a classical
event in the history of astronomy, and the opinion has been maintained,
and perhaps with reason, that the discovery of Neptune, the more remote
of the two, is the greatest achievement in astronomy made since the time
of Newton.




CHAPTER XIV

URANUS.


     Contrast between Uranus and the other great Planets--William
     Herschel--His Birth and Parentage--Herschel's Arrival in
     England--His Love of Learning--Commencement of his Astronomical
     Studies--The Construction of Telescopes--Construction of
     Mirrors--The Professor of Music becomes an Astronomer--The
     Methodical Research--The 13th March, 1781--The Discovery of
     Uranus--Delicacy of Observation--Was the Object a Comet?--The
     Significance of this Discovery--The Fame of Herschel--George III.
     and the Bath Musician--The King's Astronomer at Windsor--The Planet
     Uranus--Numerical Data with reference thereto--The Four Satellites
     of Uranus--Their Circular Orbits--Early Observations of
     Uranus--Flamsteed's Observations--Lemonnier saw Uranus--Utility of
     their Measurements--The Elliptic Path--The Great Problem thus
     Suggested.

To the present writer it has always seemed that the history of Uranus,
and of the circumstances attending its discovery, forms one of the most
pleasing and interesting episodes in the whole history of science. We
here occupy an entirely new position in the study of the solar system.
All the other great planets were familiarly known from antiquity,
however erroneous might be the ideas entertained in connection with
them. They were conspicuous objects, and by their movements could hardly
fail to attract the attention of those whose pursuits led them to
observe the stars. But now we come to a great planet, the very existence
of which was utterly unknown to the ancients; and hence, in approaching
the subject, we have first to describe the actual discovery of this
object, and then to consider what we can learn as to its physical
nature.

We have, in preceding pages, had occasion to mention the revered name of
William Herschel in connection with various branches of astronomy; but
we have hitherto designedly postponed any more explicit reference to
this extraordinary man until we had arrived at the present stage of our
work. The story of Uranus, in its earlier stages at all events, is the
story of the early career of William Herschel. It would be alike
impossible and undesirable to attempt to separate them.

William Herschel, the illustrious astronomer, was born at Hanover in
1738. His father was an accomplished man, pursuing, in a somewhat humble
manner, the calling of a professor of music. He had a family of ten
children, of whom William was the fourth; and it may be noted that all
the members of the family of whom any record has been preserved
inherited their father's musical talents, and became accomplished
performers. Pleasing sketches have been given of this interesting
family, of the unusual aptitude of William, of the long discussions on
music and on philosophy, and of the little sister Caroline, destined in
later years for an illustrious career. William soon learned all that his
master could teach him in the ordinary branches of knowledge, and by the
age of fourteen he was already a competent performer on the oboe and the
viol. He was engaged in the Court orchestra at Hanover, and was also a
member of the band of the Hanoverian Guards. Troublous times were soon
to break up Herschel's family. The French invaded Hanover, the
Hanoverian Guards were overthrown in the battle of Hastenbeck, and young
William Herschel had some unpleasant experience of actual warfare. His
health was not very strong, and he decided that he would make a change
in his profession. His method of doing so is one which his biographers
can scarcely be expected to defend; for, to speak plainly, he deserted,
and succeeded in making his escape to England. It is stated on
unquestionable authority that on Herschel's first visit to King George
III., more than twenty years afterwards, his pardon was handed to him by
the King himself, written out in due form.

At the age of nineteen the young musician began to seek his fortunes in
England. He met at first with very considerable hardship, but industry
and skill conquered all difficulties, and by the time he was twenty-six
years of age he was thoroughly settled in England, and doing well in his
profession. In the year 1766 we find Herschel occupying a position of
some distinction in the musical world; he had become the organist of the
Octagon Chapel at Bath, and his time was fully employed in giving
lessons to his numerous pupils, and with his preparation for concerts
and oratorios.

Notwithstanding his busy professional life, Herschel still retained that
insatiable thirst for knowledge which he had when a boy. Every moment he
could snatch from his musical engagements was eagerly devoted to study.
In his desire to perfect his knowledge of the more abstruse parts of the
theory of music he had occasion to learn mathematics; from mathematics
the transition to optics was a natural one; and once he had commenced to
study optics, he was of course brought to a knowledge of the telescope,
and thence to astronomy itself.

His beginnings were made on a very modest scale. It was through a small
and imperfect telescope that the great astronomer obtained his first
view of the celestial glories. No doubt he had often before looked at
the heavens on a clear night, and admired the thousands of stars with
which they were adorned; but now, when he was able to increase his
powers of vision even to a slight extent, he obtained a view which
fascinated him. The stars he had seen before he now saw far more
distinctly; but, more than this, he found that myriads of others
previously invisible were now revealed to him. Glorious, indeed, is this
spectacle to anyone who possesses a spark of enthusiasm for natural
beauty. To Herschel this view immediately changed the whole current of
his life. His success as a professor of music, his oratorios, and his
pupils were speedily to be forgotten, and the rest of his life was to be
devoted to the absorbing pursuit of one of the noblest of the sciences.

Herschel could not remain contented with the small and imperfect
instrument which first interested him. Throughout his career he
determined to see everything for himself in the best manner which his
utmost powers could command. He at once decided to have a better
instrument, and he wrote to a celebrated optician in London with the
view of making a purchase. But the price which the optician demanded
seemed more than Herschel thought he could or ought to give. Instantly
his resolution was taken. A good telescope he must have, and as he could
not buy one he resolved to make one. It was alike fortunate, both for
Herschel and for science, that circumstances impelled him to this
determination. Yet, at first sight, how unpromising was the enterprise!
That a music teacher, busily employed day and night, should, without
previous training, expect to succeed in a task where the highest
mechanical and optical skill was required, seemed indeed unlikely. But
enthusiasm and genius know no insuperable difficulties. From conducting
a brilliant concert in Bath, when that city was at the height of its
fame, Herschel would rush home, and without even delaying to take off
his lace ruffles, he would plunge into his manual labours of grinding
specula and polishing lenses. No alchemist of old was ever more deeply
absorbed in a project for turning lead into gold than was Herschel in
his determination to have a telescope. He transformed his home into a
laboratory; of his drawing-room he made a carpenter's shop. Turning
lathes were the furniture of his best bedroom. A telescope he must have,
and as he progressed he determined, not only that he should have a good
telescope, but a very good one; and as success cheered his efforts he
ultimately succeeded in constructing the greatest telescope that the
world had up to that time ever seen. Though it is as an astronomer that
we are concerned with Herschel, yet we must observe even as a telescope
maker also great fame and no small degree of commercial success flowed
in upon him. When the world began to ring with his glorious discoveries,
and when it was known that he used no other telescopes than those which
were the work of his own hands, a demand sprang up for instruments of
his construction. It is stated that he made upwards of eighty large
telescopes, as well as many others of smaller size. Several of these
instruments were purchased by foreign princes and potentates.[29] We
have never heard that any of these illustrious personages became
celebrated astronomers, but, at all events, they seem to have paid
Herschel handsomely for his skill, so that by the sale of large
telescopes he was enabled to realise what may be regarded as a fortune
in the moderate horizon of the man of science.

Up to the middle of his life Herschel was unknown to the public except
as a laborious musician, with considerable renown in his profession, not
only in Bath, but throughout the West of England. His telescope-making
was merely the occupation of his spare moments, and was unheard of by
most of those who knew and respected his musical attainments. It was in
1774 that Herschel first enjoyed a view of the heavens through an
instrument built with his own hands. It was but a small one in
comparison with those which he afterwards fashioned, but at once he
experienced the advantage of being his own instrument maker. Night after
night he was able to add the improvements which experience suggested; at
one time he was enlarging the mirrors; at another he was reconstructing
the mounting, or trying to remedy defects in the eye-pieces. With
unwearying perseverance he aimed at the highest excellence, and with
each successive advance he found that he was able to pierce further into
the sky. His enthusiasm attracted a few friends who were, like himself,
ardently attached to science. The mode in which he first made the
acquaintance of Sir William Watson, who afterwards became his warmest
friend, was characteristic of both. Herschel was observing the mountains
in the moon, and as the hours passed on, he had occasion to bring his
telescope into the street in front of his house to enable him to
continue his work. Sir William Watson happened to pass by, and was
arrested by the unusual spectacle of an astronomer in the public street,
at the dead of night, using a large and quaint-looking instrument.
Having a taste for astronomy, Sir William stopped, and when Herschel
took his eye from the telescope, asked if he might be allowed to have a
look at the moon. The request was readily granted. Probably Herschel
found but few in the gay city who cared for such matters; he was quickly
drawn to Sir W. Watson, who at once reciprocated the feeling, and thus
began a friendship which bore important fruit in Herschel's subsequent
career.

At length the year 1781 approached, which was to witness his great
achievement. Herschel had made good use of seven years' practical
experience in astronomy, and he had completed a telescope of exquisite
optical perfection, though greatly inferior in size to some of those
which he afterwards erected. With this reflector Herschel commenced a
methodical piece of observation. He formed the scheme of systematically
examining all the stars which were above a certain degree of brightness.
It does not quite appear what object Herschel proposed to himself when
he undertook this labour, but, in any case, he could hardly have
anticipated the extraordinary success with which the work was to be
crowned. In the course of this review the telescope was directed to a
star; that star was examined; then another was brought into the field of
view, and it too was examined. Every star under such circumstances
merely shows itself as a point of light; the point may be brilliant or
not, according as the star is bright or not; the point will also, of
course, show the colour of the star, but it cannot exhibit recognisable
size or shape. The greater, in fact, the perfection of the telescope,
the smaller is the telescopic image of a star.

How many stars Herschel inspected in this review we are not told; but at
all events, on the ever-memorable night of the 13th of March, 1781, he
was pursuing his self-allotted task among the hosts in the constellation
Gemini. Doubtless, one star after another was admitted to view, and was
allowed to pass away. At length, however, an object was placed in the
field which differed from every other star. It was not a mere point of
light; it had a minute, but still a perfectly recognisable, disc. We say
the disc was perfectly recognisable, but we should be careful to add
that it was so in the excellent telescope of Herschel alone. Other
astronomers had seen this object before. Its position had actually been
measured no fewer than nineteen times before the Bath musician, with his
home-made telescope, looked at it, but the previous observers had only
seen it in small meridian instruments with low magnifying powers. Even
after the discovery was made, and when well-trained observers with good
instruments looked again under the direction of Herschel, one after
another bore testimony to the extraordinary delicacy of the great
astronomer's perception, which enabled him almost at the first glance to
discriminate between it and a star.

If not a star, what, then, could it be? The first step to enable this
question to be answered was to observe the body for some time. This
Herschel did. He looked at it one night after another, and soon he
discovered another fundamental difference between this object and an
ordinary star. The stars are, of course, characterised by their fixity,
but this object was not fixed; night after night the place it occupied
changed with respect to the stars. No longer could there be any doubt
that this body was a member of the solar system, and that an interesting
discovery had been made; many months, however, elapsed before Herschel
knew the real merit of his achievement. He did not realise that he had
made the superb discovery of another mighty planet revolving outside
Saturn; he thought that it could only be a comet. No doubt this object
looked very different from a great comet, decorated with a tail. It was
not, however, so entirely different from some forms of telescopic comets
as to make the suggestion of its being a body of this kind unlikely; and
the discovery was at first announced in accordance with this view. Time
was necessary before the true character of the object could be
ascertained. It must be followed for a considerable distance along its
path, and measures of its position at different epochs must be effected,
before it is practicable for the mathematician to calculate the path
which the body pursues; once, however, attention was devoted to the
subject, many astronomers aided in making the necessary observations.
These were placed in the hands of mathematicians, and the result was
proclaimed that this body was not a comet, but that, like all the
planets, it revolved in nearly a circular path around the sun, and that
the path lay millions of miles outside the path of Saturn, which had so
long been regarded as the boundary of the solar system.

It is hardly possible to over-estimate the significance of this splendid
discovery. The five planets had been known from all antiquity; they were
all, at suitable seasons, brilliantly conspicuous to the unaided eye.
But it was now found that, far outside the outermost of these planets
revolved another splendid planet, larger than Mercury or Mars,
larger--far larger--than Venus and the earth, and only surpassed in bulk
by Jupiter and by Saturn. This superb new planet was plunged into space
to such a depth that, notwithstanding its noble proportions, it seemed
merely a tiny star, being only on rare occasions within reach of the
unaided eye. This great globe required a period of eighty-four years to
complete its majestic path, and the diameter of that path was
3,600,000,000 miles.

Although the history of astronomy is the record of brilliant
discoveries--of the labours of Copernicus, and of Kepler--of the
telescopic achievements of Galileo, and the splendid theory of
Newton--of the refined discovery of the aberration of light--of many
other imperishable triumphs of intellect--yet this achievement of the
organist at the Octagon Chapel occupies a totally different position
from any other. There never before had been any historic record of the
discovery of one of the bodies of the particular system to which the
earth belongs. The older planets were no doubt discovered by someone,
but we can say little more about these discoveries than we can about the
discovery of the sun or of the moon; all are alike prehistoric. Here was
the first recorded instance of the discovery of a planet which, like the
earth, revolves around the sun, and, like our earth, may conceivably be
an inhabited globe. So unique an achievement instantly arrested the
attention of the whole scientific world. The music-master at Bath,
hitherto unheard of as an astronomer, was speedily placed in the very
foremost rank of those entitled to the name. On all sides the greatest
interest was manifested about the unknown philosopher. The name of
Herschel, then unfamiliar to English ears, appeared in every journal,
and a curious list has been preserved of the number of blunders which
were made in spelling the name. The different scientific societies
hastened to convey their congratulations on an occasion so memorable.

Tidings of the discovery made by the Hanoverian musician reached the
ears of George III., and he sent for Herschel to come to the Court, that
the King might learn what his achievement actually was from the
discoverer's own lips. Herschel brought with him one of his telescopes,
and he provided himself with a chart of the solar system, with which to
explain precisely wherein the significance of the discovery lay. The
King was greatly interested in Herschel's narrative, and not less in
Herschel himself. The telescope was erected at Windsor, and, under the
astronomer's guidance, the King was shown Saturn and other celebrated
objects. It is also told how the ladies of the Court the next day asked
Herschel to show them the wonders which had so pleased the King. The
telescope was duly erected in a window of one of the Queen's apartments,
but when evening arrived the sky was found to be overcast with clouds,
and no stars could be seen. This was an experience with which Herschel,
like every other astronomer, was unhappily only too familiar. But it is
not every astronomer who would have shown the readiness of Herschel in
escaping gracefully from the position. He showed to his lady pupils the
construction of the telescope; he explained the mirror, and how he had
fashioned it and given the polish; and then, seeing the clouds were
inexorable, he proposed that, as he could not show them the real Saturn,
he should exhibit an artificial one as the best substitute. The
permission granted, Herschel turned the telescope away from the sky, and
pointed it towards the wall of a distant garden. On looking into the
telescope there was Saturn, his globe and his system of rings, so
faithfully shown that, says Herschel, even a skilful astronomer might
have been deceived. The fact was that during the course of the day
Herschel saw that the sky would probably be overcast in the evening, and
he had provided for the emergency by cutting a hole in a piece of
cardboard, the shape of Saturn, which was then placed against the
distant garden wall, and illuminated by a lamp at the back.

This visit to Windsor was productive of consequences momentous to
Herschel, momentous to science. He had made so favourable an impression,
that the King proposed to create for him the special appointment of
King's Astronomer at Windsor. The King was to provide the means for
erecting the great telescopes, and he allocated to Herschel a salary of
£200 a year, the figures being based, it must be admitted, on a somewhat
moderate estimate of the requirements of an astronomer's household.
Herschel mentioned these particulars to no one save to his constant and
generous friend, Sir W. Watson, who exclaimed, "Never bought monarch
honour so cheap." To other enquirers, Herschel merely said that the King
had provided for him. In accepting this post, the great astronomer took
no doubt a serious step. He at once sacrificed entirely his musical
career, now, from many sources, a lucrative one; but his determination
was speedily taken. The splendid earnest that he had already given of
his devotion to astronomy was, he knew, only the commencement of a
series of memorable labours. He had indeed long been feeling that it was
his bounden duty to follow that path in life which his genius indicated.
He was no longer a young man. He had attained middle age, and the years
had become especially precious to one who knew that he had still a
life-work to accomplish. He at one stroke freed himself from all
distractions; his pupils and concerts, his whole connection at Bath,
were immediately renounced; he accepted the King's offer with alacrity,
and after one or two changes settled permanently at Slough, near
Windsor.

It has, indeed, been well remarked that the most important event in
connection with the discovery of Uranus was the discovery of Herschel's
unrivalled powers of observation. Uranus must, sooner or later, have
been found. Had Herschel not lived, we would still, no doubt, have known
Uranus long ere this. The really important point for science was that
Herschel's genius should be given full scope, by setting him free from
the engrossing details of an ordinary professional calling. The
discovery of Uranus secured all this, and accordingly obtained for
astronomy all Herschel's future labours.[30]

Uranus is so remote that even the best of our modern telescopes cannot
make of it a striking picture. We can see, as Herschel did, that it has
a measurable disc, and from measurements of that disc we conclude that
the diameter of the planet is about 31,700 miles. This is about four
times as great as the diameter of the earth, and we accordingly see that
the volume of Uranus must be about sixty-four times as great as that of
the earth. We also find that, like the other giant planets, Uranus seems
to be composed of materials much lighter, on the whole, than those we
find here; so that, though sixty-four times as large as the earth,
Uranus is only fifteen times as heavy. If we may trust to the analogies
of what we see everywhere else in our system, we can feel but little
doubt that Uranus must rotate about an axis. The ordinary means of
demonstrating this rotation can be hardly available in a body whose
surface appears so small and so faint. The period of rotation is
accordingly unknown. The spectroscope tells us that a remarkable
atmosphere, containing apparently some gases foreign to our own, deeply
envelops Uranus.

There is, however, one feature about Uranus which presents many points
of interest to those astronomers who are possessed of telescopes of
unusual size and perfection. Uranus is accompanied by a system of
satellites, some of which are so faint as to require the closest
scrutiny for their detection. The discovery of these satellites was one
of the subsequent achievements of Herschel. It is, however, remarkable
that even his penetration and care did not preserve him from errors
with regard to these very delicate objects. Some of the points which he
thought to be satellites must, it would now seem, have been merely stars
enormously more distant, which happened to lie in the field of view. It
has been since ascertained that the known satellites of Uranus are four
in number, and their movements have been made the subject of prolonged
and interesting telescopic research. The four satellites bear the names
of Ariel, Umbriel, Titania, and Oberon. Arranged in order of their
distance from the central body, Ariel, the nearest, accomplishes its
journey in 2 days and 12 hours. Oberon, the most distant, completes its
journey in 13 days and 11 hours.

The law of Kepler declares that the path of a satellite around its
primary, no less than of the primary around the sun, must be an ellipse.
It leaves, however, boundless latitude in the actual eccentricity of the
curve. The ellipse may be nearly a circle, it may be absolutely a
circle, or it may be something quite different from a circle. The paths
pursued by the planets are, generally speaking, nearly circles; but we
meet with no exact circle among planetary orbits. So far as we at
present know, the closest approach made to a perfectly circular movement
is that by which the satellites of Uranus revolve around their primary.
We are not prepared to say that these paths are absolutely circular. All
that can be said is that our telescopes fail to show any measurable
departure therefrom. It is also to be noted as an interesting
circumstance that the orbits of the satellites of Uranus all lie in the
same plane. This is not true of the orbits of the planets around the
sun, nor is it true of the orbits of any other system of satellites
around their primary. The most singular circumstance attending the
Uranian system is, however, found in the position which this plane
occupies. This is indeed almost as great an anomaly in our system as are
the rings of Saturn themselves. We have already had occasion to notice
that the plane in which the earth revolves around the sun is very nearly
coincident with the planes in which all the other great planets revolve.
The same is true, to a large extent, of the orbits of the minor planets;
though here, no doubt, we meet with a few cases in which the plane of
the orbit is inclined at no inconsiderable angle to the plane in which
the earth moves. The plane in which the moon revolves also approximates
to this system of planetary planes. So, too, do the orbits of the
satellites of Saturn and of Jupiter, while even the more recently
discovered satellites of Mars form no exception to the rule. The whole
solar system--at least so far as the great planets are concerned--would
require comparatively little alteration if the orbits were to be
entirely flattened down into one plane. There are, however, some notable
exceptions to this rule. The satellites of Uranus revolve in a plane
which is far from coinciding with the plane to which all other orbits
approximate. In fact, the paths of the satellites of Uranus lie in a
plane nearly at right angles to the orbit of Uranus. We are not in a
position to give any satisfactory explanation of this circumstance. It
is, however, evident that in the genesis of the Uranian system there
must have been some influence of a quite exceptional and local
character.

Soon after the discovery of the planet Uranus, in 1781, sufficient
observations were accumulated to enable the orbit it follows to be
determined. When the path was known, it was then a mere matter of
mathematical calculation to ascertain where the planet was situated at
any past time, and where it would be situated at any future time. An
interesting enquiry was thus originated as to how far it might be
possible to find any observations of the planet made previously to its
discovery by Herschel. Uranus looks like a star of the sixth magnitude.
Not many astronomers were provided with telescopes of the perfection
attained by Herschel, and the personal delicacy of perception
characteristic of Herschel was a still more rare possession. It was,
therefore, to be expected that, if such previous observations existed,
they would merely record Uranus as a star visible, and indeed bright, in
a moderate telescope, but still not claiming any exceptional attention
over thousands of apparently similar stars. Many of the early
astronomers had devoted themselves to the useful and laborious work of
forming catalogues of stars. In the preparation of a star catalogue, the
telescope was directed to the heavens, the stars were observed, their
places were carefully measured, the brightness of the star was also
estimated, and thus the catalogue was gradually compiled in which each
star had its place faithfully recorded, so that at any future time it
could be identified. The stars were thus registered, by hundreds and by
thousands, at various dates from the birth of accurate astronomy till
the present time. The suggestion was then made that, as Uranus looked so
like a star, and as it was quite bright enough to have engaged the
attention of astronomers possessed of even very moderate instrumental
powers, there was a possibility that it had already been observed, and
thus actually lay recorded as a star in some of the older catalogues.
This was indeed an idea worthy of every attention, and pregnant with the
most important consequences in connection with the immortal discovery to
be discussed in our next chapter. But how was such an examination of the
catalogues to be conducted? Uranus is constantly moving about; does it
not seem that there is every element of uncertainty in such an
investigation? Let us consider a notable example.

The great national observatory at Greenwich was founded in 1675, and the
first Astronomer-Royal was the illustrious Flamsteed, who in 1676
commenced that series of observations of the heavenly bodies which has
been continued to the present day with such incalculable benefits to
science. At first the instruments were of a rather primitive
description, but in the course of some years Flamsteed succeeded in
procuring instruments adequate to the production of a catalogue of
stars, and he devoted himself with extraordinary zeal to the
undertaking. It is in this memorable work, the "Historia Coelestis" of
Flamsteed, that the earliest observation of Uranus is recorded. In the
first place it was known that the orbit of this body, like the orbit of
every other great planet, was inclined at a very small angle to the
ecliptic. It hence follows that Uranus is at all times only to be met
with along the ecliptic, and it is possible to calculate where the
planet has been in each year. It was thus seen that in 1690 the planet
was situated in that part of the ecliptic where Flamsteed was at the
same date making his observations. It was natural to search the
observations of Flamsteed, and see whether any of the so-called stars
could have been Uranus. An object was found in the "Historia
Coelestis" which occupied a position identical with that which Uranus
must have filled on the same date. Could this be Uranus? A decisive test
was at once available. The telescope was directed to the spot in the
heavens where Flamsteed saw a sixth-magnitude star. If that were really
a star, then would it still be visible. The trial was made: no such star
could be found, and hence the presumption that this was really Uranus
could hardly be for a moment doubted. Speedily other confirmation flowed
in. It was shown that Uranus had been observed by Bradley and by Tobias
Mayer, and it also became apparent that Flamsteed had observed Uranus
not only once, but that he had actually measured its place four times in
the years 1712 and 1715. Yet Flamsteed was never conscious of the
discovery that lay so nearly in his grasp. He was, of course, under the
impression that all these observations related to different stars. A
still more remarkable case is that of Lemonnier, who had actually
observed Uranus twelve times, and even recorded it on four consecutive
days in January, 1769. If Lemonnier had only carefully looked over his
own work; if he had perceived, as he might have done, how the star he
observed yesterday was gone to-day, while the star visible to-day had
moved away by to-morrow, there is no doubt that Uranus would have been
discovered, and William Herschel would have been anticipated. Would
Lemonnier have made as good use of his fame as Herschel did? This seems
a question which can never be decided, but those who estimate Herschel
as the present writer thinks he ought to be estimated, will probably
agree in thinking that it was most fortunate for science that Lemonnier
did _not_ compare his observations.[31]

These early accidental observations of Uranus are not merely to be
regarded as matters of historical interest or curiosity. That they are
of the deepest importance with regard to the science itself a few words
will enable us to show. It is to be remembered that Uranus requires no
less than eighty-four years to accomplish his mighty revolution around
the sun. The planet has completed one entire revolution since its
discovery, and up to the present time (1900) has accomplished more than
one-third of another. For the careful study of the nature of the orbit,
it was desirable to have as many measurements as possible, and extending
over the widest possible interval. This was in a great measure secured
by the identification of the early observations of Uranus. An
approximate knowledge of the orbit was quite capable of giving the
places of the planet with sufficient accuracy to identify it when met
with in the catalogues. But when by their aid the actual observations
have been discovered, they tell us precisely the place of Uranus; and
hence, instead of our knowledge of the planet being limited to but
little more than one revolution, we have at the present time information
with regard to it extending over considerably more than two revolutions.

From the observations of the planet the ellipse in which it moves can be
ascertained. We can compute this ellipse from the observations made
during the time since the discovery. We can also compute the ellipse
from the early observations made before the discovery. If Kepler's laws
were rigorously verified, then, of course, the ellipse performed in the
present revolution must differ in no respect from the ellipse performed
in the preceding, or indeed in any other revolution. We can test this
point in an interesting manner by comparing the ellipse derived from the
ancient observations with that deduced from the modern ones. These
ellipses closely resemble each other; they are nearly the same; but it
is most important to observe that they are not _exactly_ the same, even
when allowance has been made for every known source of disturbance in
accordance with the principles explained in the next chapter. The law of
Kepler seems thus not absolutely true in the case of Uranus. Here is,
indeed, a matter demanding our most earnest and careful attention. Have
we not repeatedly laid down the universality of the laws of Kepler in
controlling the planetary motions? How then can we reconcile this law
with the irregularities proved beyond a doubt to exist in the motions of
Uranus?

Let us look a little more closely into the matter. We know that the laws
of Kepler are a consequence of the laws of gravitation. We know that the
planet moves in an elliptic path around the sun, in virtue of the sun's
attraction, and we know that the ellipse will be preserved without the
minutest alteration if the sun and the planet be left to their mutual
attractions, and if no other force intervene. We can also calculate the
influence of each of the known planets on the form and position of the
orbit. But when allowance is made for all such perturbing influences it
is found that the observed and computed orbits do not agree. The
conclusion is irresistible. Uranus does not move solely in consequence
of the sun's attraction and that of the planets of our system interior
to Uranus; there must therefore be some further influence acting upon
Uranus besides those already known. To the development of this subject
the next chapter will be devoted.




CHAPTER XV.

NEPTUNE.


     Discovery of Neptune--A Mathematical Achievement--The Sun's
     Attraction--All Bodies attract--Jupiter and Saturn--The Planetary
     Perturbations--Three Bodies--Nature has simplified the
     Problem--Approximate Solution--The Sources of Success--The Problem
     Stated for the Earth--The Discoveries of Lagrange--The
     Eccentricity--Necessity that all the Planets revolve in the same
     Direction--Lagrange's Discoveries have not the Dramatic Interest of
     the more Recent Achievements--The Irregularities of Uranus--The
     Unknown Planet must revolve outside the Path of Uranus--The Data
     for the Problem--Le Verrier and Adams both investigate the
     Question--Adams indicates the Place of the Planet--How the Search
     was to be conducted--Le Verrier also solves the Problem--The
     Telescopic Discovery of the Planet--The Rival Claims--Early
     Observation of Neptune--Difficulty of the Telescopic Study of
     Neptune--Numerical Details of the Orbit--Is there any Outer
     Planet?--Contrast between Mercury and Neptune.

We describe in this chapter a discovery so extraordinary that the whole
annals of science may be searched in vain for a parallel. We are not
here concerned with technicalities of practical astronomy. Neptune was
first revealed by profound mathematical research rather than by minute
telescopic investigation. We must develop the account of this striking
epoch in the history of science with the fulness of detail which is
commensurate with its importance; and it will accordingly be necessary,
at the outset of our narrative, to make an excursion into a difficult
but attractive department of astronomy, to which we have as yet made
little reference.

The supreme controlling power in the solar system is the attraction of
the sun. Each planet of the system experiences that attraction, and, in
virtue thereof, is constrained to revolve around the sun in an elliptic
path. The efficiency of a body as an attractive agent is directly
proportional to its mass, and as the mass of the sun is more than a
thousand times as great as that of Jupiter, which, itself, exceeds that
of all the other planets collectively, the attraction of the sun is
necessarily the chief determining force of the movements in our system.
The law of gravitation, however, does not merely say that the sun
attracts each planet. Gravitation is a doctrine much more general, for
it asserts that every body in the universe attracts every other body. In
obedience to this law, each planet must be attracted, not only by the
sun, but by innumerable bodies, and the movement of the planet must be
the joint effect of all such attractions. As for the influence of the
stars on our solar system, it may be at once set aside as inappreciable.
The stars are no doubt enormous bodies, in many cases possibly
transcending the sun in magnitude, but the law of gravitation tells us
that the intensity of the attraction decreases as the square of the
distance increases. Most of the stars are a million times as remote as
the sun, and consequently their attraction is so slight as to be
absolutely inappreciable in the discussion of this question. The only
attractions we need consider are those which arise from the action of
one body of the system upon another. Let us take, for instance, the two
largest planets of our system, Jupiter and Saturn. Each of these globes
revolves mainly in consequence of the sun's attraction, but every planet
also attracts every other, and the consequence is that each one is
slightly drawn away from the position it would have otherwise occupied.
In the language of astronomy, we would say that the path of Jupiter is
perturbed by the attraction of Saturn; and, conversely, that the path of
Saturn is perturbed by the attraction of Jupiter.

For many years these irregularities of the planetary motions presented
problems with which astronomers were not able to cope. Gradually,
however, one difficulty after another has been vanquished, and though
there are no doubt some small irregularities still outstanding which
have not been completely explained, yet all the larger and more
important phenomena of the kind are well understood. The subject is one
of the most difficult which the astronomer has to encounter in the
whole range of his science. He has here to calculate what effect one
planet is capable of producing on another planet. Such calculations
bristle with formidable difficulties, and can only be overcome by
consummate skill in the loftiest branches of mathematics. Let us state
what the problem really is.

When two bodies move in virtue of their mutual attraction, both of them
will revolve in a curve which admits of being exactly ascertained. Each
path is, in fact, an ellipse, and they must have a common focus at the
centre of gravity of the two bodies, considered as a single system. In
the case of a sun and a planet, in which the mass of the sun
preponderates enormously over the mass of the planet, the centre of
gravity of the two lies very near the centre of the sun; the path of the
great body is in such a case very small in comparison with the path of
the planet. All these matters admit of perfectly accurate calculation of
a somewhat elementary character. But now let us add a third body to the
system which attracts each of the others and is attracted by them. In
consequence of this attraction, the third body is displaced, and
accordingly its influence on the others is modified; they in turn act
upon it, and these actions and reactions introduce endless complexity
into the system. Such is the famous "problem of three bodies," which has
engaged the attention of almost every great mathematician since the time
of Newton. Stated in its mathematical aspect, and without having its
intricacy abated by any modifying circumstances, the problem is one that
defies solution. Mathematicians have not yet been able to deal with the
mutual attractions of three bodies moving freely in space. If the number
of bodies be greater than three, as is actually the case in the solar
system, the problem becomes still more hopeless.

Nature, however, has in this matter dealt kindly with us. She has, it is
true, proposed a problem which cannot be accurately solved; but she has
introduced into the problem, as proposed in the solar system, certain
special features which materially reduce the difficulty. We are still
unable to make what a mathematician would describe as a rigorous
solution of the question; we cannot solve it with the completeness of a
sum in arithmetic; but we can do what is nearly if not quite as useful.
We can solve the problem approximately; we can find out what the effect
of one planet on the other is _very nearly_, and by additional labour we
can reduce the limits of uncertainty to as low a point as may be
desired. We thus obtain a practical solution of the problem adequate for
all the purposes of science. It avails us little to know the place of a
planet with absolute mathematical accuracy. If we can determine what we
want with so close an approximation to the true position that no
telescope could possibly disclose the difference, then every practical
end will have been attained. The reason why in this case we are enabled
to get round the difficulties which we cannot surmount lies in the
exceptional character of the problem of three bodies as exhibited in the
solar system. In the first place, the sun is of such pre-eminent mass
that many matters may be overlooked which would be of moment were he
rivalled in mass by any of the planets. Another source of our success
arises from the small inclinations of the planetary orbits to each
other; while the fact that the orbits are nearly circular also greatly
facilitates the work. The mathematicians who may reside in some of the
other parts of the universe are not equally favoured. Among the sidereal
systems we find not a few cases where the problem of three bodies, or
even of more than three, would have to be faced without any of the
alleviating circumstances which our system presents. In such groups as
the marvellous star Th Orionis, we have three or four bodies
comparable in size, which must produce movements of the utmost
complexity. Even if terrestrial mathematicians shall ever have the
hardihood to face such problems, there is no likelihood of their being
able to do so for ages to come; such researches must repose on accurate
observations as their foundation; and the observations of these distant
systems are at present utterly inadequate for the purpose.

The undisturbed revolution of a planet around the sun, in conformity
with Kepler's law, would assure for that planet permanent conditions of
climate. The earth, for instance, if guided solely by Kepler's laws,
would return each day of the year exactly to the same position which it
had on the same day of last year. From age to age the quantity of heat
received by the earth would remain constant if the sun continued
unaltered, and the present climate might thus be preserved indefinitely.
But since the existence of planetary perturbation has become recognised,
questions arise of the gravest importance with reference to the possible
effects which such perturbations may have. We now see that the path of
the earth is not absolutely fixed. That path is deranged by Venus and by
Mars; it is deranged, it must be deranged, by every planet in our
system. It is true that in a year, or even in a century, the amount of
alteration produced is not very great; the ellipse which represents the
path of our earth this year does not differ considerably from the
ellipse which represented the movement of the earth one hundred years
ago. But the important question arises as to whether the slight
difference which does exist may not be constantly increasing, and may
not ultimately assume such proportions as to modify our climates, or
even to render life utterly impossible. Indeed, if we look at the
subject without attentive calculation, nothing would seem more probable
than that such should be the fate of our system. This globe revolves in
a path inside that of the mighty Jupiter. It is, therefore, constantly
attracted by Jupiter, and when it overtakes the vast planet, and comes
between him and the sun, then the two bodies are comparatively close
together, and the earth is pulled outwards by Jupiter. It might be
supposed that the tendency of such disturbances would be to draw the
earth gradually away from the sun, and thus to cause our globe to
describe a path ever growing wider and wider. It is not, however,
possible to decide a dynamical question by merely superficial reasoning
of this character. The question has to be brought before the tribunal of
mathematical analysis, where every element in the case is duly taken
into account. Such an enquiry is by no means a simple one. It worthily
occupied the splendid talents of Lagrange and Laplace, whose
discoveries in the theory of planetary perturbation are some of the most
remarkable achievements in astronomy.

We cannot here attempt to describe the reasoning which these great
mathematicians employed. It can only be expressed by the formulæ of the
mathematician, and would then be hardly intelligible without previous
years of mathematical study. It fortunately happens, however, that the
results to which Lagrange and Laplace were conducted, and which have
been abundantly confirmed by the labours of other mathematicians, admit
of being described in simple language.

Let us suppose the case of the sun, and of two planets circulating
around him. These two planets are mutually disturbing each other, but
the amount of the disturbance is small in comparison with the effect of
the sun on each of them. Lagrange demonstrated that, though the ellipse
in which each planet moved was gradually altered in some respects by the
attraction of the other planet, yet there is one feature of the curve
which the perturbation is powerless to alter permanently: the longest
axis of the ellipse, and, therefore, the mean distance of the planet
from the sun, which is equal to one-half of it, must remain unchanged.
This is really a discovery as important as it was unexpected. It at once
removes all fear as to the effect which perturbations can produce on the
stability of the system. It shows that, notwithstanding the attractions
of Mars and of Venus, of Jupiter and of Saturn, our earth will for ever
continue to revolve at the same mean distance from the sun, and thus the
succession of the seasons and the length of the year, so far as this
element at least is concerned, will remain for ever unchanged.

But Lagrange went further into the enquiry. He saw that the mean
distance did not alter, but it remained to be seen whether the
eccentricity of the ellipse described by the earth might not be affected
by the perturbations. This is a matter of hardly less consequence than
that just referred to. Even though the earth preserved the same average
distance from the sun, yet the greatest and least distance might be
widely unequal: the earth might pass very close to the sun at one part
of its orbit, and then recede to a very great distance at the opposite
part. So far as the welfare of our globe and its inhabitants is
concerned, this is quite as important as the question of the mean
distance; too much heat in one half of the year would afford but
indifferent compensation for too little during the other half. Lagrange
submitted this question also to his analysis. Again he vanquished the
mathematical difficulties, and again he was able to give assurance of
the permanence of our system. It is true that he was not this time able
to say that the eccentricity of each path will remain constant; this is
not the case. What he does assert, and what he has abundantly proved, is
that the eccentricity of each orbit will always remain small. We learn
that the shape of the earth's orbit gradually swells and gradually
contracts; the greatest length of the ellipse is invariable, but
sometimes it approaches more to a circle, and sometimes becomes more
elliptical. These changes are comprised within narrow limits; so that,
though they may probably correspond with measurable climatic changes,
yet the safety of the system is not imperilled, as it would be if the
eccentricity could increase indefinitely. Once again Lagrange applied
the resources of his calculus to study the effect which perturbations
can have on the inclination of the path in which the planet moves. The
result in this case was similar to that obtained with respect to the
eccentricities. If we commence with the assumption that the mutual
inclinations of the planets are small, then mathematics assure us that
they must always remain small. We are thus led to the conclusion that
the planetary perturbations are unable to affect the stability of the
solar system.

We shall perhaps more fully appreciate the importance of these memorable
researches if we consider how easily matters might have been otherwise.
Let us suppose a system resembling ours in every respect save one. Let
that system have a sun, as ours has; a system of planets and of
satellites like ours. Let the masses of all the bodies in this
hypothetical system be identical with the masses in our system, and let
the distances and the periodic times be the same in the two cases. Let
all the planes of the orbits be similarly placed; and yet this
hypothetical system might contain seeds of decay from which ours is
free. There is one point in the imaginary scheme which we have not yet
specified. In our system all the planets revolve in the _same direction_
around the sun. Let us suppose this law violated in the hypothetical
system by reversing one planet on its path. That slight change alone
would expose the system to the risk of destruction by the planetary
perturbations. Here, then, we find the necessity of that remarkable
uniformity of the directions in which the planets revolve around the
sun. Had these directions not been uniform, our system must, in all
probability, have perished ages ago, and we should not be here to
discuss perturbations or any other subject.

Great as was the success of the eminent French mathematician who made
these beautiful discoveries, it was left for this century to witness the
crowning triumph of mathematical analysis applied to the law of
gravitation. The work of Lagrange lacks the dramatic interest of the
discovery made by Le Verrier and Adams, which gave still wider extent to
the solar system by the discovery of the planet Neptune revolving far
outside Uranus.

We have already alluded to the difficulties which were experienced when
it was sought to reconcile the early observations of Uranus with those
made since its discovery. We have shown that the path in which this
planet revolved experienced change, and that consequently Uranus must be
exposed to the action of some other force besides the sun's attraction.

The question arises as to the nature of these disturbing forces. From
what we have already learned of the mutual deranging influence between
any two planets, it seems natural to inquire whether the irregularities
of Uranus could not be accounted for by the attraction of the other
planets. Uranus revolves just outside Saturn. The mass of Saturn is much
larger than the mass of Uranus. Could it not be that Saturn draws Uranus
aside, and thus causes the changes? This is a question to be decided by
the mathematician. He can compute what Saturn is able to do, and he
finds, no doubt, that Saturn is capable of producing some displacement
of Uranus. In a similar manner Jupiter, with his mighty mass, acts on
Uranus, and produces a disturbance which the mathematician calculates.
When the figures had been worked out for all the known planets they were
applied to Uranus, and we might expect to find that they would fully
account for the observed irregularities of his path. This was, however,
not the case. After every known source of disturbance had been carefully
allowed for, Uranus was still shown to be influenced by some further
agent; and hence the conclusion was established that Uranus must be
affected by some unknown body. What could this unknown body be, and
where must it be situated? Analogy was here the guide of those who
speculated on this matter. We know no cause of disturbance of a planet's
motion except it be the attraction of another planet. Could it be that
Uranus was really attracted by some other planet at that time utterly
unknown? This suggestion was made by many astronomers, and it was
possible to determine some conditions which the unknown body should
fulfil. In the first place its orbit must lie outside the orbit of
Uranus. This was necessary, because the unknown planet must be a large
and massive one to produce the observed irregularities. If, therefore,
it were nearer than Uranus, it would be a conspicuous object, and must
have been discovered long ago. Other reasonings were also available to
show that if the disturbances of Uranus were caused by the attraction of
a planet, that body must revolve outside the globe discovered by
Herschel. The general analogies of the planetary system might also be
invoked in support of the hypothesis that the path of the unknown
planet, though necessarily elliptic, did not differ widely from a
circle, and that the plane in which it moved must also be nearly
coincident with the plane of the earth's orbit.

The measured deviations of Uranus at the different points of its orbit
were the sole data available for the discovery of the new planet. We
have to fit the orbit of the unknown globe, as well as the mass of the
planet itself, in such a way as to account for the various
perturbations. Let us, for instance, assume a certain distance for the
hypothetical body, and try if we can assign both an orbit and a mass for
the planet, at that distance, which shall account for the perturbations.
Our first assumption is perhaps too great. We try again with a lesser
distance. We can now represent the observations with greater accuracy. A
third attempt will give the result still more closely, until at length
the distance of the unknown planet is determined. In a similar way the
mass of the body can be also determined. We assume a certain value, and
calculate the perturbations. If the results seem greater than those
obtained by observations, then the assumed mass is too great. We amend
the assumption, and recompute with a lesser amount, and so on until at
length we determine a mass for the planet which harmonises with the
results of actual measurement. The other elements of the unknown
orbit--its eccentricity and the position of its axis--are all to be
ascertained in a similar manner. At length it appeared that the
perturbations of Uranus could be completely explained if the unknown
planet had a certain mass, and moved in an orbit which had a certain
position, while it was also manifest that no very different orbit or
greatly altered mass would explain the observed facts.

These remarkable computations were undertaken quite independently by two
astronomers--one in England and one in France. Each of them attacked,
and each of them succeeded in solving, the great problem. The scientific
men of England and the scientific men of France joined issue on the
question as to the claims of their respective champions to the great
discovery; but in the forty years which have elapsed since these
memorable researches the question has gradually become settled. It is
the impartial verdict of the scientific world outside England and
France, that the merits of this splendid triumph of science must be
divided equally between the late distinguished Professor J.C. Adams, of
Cambridge, and the late U.J.J. Le Verrier, the director of the Paris
Observatory.

Shortly after Mr. Adams had taken his degree at Cambridge, in 1843, when
he obtained the distinction of Senior Wrangler, he turned his attention
to the perturbations of Uranus, and, guided by these perturbations
alone, commenced his search for the unknown planet. Long and arduous was
the enquiry--demanding an enormous amount of numerical calculation, as
well as consummate mathematical resource; but gradually Mr. Adams
overcame the difficulties. As the subject unfolded itself, he saw how
the perturbations of Uranus could be fully explained by the existence of
an exterior planet, and at length he had ascertained, not alone the
orbit of this outer body, but he was even able to indicate the part of
the heavens in which the unknown globe must be sought. With his
researches in this advanced condition, Mr. Adams called on the
Astronomer-Royal, Sir George Airy, at Greenwich, in October, 1845, and
placed in his hands the computations which indicated with marvellous
accuracy the place of the yet unobserved planet. It thus appears that
seven months before anyone else had solved this problem Mr. Adams had
conquered its difficulties, and had actually located the planet in a
position but little more than a degree distant from the spot which it is
now known to have occupied. All that was wanted to complete the
discovery, and to gain for Professor Adams and for English science the
undivided glory of this achievement, was a strict telescopic search
through the heavens in the neighbourhood indicated.

Why, it may be said, was not such an enquiry instituted at once? No
doubt this would have been done, if the observatories had been generally
furnished forty years ago with those elaborate star-charts which they
now possess. In the absence of a chart (and none had yet been published
of the part of the sky where the unknown planet was) the search for the
planet was a most tedious undertaking. It had been suggested that the
new globe could be detected by its visible disc; but it must be
remembered that even Uranus, so much closer to us, had a disc so small
that it was observed nearly a score of times without particular notice,
though it did not escape the eagle glance of Herschel. There remained
then only one available method of finding Neptune. It was to construct a
chart of the heavens in the neighbourhood indicated, and then to compare
this chart night after night with the stars in the heavens. Before
recommending the commencement of a labour so onerous, the
Astronomer-Royal thought it right to submit Mr. Adams's researches to a
crucial preliminary test. Mr. Adams had shown how his theory rendered an
exact account of the perturbations of Uranus in longitude. The
Astronomer-Royal asked Mr. Adams whether he was able to give an equally
clear explanation of the notable variations in the distance of Uranus.
There can be no doubt that his theory would have rendered a satisfactory
account of these variations also; but, unfortunately, Mr. Adams seems
not to have thought the matter of sufficient importance to give the
Astronomer-Royal any speedy reply, and hence it happened that no less
than nine months elapsed between the time when Mr. Adams first
communicated his results to the Astronomer-Royal and the time when the
telescopic search for the planet was systematically commenced. Up to
this time no account of Mr. Adams's researches had been published. His
labours were known to but few besides the Astronomer-Royal and Professor
Challis of Cambridge, to whom the duty of making the search was
afterwards entrusted.

In the meantime the attention of Le Verrier, the great French
mathematician and astronomer, had been specially directed by Arago to
the problem of the perturbations of Uranus. With exhaustive analysis Le
Verrier investigated every possible known source of disturbance. The
influences of the older planets were estimated once more with every
precision, but only to confirm the conclusion already arrived at as to
their inadequacy to account for the perturbations. Le Verrier then
commenced the search for the unknown planet by the aid of mathematical
investigation, in complete ignorance of the labours of Adams. In
November, 1845, and again on the 1st of June, 1846, portions of the
French astronomer's results were announced. The Astronomer-Royal then
perceived that his calculations coincided practically with those of
Adams, insomuch that the places assigned to the unknown planet by the
two astronomers were not more than a degree apart! This was, indeed, a
remarkable result. Here was a planet unknown to human sight, yet felt,
as it were, by mathematical analysis with a certainty so great that two
astronomers, each in total ignorance of the other's labours, concurred
in locating the planet in almost the same spot of the heavens. The
existence of the new globe was thus raised nearly to a certainty, and it
became incumbent on practical astronomers to commence the search
forthwith. In June, 1846, the Astronomer-Royal announced to the visitors
of the Greenwich Observatory the close coincidence between the
calculations of Le Verrier and of Adams, and urged that a strict
scrutiny of the region indicated should be at once instituted. Professor
Challis, having the command of the great Northumberland equatorial
telescope at Cambridge, was induced to undertake the work, and on the
29th July, 1846, he began his labours.

The plan of search adopted by Professor Challis was an onerous one. He
first took the theoretical place of the planet, as given by Mr. Adams,
and after allowing a very large margin for the uncertainties of a
calculation so recondite, he marked out a certain region of the heavens,
near the ecliptic, in which it might be anticipated that the unknown
planet must be found. He then determined to observe all the stars in
this region and measure their relative positions. When this work was
once done it was to be repeated a second time. His scheme even
contemplated a third complete set of observations of the stars contained
within this selected region. There could be no doubt that this process
would determine the planet if it were bright enough to come within the
limits of stellar magnitude which Professor Challis adopted. The globe
would be detected by its motion relatively to the stars, when the three
series of measures came to be compared. The scheme was organised so
thoroughly that it must have led to the expected discovery--in fact, it
afterwards appeared that Professor Challis did actually observe the
planet more than once, and a subsequent comparison of its positions must
infallibly have led to the detection of the new globe.

Le Verrier was steadily maturing his no less elaborate investigations in
the same direction. He felt confident of the existence of the planet,
and he went so far as to predict not only the situation of the globe but
even its actual appearance. He thought the planet would be large enough
(though still of course only a telescopic object) to be distinguished
from the stars by the possession of a disc. These definite predictions
strengthened the belief that we were on the verge of another great
discovery in the solar system, so much so that when Sir John Herschel
addressed the British Association on the 10th of September, 1846, he
uttered the following words:--"The past year has given to us the new
planet Astræa--it has done more, it has given us the probable prospect
of another. We see it as Columbus saw America from the shores of Spain.
Its movements have been felt trembling along the far-reaching line of
our analysis, with a certainty hardly inferior to ocular demonstration."

The time of the discovery was now rapidly approaching. On the 18th of
September, 1846, Le Verrier wrote to Dr. Galle of the Berlin
Observatory, describing the place of the planet indicated by his
calculations, and asking him to make its telescopic discovery. The
request thus preferred was similar to that made on behalf of Adams to
Professor Challis. Both at Berlin and at Cambridge the telescopic
research was to be made in the same region of the heavens. The Berlin
astronomers were, however, fortunate in possessing an invaluable aid to
the research which was not at the time in the hands of Professor
Challis. We have mentioned how the search for a telescopic planet can be
facilitated by the use of a carefully-executed chart of the stars. In
fact, a mere comparison of the chart with the sky is all that is
necessary. It happened that the preparation of a series of star charts
had been undertaken by the Berlin Academy of Sciences some years
previously. On these charts the place of every star, down even to the
tenth magnitude, had been faithfully engraved. This work was one of much
utility, but its originators could hardly have anticipated the brilliant
discovery which would arise from their years of tedious labour. It was
found convenient to publish such an extensive piece of surveying work by
instalments, and accordingly, as the chart was completed, it issued from
the press sheet by sheet. It happened that just before the news of Le
Verrier's labours reached Berlin the chart of that part of the heavens
had been engraved and printed.

It was on the 23rd of September that Le Verrier's letter reached Dr.
Galle at Berlin. The sky that night was clear, and we can imagine with
what anxiety Dr. Galle directed his telescope to the heavens. The
instrument was pointed in accordance with Le Verrier's instructions. The
field of view showed a multitude of stars, as does every part of the
heavens. One of these was really the planet. The new chart was unrolled,
and, star by star, the heavens were compared with it. As the
identification of the stars went on, one object after another was found
to lie in the heavens as it was engraved on the chart, and was of course
rejected. At length a star of the eighth magnitude--a brilliant
object--was brought into review. The chart was examined, but there was
no star there. This object could not have been in its present place when
the chart was formed. The object was therefore a wanderer--a planet. Yet
it was necessary to be cautious in such a matter. Many possibilities had
to be guarded against. It was, for instance, at least conceivable that
the object was really a star which, by some mischance, eluded the
careful eye of the astronomer who had constructed the map. It was even
possible that the star might be one of the large class of variables
which alternate in brightness, and it might have been too faint to have
been visible when the chart was made. Or it might be one of the minor
planets moving between Mars and Jupiter. Even if none of these
explanations would answer, it was still necessary to show that the
object was moving with that particular velocity and in that particular
direction which the theory of Le Verrier indicated. The lapse of a
single day was sufficient to dissipate all doubts. The next night the
object was again observed. It had moved, and when its motion was
measured it was found to accord precisely with what Le Verrier had
foretold. Indeed, as if no circumstance in the confirmation should be
wanting, the diameter of the planet, as measured by the micrometers at
Berlin, proved to be practically coincident with that anticipated by Le
Verrier.

The world speedily rang with the news of this splendid achievement.
Instantly the name of Le Verrier rose to a pinnacle hardly surpassed by
that of any astronomer of any age or country. The circumstances of the
discovery were highly dramatic. We picture the great astronomer buried
in profound meditation for many months; his eyes are bent, not on the
stars, but on his calculations. No telescope is in his hand; the human
intellect is the instrument he alone uses. With patient labour, guided
by consummate mathematical artifice, he manipulates his columns of
figures. He attempts one solution after another. In each he learns
something to avoid; by each he obtains some light to guide him in his
future labours. At length he begins to see harmony in those results
where before there was but discord. Gradually the clouds disperse, and
he discerns with a certainty little short of actual vision the planet
glittering in the far depths of space. He rises from his desk and
invokes the aid of a practical astronomer; and lo! there is the planet
in the indicated spot. The annals of science present no such spectacle
as this. It was the most triumphant proof of the law of universal
gravitation. The Newtonian theory had indeed long ere this attained an
impregnable position; but, as if to place its truth in the most
conspicuous light, this discovery of Neptune was accomplished.

For a moment it seemed as if the French were to enjoy the undivided
honour of this splendid triumph; nor would it, indeed, have been
unfitting that the nation which gave birth to Lagrange and to Laplace,
and which developed the great Newtonian theory by their immortal
labours, should have obtained this distinction. Up to the time of the
telescopic discovery of the planet by Dr. Galle at Berlin, no public
announcement had been made of the labours of Challis in searching for
the planet, nor even of the theoretical researches of Adams on which
those observations were based. But in the midst of the pæans of triumph
with which the enthusiastic French nation hailed the discovery of Le
Verrier, there appeared a letter from Sir John Herschel in the
_Athenæum_ for 3rd October, 1846, in which he announced the researches
made by Adams, and claimed for him a participation in the glory of the
discovery. Subsequent enquiry has shown that this claim was a just one,
and it is now universally admitted by all independent authorities. Yet
it will easily be imagined that the French _savants_, jealous of the
fame of their countryman, could not at first be brought to recognise a
claim so put forward. They were asked to divide the unparalleled honour
between their own illustrious countryman and a young foreigner of whom
but few had ever heard, and who had not even published a line of his
work, nor had any claim been made on his part until after the work had
been completely finished by Le Verrier. The demand made on behalf of
Adams was accordingly refused any acknowledgment in France; and an
embittered controversy was the consequence. Point by point the English
astronomers succeeded in establishing the claim of their countryman. It
was true that Adams had not published his researches to the world, but
he had communicated them to the Astronomer-Royal, the official head of
the science in this country. They were also well known to Professor
Challis, the Professor of Astronomy at Cambridge. Then, too, the work of
Adams was published, and it was found to be quite as thorough and quite
as successful as that of Le Verrier. It was also found that the method
of search adopted by Professor Challis not only must have been
eventually successful, but that it actually was in a sense already
successful. When the telescopic discovery of the planet had been
achieved, Challis turned naturally to see whether he had observed the
new globe also. It was on the 1st October that he heard of the success
of Dr. Galle, and by that time Challis had accumulated observations in
connection with this research of no fewer than 3,150 stars. Among them
he speedily found that an object observed on the 12th of August was not
in the same place on the 30th of July. This was really the planet; and
its discovery would thus have been assured had Challis had time to
compare his measurements. In fact, if he had only discussed his
observations at once, there cannot be much doubt that the entire glory
of the discovery would have been awarded to Adams. He would then have
been first, no less in the theoretical calculations than in the optical
verification of the planet's existence. It may also be remarked that
Challis narrowly missed making the discovery of Neptune in another way.
Le Verrier had pointed out in his paper the possibility of detecting the
sought-for globe by its disc. Challis made the attempt, and before the
intelligence of the actual discovery at Berlin had reached him he had
made an examination of the region indicated by Le Verrier. About 300
stars passed through the field of view, and among them he selected one
on account of its disc; it afterwards appeared that this was indeed the
planet.

If the researches of Le Verrier and of Adams had never been undertaken
it is certain that the distant Neptune must have been some time
discovered; yet that might have been made in a manner which every true
lover of science would now deplore. We hear constantly that new minor
planets are observed, yet no one attaches to such achievements a
fraction of the consequence belonging to the discovery of Neptune. The
danger was, that Neptune should have been merely dropped upon by simple
survey work, just as Uranus was discovered, or just as the hosts of
minor planets are now found. In this case Theoretical Astronomy, the
great science founded by Newton, would have been deprived of its most
brilliant illustration.

Neptune had, in fact, a very narrow escape on at least one previous
occasion of being discovered in a very simple way. This was shown when
sufficient observations had been collected to enable the path of the
planet to be calculated. It was then possible to trace back the
movements of the planet among the stars and thus to institute a search
in the catalogues of earlier astronomers to see whether they contained
any record of Neptune, erroneously noted as a star. Several such
instances have been discovered. I shall, however, only refer to one,
which possesses a singular interest. It was found that the place of the
planet on May 10th, 1795, must have coincided with that of a so-called
star recorded on that day in the "Histoire Céleste" of Lalande. By
actual examination of the heavens it further appeared that there was no
star in the place indicated by Lalande, so the fact that here was
really an observation of Neptune was placed quite beyond doubt. When
reference was made to the original manuscripts of Lalande, a matter of
great interest was brought to light. It was there found that he had
observed the same star (for so he regarded it) both on May 8th and on
May 10th; on each day he had determined its position, and both
observations are duly recorded. But when he came to prepare his
catalogue and found that the places on the two occasions were different,
he discarded the earlier result, and merely printed the latter.

Had Lalande possessed a proper confidence in his own observations, an
immortal discovery lay in his grasp; had he manfully said, "I was right
on the 10th of May and I was right on the 8th of May; I made no mistake
on either occasion, and the object I saw on the 8th must have moved
between that and the 10th," then he must without fail have found
Neptune. But had he done so, how lamentable would have been the loss to
science! The discovery of Neptune would then merely have been an
accidental reward to a laborious worker, instead of being one of the
most glorious achievements in the loftiest department of human reason.

Besides this brief sketch of the discovery of Neptune, we have but
little to tell with regard to this distant planet. If we fail to see in
Uranus any of those features which make Mars or Venus, Jupiter or
Saturn, such attractive telescopic objects, what can we expect to find
in Neptune, which is half as far again as Uranus? With a good telescope
and a suitable magnifying power we can indeed see that Neptune has a
disc, but no features on that disc can be identified. We are
consequently not in a position to ascertain the period in which Neptune
rotates around its axis, though from the general analogy of the system
we must feel assured that it really does rotate. More successful have
been the attempts to measure the diameter of Neptune, which is found to
be about 35,000 miles, or more than four times the diameter of the
earth. It would also seem that, like Jupiter and like Saturn, the planet
must be enveloped with a vast cloud-laden atmosphere, for the mean
density of the globe is only about one-fifth that of the earth. This
great globe revolves around the sun at a mean distance of no less than
2,800 millions of miles, which is about thirty times as great as the
mean distance from the earth to the sun. The journey, though
accomplished at the rate of more than three miles a second, is yet so
long that Neptune requires almost 165 years to complete one revolution.
Since its discovery, some fifty years ago, Neptune has moved through
about one-third of its path, and even since the date when it was first
casually seen by Lalande, in 1795, it has only had time to traverse
three-fifths of its mighty circuit.

Neptune, like our earth, is attended by a single satellite; this
delicate object was discovered by Mr. Lassell with his two-foot
reflecting telescope shortly after the planet itself became known. The
motion of the satellite of Neptune is nearly circular. Its orbit is
inclined at an angle of about 35° to the Ecliptic, and it is specially
noteworthy that, like the satellites of Uranus, the direction of the
motion runs counter to the planetary movements generally. The satellite
performs its journey around Neptune in a period of a little less than
six days. By observing the motions of this moon we are enabled to
determine the mass of the planet, and thus it appears that the weight of
Neptune is about one nineteen-thousandth part of that of the sun.

No planets beyond Neptune have been seen, nor is there at present any
good ground for believing in their existence as visual objects. In the
chapter on the minor planets I have entered into a discussion of the way
in which these objects are discovered. It is by minute and diligent
comparison of the heavens with elaborate star charts that these bodies
are brought to light. Such enquiries would be equally efficacious in
searching for an ultra-Neptunian planet; in fact, we could design no
better method to seek for such a body, if it existed, than that which is
at this moment in constant practice at many observatories. The labours
of those who search for small planets have been abundantly rewarded with
discoveries now counted by hundreds. Yet it is a noteworthy fact that
all these planets are limited to one region of the solar system. It has
sometimes been conjectured that time may disclose perturbations in the
orbit of Neptune, and that these perturbations may lead to the discovery
of a planet still more remote, even though that planet be so distant and
so faint that it eludes all telescopic research. At present, however,
such an enquiry can hardly come within the range of practical astronomy.
Its movements have no doubt been studied minutely, but it must describe
a larger part of its orbit before it would be feasible to conclude, from
the perturbations of its path, the existence of an unknown and still
more remote planet.

We have thus seen that the planetary system is bounded on one side by
Mercury and on the other by Neptune. The discovery of Mercury was an
achievement of prehistoric times. The early astronomer who accomplished
that feat, when devoid of instrumental assistance and unsupported by
accurate theoretical knowledge, merits our hearty admiration for his
untutored acuteness and penetration. On the other hand, the discovery of
the exterior boundary of the planetary system is worthy of special
attention from the fact that it was founded solely on profound
theoretical learning.

Though we here close our account of the planets and their satellites, we
have still two chapters to add before we shall have completed what is to
be said with regard to the solar system. A further and notable class of
bodies, neither planets nor satellites, own allegiance to the sun, and
revolve round him in conformity with the laws of universal gravitation.
These bodies are the comets, and their somewhat more humble associates,
the shooting stars. We find in the study of these objects many matters
of interest, which we shall discuss in the ensuing chapters.




CHAPTER XVI.

COMETS.


     Comets contrasted with Planets in Nature as well as in their
     Movements--Coggia's Comet--Periodic Returns--The Law of
     Gravitation--Parabolic and Elliptic Orbits--Theory in Advance of
     Observations--Most Cometary Orbits are sensibly Parabolic--The
     Labours of Halley--The Comet of 1682--Halley's Memorable
     Prediction--The Retardation produced by Disturbance--Successive
     Returns of Halley's Comet--Encke's Comet--Effect of
     Perturbations--Orbit of Encke's Comet--Attraction of Mercury and of
     Jupiter--How the Identity of the Comet is secured--How to weigh
     Mercury--Distance from the Earth to the Sun found by Encke's
     Comet--The Disturbing Medium--Remarkable Comets--Spectrum of a
     Comet--Passage of a Comet between the Earth and the Stars--Can the
     Comet be weighed?--Evidence of the Small Mass of the Comet derived
     from the Theory of Perturbation--The Tail of the Comet--Its
     Changes--Views as to its Nature--Carbon present in Comets--Origin
     of Periodic Comets.

In our previous chapters, which treated of the sun and the moon, the
planets and their satellites, we found in all cases that the celestial
bodies with which we were concerned were nearly globular in form, and
many are undoubtedly of solid substance. All these objects possess a
density which, even if in some cases it be much less than that of the
earth, is still hundreds of times greater than the density of merely
gaseous materials. We now, however, approach the consideration of a
class of objects of a widely different character. We have no longer to
deal with globular objects possessing considerable mass. Comets are of
altogether irregular shape; they are in large part, at all events,
formed of materials in the utmost state of tenuity, and their masses are
so small that no means we possess have enabled them to be measured. Not
only are comets different in constitution from planets or from the other
more solid bodies of our system, but the movements of such bodies are
quite distinct from the orderly return of the planets at their appointed
seasons. The comets appear sometimes with almost startling
unexpectedness; they rapidly swell in size to an extent that in
superstitious ages called forth the utmost terror; presently they
disappear, in many cases never again to return. Modern science has, no
doubt, removed a great deal of the mystery which once invested the whole
subject of comets. Their movements are now to a large extent explained,
and some additions have been made to our knowledge of their nature,
though we must still confess that what we do know bears but a very small
proportion to what remains unknown.

Let me first describe in general terms the nature of a comet, in so far
as its structure is disclosed by the aid of a powerful refracting
telescope. We represent in Plate XII. two interesting sketches made at
Harvard College Observatory of the great comet of 1874, distinguished by
the name of its discoverer Coggia.

We see here the head of the comet, containing as its brightest spot what
is called the nucleus, and in which the material of the comet seems to
be much denser than elsewhere. Surrounding the nucleus we find certain
definite layers of luminous material, the coma, or head, from 20,000 to
1,000,000 miles in diameter, from which the tail seems to stream away.
This view may be regarded as that of a typical object of this class, but
the varieties of structure presented by different comets are almost
innumerable. In some cases we find the nucleus absent; in other cases we
find the tail to be wanting. The tail is, no doubt, a conspicuous
feature in those great comets which receive universal attention; but in
the small telescopic objects, of which a few are generally found every
year, this feature is usually absent. Not only do comets present great
varieties in appearance, but even the aspect of a single object
undergoes great change. The comet will sometimes increase enormously in
bulk; sometimes it will diminish; sometimes it will have a large tail,
or sometimes no tail at all. Measurements of a comet's size are almost
futile; they may cease to be true even during the few hours in which a
comet is observed in the course of a night. It is, in fact, impossible
to identify a comet by any description of its personal appearance. Yet
the question as to identity of a comet is often of very great
consequence. We must provide means by which it can be established,
entirely apart from what the comet may look like.

It is now well known that several of these bodies make periodic returns.
After having been invisible for a certain number of years, a comet comes
into view, and again retreats into space to perform another revolution.
The question then arises as to how we are to recognise the body when it
does come back? The personal features of its size or brightness, the
presence or absence of a tail, large or small, are fleeting characters
of no value for such a purpose. Fortunately, however, the law of
elliptic motion established by Kepler has suggested the means of
defining the identity of a comet with absolute precision.

After Newton had made his discovery of the law of gravitation, and
succeeded in demonstrating that the elliptic paths of the planets around
the sun were necessary consequences of that law, he was naturally
tempted to apply the same reasoning to explain the movements of comets.
Here, again, he met with marvellous success, and illustrated his theory
by completely explaining the movements of the remarkable body which was
visible from December, 1680, to March, 1681.

[Illustration: Fig. 69.--The Parabolic Path of a Comet.]

There is a certain beautiful curve known to geometricians by the name of
the parabola. Its form is shown in the adjoining figure; it is a curved
line which bends in towards and around a certain point known as the
focus. This would not be the occasion for any allusion to the
geometrical properties of this curve; they should be sought in works on
mathematics. It will here be only necessary to point to the connection
which exists between the parabola and the ellipse. In a former chapter
we have explained the construction of the latter curve, and we have
shown how it possesses two foci. Let us suppose that a series of
ellipses are drawn, each of which has a greater distance between its
foci than the preceding one. Imagine the process carried on until at
length the distance between the foci became enormously great in
comparison with the distance from each focus to the curve, then each end
of this long ellipse will practically have the same form as a parabola.
We may thus look on the latter curve represented in Fig. 69 as being one
end of an ellipse of which the other end is at an indefinitely great
distance. In 1681 Doerfel, a clergyman of Saxony, proved that the great
comet then recently observed moved in a parabola, in the focus of which
the sun was situated. Newton showed that the law of gravitation would
permit a body to move in an ellipse of this very extreme type no less
than in one of the more ordinary proportions. An object revolving in a
parabolic orbit about the sun at the focus moves in gradually towards
the sun, sweeps around the great luminary, and then begins to retreat.
There is a necessary distinction between parabolic and elliptic motion.
In the latter case the body, after its retreat to a certain distance,
will turn round and again draw in towards the sun; in fact, it must make
periodic circuits of its orbit, as the planets are found to do. But in
the case of the true parabola the body can never return; to do so it
would have to double the distant focus, and as that is infinitely
remote, it could not be reached except in the lapse of infinite time.

The characteristic feature of the movement in a parabola may be thus
described. The body draws in gradually towards the focus from an
indefinitely remote distance on one side, and after passing round the
focus gradually recedes to an indefinitely remote distance on the other
side, never again to return. When Newton had perceived that parabolic
motion of this type could arise from the law of gravitation, it at once
occurred to him (independently of Doerfel's discovery, of which he was
not aware) that by its means the movements of a comet might be
explained. He knew that comets must be attracted by the sun; he saw that
the usual course of a comet was to appear suddenly, to sweep around the
sun and then retreat, never again to return. Was this really a case of
parabolic motion? Fortunately, the materials for the trial of this
important suggestion were ready to his hand. He was able to avail
himself of the known movements of the comet of 1680, and of observations
of several other bodies of the same nature which had been collected by
the diligence of astronomers. With his usual sagacity, Newton devised a
method by which, from the known facts, the path which the comet pursues
could be determined. He found that it was a parabola, and that the
velocity of the comet was governed by the law that the straight line
from the sun to the comet swept over equal areas in equal times. Here
was another confirmation of the law of universal gravitation. In this
case, indeed, the theory may be said to have been actually in advance of
calculation. Kepler had determined from observation that the paths of
the planets were ellipses, and Newton had shown how this fact was a
consequence of the law of gravitation. But in the case of the comets
their highly erratic orbits had never been reduced to geometrical form
until the theory of Newton showed him that they were parabolic, and then
he invoked observation to verify the anticipations of his theory.

[Illustration: PLATE XII.

COGGIA'S COMET.

(AS SEEN ON JUNE 10TH AND JULY 9TH, 1874.)]

The great majority of comets move in orbits which cannot be sensibly
discriminated from parabolæ, and any body whose orbit is of this
character can only be seen at a single apparition. The theory of
gravitation, though it admits the parabola as a possible orbit for a
comet, does not assert that the path must necessarily be of this type.
We have pointed out that this curve is only a very extreme type of
ellipse, and it would still be in perfect accordance with the law of
gravitation for a comet to pursue a path of any elliptical form,
provided that the sun was placed at the focus, and that the comet obeyed
the rule of describing equal areas in equal times. If a body move in an
elliptic path, then it will return to the sun again, and consequently we
shall have periodical visits from the same object.

An interesting field of enquiry was here presented to the astronomer.
Nor was it long before the discovery of a periodic comet was made which
illustrated, in a striking manner, the soundness of the anticipation
just expressed. The name of the celebrated astronomer Halley is,
perhaps, best known from its association with the great comet whose
periodicity was discovered by his calculations. When Halley learned from
the Newtonian theory the possibility that a comet might move in an
elliptic orbit, he undertook a most laborious investigation; he
collected from various records of observed comets all the reliable
particulars that could be obtained, and thus he was enabled to
ascertain, with tolerable accuracy, the nature of the paths pursued by
about twenty-four large comets. One of these was the great body of 1682,
which Halley himself observed, and whose path he computed in accordance
with the principles of Newton. Halley then proceeded to investigate
whether this comet of 1682 could have visited our system at any previous
epoch. To answer this question he turned to the list of recorded comets
which he had so carefully compiled, and he found that his comet very
closely resembled, both in appearance and in orbit, a comet observed in
1607, and also another observed in 1531. Could these three bodies be
identical? It was only necessary to suppose that a comet, instead of
revolving in a parabolic orbit, really revolved in an extremely
elongated ellipse, and that it completed each revolution in a period of
about seventy-five or seventy-six years. He submitted this hypothesis to
every test that he could devise; he found that the orbits, determined on
each of the three occasions, were so nearly identical that it would be
contrary to all probability that the coincidence should be accidental.
Accordingly, he decided to submit his theory to the most supreme test
known to astronomy. He ventured to make a prediction which posterity
would have the opportunity of verifying. If the period of the comet were
seventy-five or seventy-six years, as the former observations seemed to
show, then Halley estimated that, if unmolested, it ought to return in
1757 or 1758. There were, however, certain sources of disturbance which
he pointed out, and which would be quite powerful enough to affect
materially the time of return. The comet in its journey passes near the
path of Jupiter, and experiences great perturbations from that mighty
planet. Halley concluded that the expected return might be accordingly
delayed till the end of 1758 or the beginning of 1759.

This prediction was a memorable event in the history of astronomy,
inasmuch as it was the first attempt to foretell the apparition of one
of those mysterious bodies whose visits seemed guided by no fixed law,
and which were usually regarded as omens of awful import. Halley felt
the importance of his announcement. He knew that his earthly course
would have run long before the comet had completed its revolution; and,
in language almost touching, the great astronomer writes: "Wherefore if
it should return according to our prediction about the year 1758,
impartial posterity will not refuse to acknowledge that this was first
discovered by an Englishman."

As the time drew near when this great event was expected, it awakened
the liveliest interest among astronomers. The distinguished
mathematician Clairaut undertook to compute anew, by the aid of improved
methods, the effect which would be wrought on the comet by the
attraction of the planets. His analysis of the perturbations was
sufficient to show that the object would be kept back for 100 days by
Saturn, and for 518 days by Jupiter. He therefore gave some additional
exactness to the prediction of Halley, and finally concluded that this
comet would reach the perihelion, or the point of its path nearest to
the sun, about the middle of April, 1759. The sagacious astronomer (who,
we must remember, lived long before the discovery of Uranus and of
Neptune) further adds that as this body retreats so far, it may possibly
be subject to influences of which we do not know, or to the disturbance
even of some planet too remote to be ever perceived. He, accordingly,
qualified his prediction with the statement that, owing to these unknown
possibilities, his calculations might be a month wrong one way or the
other. Clairaut made this memorable communication to the Academy of
Sciences on the 14th of November, 1758. The attention of astronomers was
immediately quickened to see whether the visitor, who last appeared
seventy-six years previously, was about to return. Night after night the
heavens were scanned. On Christmas Day in 1758 the comet was first
detected, and it passed closest to the sun about midnight on the 12th of
March, just a month earlier than the time announced by Clairaut, but
still within the limits of error which he had assigned as being
possible.

The verification of this prediction was a further confirmation of the
theory of gravitation. Since then, Halley's comet has returned once
again, in 1835, in circumstances somewhat similar to those just
narrated. Further historical research has also succeeded in identifying
Halley's comet with numerous memorable apparitions of comets in former
times. It has even been shown that a splendid object, which appeared
eleven years before the commencement of the Christian era, was merely
Halley's comet in one of its former returns. Among the most celebrated
visits of this body was that of 1066, when the apparition attracted
universal attention. A picture of the comet on this occasion forms a
quaint feature in the Bayeux Tapestry. The next return of Halley's comet
is expected about the year 1910.

There are now several comets known which revolve in elliptic paths, and
are, accordingly, entitled to be termed periodic. These objects are
chiefly telescopic, and are thus in strong contrast to the splendid
comet of Halley. Most of the other periodic comets have periods much
shorter than that of Halley. Of these objects, by far the most
celebrated is that known as Encke's comet, which merits our careful
attention.

The object to which we refer has had a striking career during which it
has provided many illustrations of the law of gravitation. We are not
here concerned with the prosaic routine of a mere planetary orbit. A
planet is mainly subordinated to the compelling sway of the sun's
gravitation. It is also to some slight extent affected by the
attractions which it experiences from the other planets. Mathematicians
have long been accustomed to anticipate the movements of these globes by
actual calculation. They know how the place of the planet is
approximately decided by the sun's attraction, and they can discriminate
the different adjustments which that place is to receive in consequence
of the disturbances produced by the other planets. The capabilities of
the planets for producing disturbance are greatly increased when the
disturbed body follows the eccentric path of a comet. It is frequently
found that the path of such a body comes very near the track of a
planet, so that the comet may actually sweep by the planet itself, even
if the two bodies do not actually run into collision. On such an
occasion the disturbing effect is enormously augmented, and we therefore
turn to the comets when we desire to illustrate the theory of planetary
perturbations by some striking example.

Having decided to choose a comet, the next question is, _What_ comet?
There cannot here be much room for hesitation. Those splendid comets
which appear so capriciously may be at once excluded. They are visitors
apparently coming for the first time, and retreating without any
distinct promise that mankind shall ever see them again. A comet of this
kind moves in a parabolic path, sweeps once around the sun, and thence
retreats into the space whence it came. We cannot study the effect of
perturbations on a comet completely until it has been watched during
successive returns to the sun. Our choice is thus limited to the
comparatively small class of objects known as periodic comets; and, from
a survey of the entire group, we select the most suitable to our
purpose. It is the object generally known as Encke's comet, for, though
Encke was not the discoverer, yet it is to his calculations that the
comet owes its fame. This body is rendered more suitable for our purpose
by the researches to which it has recently given rise.

In the year 1818 a comet was discovered by the painstaking astronomer
Pons at Marseilles. We are not to imagine that this body produced a
splendid spectacle. It was a small telescopic object, not unlike one of
those dim nebulæ which are scattered in thousands over the heavens. The
comet is, however, readily distinguished from a nebula by its movement
relatively to the stars, while the nebula remains at rest for centuries.
The position of this comet was ascertained by its discoverer, as well as
by other astronomers. Encke found from the observations that the comet
returned to the sun once in every three years and a few months. This was
a startling announcement. At that time no other comet of short period
had been detected, so that this new addition to the solar system
awakened the liveliest interest. The question was immediately raised as
to whether this comet, which revolved so frequently, might not have been
observed during previous returns. The historical records of the
apparitions of comets are counted by hundreds, and how among this host
are we to select those objects which were identical with the comet
discovered by Pons?

[Illustration: Fig. 70.--The Orbit of Encke's Comet.]

We may at once relinquish any hope of identification from drawings of
the object, but, fortunately, there is one feature of a comet on which
we can seize, and which no fluctuations of the actual structure can
modify or disguise. The path in which the body travels through space is
independent of the bodily changes in its structure. The shape of that
path and its position depend entirely upon those other bodies of the
solar system which are specially involved in the theory of Encke's
comet. In Fig. 70 we show the orbits of three of the planets. They have
been chosen with such proportions as shall make the innermost represent
the orbit of Mercury; the next is the orbit of the earth, while the
outermost is the orbit of Jupiter. Besides these three we perceive in
the figure a much more elliptical path, representing the orbit of
Encke's comet, projected down on the plane of the earth's motion. The
sun is situated at the focus of the ellipse. The comet is constrained to
revolve in this curve by the attraction of the sun, and it requires a
little more than three years to accomplish a complete revolution. It
passes close to the sun at perihelion, at a point inside the path of
Mercury, while at its greatest distance it approaches the path of
Jupiter. This elliptic orbit is mainly determined by the attraction of
the sun. Whether the comet weighed an ounce, a ton, a thousand tons, or
a million tons, whether it was a few miles, or many thousands of miles
in diameter, the orbit would still be the same. It is by the shape of
this ellipse, by its actual size, and by the position in which it lies,
that we identify the comet. It had been observed in 1786, 1795, and
1805, but on these occasions it had not been noticed that the comet's
path deviated from the parabola.

Encke's comet is usually so faint that even the most powerful telescope
in the world would not show a trace of it. After one of its periodical
visits, the body withdraws until it recedes to the outermost part of its
path, then it will turn, and again approach the sun. It would seem that
it becomes invigorated by the sun's rays, and commences to dilate under
their genial influence. While moving in this part of its path the comet
lessens its distance from the earth. It daily increases in splendour,
until at length, partly by the intrinsic increase in brightness and
partly by the decrease in distance from the earth, it comes within the
range of our telescopes. We can generally anticipate when this will
occur, and we can tell to what point of the heavens the telescope is to
be pointed so as to discern the comet at its next return to perihelion.
The comet cannot elude the grasp of the mathematician. He can tell when
and where the comet is to be found, but no one can say what it will be
like.

Were all the other bodies of the system removed, then the path of
Encke's comet must be for ever performed in the same ellipse and with
absolute regularity. The chief interest for our present purpose lies not
in the regularity of its path, but in the _irregularities_ introduced
into that path by the presence of the other bodies of the solar system.
Let us, for instance, follow the progress of the comet through its
perihelion passage, in which the track lies near that of the planet
Mercury. It will usually happen that Mercury is situated in a distant
part of its path at the moment the comet is passing, and the influence
of the planet will then be comparatively small. It may, however,
sometimes happen that the planet and the comet come close together. One
of the most interesting instances of a close approach to Mercury took
place on the 22nd November, 1848. On that day the comet and the planet
were only separated by an interval of about one-thirtieth of the earth's
distance from the sun, _i.e._ about 3,000,000 miles. On several other
occasions the distance between Encke's comet and Mercury has been less
than 10,000,000 miles--an amount of trifling import in comparison with
the dimensions of our system. Approaches so close as this are fraught
with serious consequences to the movements of the comet. Mercury, though
a small body, is still sufficiently massive. It always attracts the
comet, but the efficacy of that attraction is enormously enhanced when
the comet in its wanderings comes near the planet. The effect of this
attraction is to force the comet to swerve from its path, and to impress
certain changes upon its velocity. As the comet recedes, the disturbing
influence of Mercury rapidly abates, and ere long becomes insensible.
But time cannot efface from the orbit of the comet the effect which the
disturbance of Mercury has actually accomplished. The disturbed orbit is
different from the undisturbed ellipse which the comet would have
occupied had the influence of the sun alone determined its shape. We are
able to calculate the movements of the comet as determined by the sun.
We can also calculate the effects arising from the disturbance produced
by Mercury, provided we know the mass of the latter.

Though Mercury is one of the smallest of the planets, it is perhaps the
most troublesome to the astronomer. It lies so close to the sun that it
is seen but seldom in comparison with the other great planets. Its orbit
is very eccentric, and it experiences disturbances by the attraction of
other bodies in a way not yet fully understood. A special difficulty has
also been found in the attempt to place Mercury in the weighing scales.
We can weigh the whole earth, we can weigh the sun, the moon, and even
Jupiter and other planets, but Mercury presents difficulties of a
peculiar character. Le Verrier, however, succeeded in devising a method
of weighing it. He demonstrated that our earth is attracted by this
planet, and he showed how the amount of attraction may be disclosed by
observations of the sun, so that, from an examination of the
observations, he made an approximate determination of the mass of
Mercury. Le Verrier's result indicated that the weight of the planet was
about the fourteenth part of the weight of the earth. In other words, if
our earth was placed in a balance, and fourteen globes, each equal to
Mercury, were laid in the other, the scales would hang evenly. It was
necessary that this result should be received with great caution. It
depended upon a delicate interpretation of somewhat precarious
measurements. It could only be regarded as of provisional value, to be
discarded when a better one should be obtained.

The approach of Encke's comet to Mercury, and the elaborate
investigations of Von Asten and Backlund, in which the observations of
the body were discussed, have thrown much light on the subject; but,
owing to a peculiarity in the motion of this comet, which we shall
presently mention, the difficulties of this investigation are enormous.
Backlund's latest result is, that the sun is 9,700,000 times as heavy as
Mercury, and he considers that this is worthy of great confidence. There
is a considerable difference between this result (which makes the earth
about thirty times as heavy as Mercury) and that of Le Verrier; and, on
the other hand, Haerdtl has, from the motion of Winnecke's periodic
comet, found a value of the mass of Mercury which is not very different
from Le Verrier's. Mercury is, however, the only planet about the mass
of which there is any serious uncertainty, and this must not make us
doubt the accuracy of this delicate weighing-machine. Look at the orbit
of Jupiter, to which Encke's comet approaches so nearly when it retreats
from the sun. It will sometimes happen that Jupiter and the comet are in
close proximity, and then the mighty planet seriously disturbs the
pliable orbit of the comet. The path of the latter bears unmistakable
traces of the Jupiter perturbations, as well as of the Mercury
perturbations. It might seem a hopeless task to discriminate between the
influences of the two planets, overshadowed as they both are by the
supreme control of the sun, but contrivances of mathematical analysis
are adequate to deal with the problem. They point out how much is due to
Mercury, how much is due to Jupiter; and the wanderings of Encke's comet
can thus be made to disclose the mass of Jupiter as well as that of
Mercury. Here we have a means of testing the precision of our weighing
appliances. The mass of Jupiter can be measured by his moons, in the way
mentioned in a previous chapter. As the satellites revolve round and
round the planet, they furnish a method of measuring his weight by the
rapidity of their motion. They tell us that if the sun were placed in
one scale of the celestial balance, it would take 1,047 bodies equal to
Jupiter in the other to weigh him down. Hardly a trace of uncertainty
clings to this determination, and it is therefore of great interest to
test the theory of Encke's comet by seeing whether it gives an accordant
result. The comparison has been made by Von Asten. Encke's comet tells
us that the sun is 1,050 times as heavy as Jupiter; so the results are
practically identical, and the accuracy of the indications of the comet
are confirmed. But the calculation of the perturbations of Encke's comet
is so extremely intricate that Asten's result is not of great value.
From the motion of Winnecke's periodic comet, Haerdtl has found that the
sun is 1,047·17 times as heavy as Jupiter, in perfect accordance with
the best results derived from the attraction of Jupiter on his
satellites and the other planets.

We have hitherto discussed the adventures of Encke's comet in cases
where they throw light on questions otherwise more or less known to us.
We now approach a celebrated problem, on which Encke's comet is our only
authority. Every 1,210 days that comet revolves completely around its
orbit, and returns again to the neighbourhood of the sun. The movements
of the comet are, however, somewhat irregular. We have already explained
how perturbations arise from Mercury and from Jupiter. Further
disturbances arise from the attraction of the earth and of the other
remaining planets; but all these can be allowed for, and then we are
entitled to expect, if the law of gravitation be universally true, that
the comet shall obey the calculations of mathematics. Encke's comet has
not justified this anticipation; at each revolution the period is
getting steadily shorter! Each time the comet comes back to perihelion
in two and a half hours less than on the former occasion. Two and a half
hours is, no doubt, a small period in comparison with that of an entire
revolution; but in the region of its path visible to us the comet is
moving so quickly that its motion in two and a half hours is
considerable. This irregularity cannot be overlooked, inasmuch as it has
been confirmed by the returns during about twenty revolutions. It has
sometimes been thought that the discrepancies might be attributed to
some planetary perturbations omitted or not fully accounted for. The
masterly analysis of Von Asten and Backlund has, however, disposed of
this explanation. They have minutely studied the observations down to
1891, but only to confirm the reality of this diminution in the periodic
time of Encke's comet.

An explanation of these irregularities was suggested by Encke long ago.
Let us briefly attempt to describe this memorable hypothesis. When we
say that a body will move in an elliptic path around the sun in virtue
of gravitation, it is always assumed that the body has a free course
through space. It is assumed that there is no friction, no air, or other
source of disturbance. But suppose that this assumption should be
incorrect; suppose that there really is some medium pervading space
which offers resistance to the comet in the same way as the air impedes
the flight of a rifle bullet, what effect ought such a medium to
produce? This is the idea which Encke put forward. Even if the greater
part of space be utterly void, so that the path of the filmy and almost
spiritual comet is incapable of feeling resistance, yet in the
neighbourhood of the sun it was supposed that there might be some medium
of excessive tenuity capable of affecting so light a body. It can be
demonstrated that a resisting medium such as we have supposed would
lessen the size of the comet's path, and diminish the periodic time.
This hypothesis has, however, now been abandoned. It has always appeared
strange that no other comet showed the least sign of being retarded by
the assumed resisting medium. But the labours of Backlund have now
proved beyond a doubt that the acceleration of the motion of Encke's
comet is not a constant one, and cannot be accounted for by assuming a
resisting medium distributed round the sun, no matter how we imagine
this medium to be constituted with regard to density at different
distances from the sun. Backlund found that the acceleration was fairly
constant from 1819 to 1858; it commenced to decrease between 1858 and
1862, and continued to diminish till some time between 1868 and 1871,
since which time it has remained fairly constant. He considers that the
acceleration can only be produced by the comet encountering periodically
a swarm of meteors, and if we could only observe the comet during its
motion through the greater part of its orbit we should be able to point
out the locality where this encounter takes place.

We have selected the comets of Halley and of Encke as illustrations of
the class of periodic comets, of which, indeed, they are the most
remarkable members. Another very remarkable periodic comet is that of
Biela, of which we shall have more to say in the next chapter. Of the
much more numerous class of non-periodic comets, examples in abundance
may be cited. We shall mention a few which have appeared during the
present century. There is first the splendid comet of 1843, which
appeared suddenly in February of that year, and was so brilliant that it
could be seen during full daylight. This comet followed a path which
could not be certainly distinguished from a parabola, though there is no
doubt that it might have been a very elongated ellipse. It is frequently
impossible to decide a question of this kind, during the brief
opportunities available for finding the place of the comet. We can only
see the object during a very small arc of its orbit, and even then it is
not a very well-defined point which admits of being measured with the
precision attainable in observations of a star or a planet. This comet
of 1843 is, however, especially remarkable for the rapidity with which
it moved, and for the close approach which it made to the sun. The heat
to which it was exposed during its passage around the sun must have
been enormously greater than the heat which can be raised in our
mightiest furnaces. If the materials had been agate or cornelian, or the
most infusible substances known on the earth, they would have been fused
and driven into vapour by the intensity of the sun's rays.

The great comet of 1858 was one of the celestial spectacles of modern
times. It was first observed on June 2nd of that year by Donati, whose
name the comet has subsequently borne; it was then merely a faint
nebulous spot, and for about three months it pursued its way across the
heavens without giving any indications of the splendour which it was so
soon to attain. The comet had hardly become visible to the unaided eye
at the end of August, and was then furnished with only a very small
tail, but as it gradually drew nearer and nearer to the sun in
September, it soon became invested with splendour. A tail of majestic
proportions was quickly developed, and by the middle of October, when
the maximum brightness was attained, its length extended over an arc of
forty degrees. The beauty and interest of this comet were greatly
enhanced by its favourable position in the sky at a season when the
nights were sufficiently dark.

On the 22nd May, 1881, Mr. Tebbutt, of Windsor, in New South Wales,
discovered a comet which speedily developed into one of the most
interesting celestial objects seen by this generation. About the 22nd of
June it became visible from these latitudes in the northern sky at
midnight. Gradually it ascended higher and higher until it passed around
the pole. The nucleus of the comet was as bright as a star of the first
magnitude, and its tail was about 20° long. On the 2nd of September it
ceased to be visible to the unaided eye, but remained visible in
telescopes until the following February. This was the first comet which
was successfully photographed, and it may be remarked that comets
possess very little actinic power. It has been estimated that moonlight
possesses an intensity 300,000 times greater than that of a comet where
the purposes of photography are concerned.

Another of the bodies of this class which have received great and
deserved attention was that discovered in the southern hemisphere early
in September, 1882. It increased so much in brilliancy that it was seen
in daylight by Mr. Common on the 17th of that month, while on the same
day the astronomers at the Cape of Good Hope were fortunate enough to
have observed the body actually approach the sun's limb, where it ceased
to be visible. We know that the comet must have passed between the earth
and the sun, and it is very interesting to learn from the Cape observers
that it was totally invisible when it was actually projected on the
sun's disc. The following day it was again visible to the naked eye in
full daylight, not far from the sun, and valuable spectroscopic
observations were secured at Dunecht and Palermo. At that time the comet
was rushing through the part of its orbit closest to the sun, and about
a week later it began to be visible in the morning before sunrise, near
the eastern horizon, exhibiting a fine long tail. (_See_ Plate XVII.)
The nucleus gradually lengthened until it broke into four separate
pieces, lying in a straight line, while the comet's head became
enveloped in a sort of faint, nebulous tube, pointing towards the sun.
Several small detached nebulous masses became also visible, which
travelled along with the comet, though not with the same velocity. The
comet became invisible to the naked eye in February, and was last
observed telescopically in South America on the 1st June, 1883.

There is a remarkable resemblance between the orbit of this comet and
the orbits in which the comet of 1668, the great comet of 1843, and a
great comet seen in 1880 in the southern hemisphere, travelled round the
sun. In fact, these four comets moved along very nearly the same track
and rushed round the sun within a couple of hundred thousand miles of
the surface of the photosphere. It is also possible that the comet
which, according to Aristotle, appeared in the year 372 B.C. followed
the same orbit. And yet we cannot suppose that all these were
apparitions of one and the same comet, as the observations of the comet
of 1882 give the period of revolution of that body equal to about 772
years. It is not impossible that the comets of 1843 and 1880 are one and
the same, but in both years the observations extend over too short a
time to enable us to decide whether the orbit was a parabola or an
ellipse. But as the comet of 1882 was in any case a distinct body, it
seems more likely that we have here a family of comets approaching the
sun from the same region of space and pursuing almost the same course.
We know a few other instances of such resemblances between the orbits of
distinct comets.

Of other interesting comets seen within the last few years we may
mention one discovered by Mr. Holmes in London on the 6th November,
1892. It was then situated not far from the bright nebula in the
constellation Andromeda, and like it was just visible to the naked eye.
The comet became gradually fainter and more diffused, but on the 16th
January following it appeared suddenly with a central condensation, like
a star of the eighth magnitude, surrounded by a small coma. Gradually it
expanded again, and grew fainter, until it was last observed on the 6th
April.[32] The orbit was found to be an ellipse more nearly circular
than the orbit of any other known comet, the period being nearly seven
years. Another comet of 1892 is remarkable as having been discovered by
Professor Barnard, of the Lick Observatory, on a photograph of a region
in Aquila; he was at once able to distinguish the comet from a nebula by
its motion.

Since 1864 the light of every comet which has made its appearance has
been analysed by the spectroscope. The slight surface-brightness of
these bodies renders it necessary to open the slit of the spectroscope
rather wide, and the dispersion employed cannot be very great, which
again makes accurate measurements difficult. The spectrum of a comet is
chiefly characterised by three bright bands shading gradually off
towards the violet, and sharply defined on the side towards the red.
This appearance is caused by a large number of fine and close lines,
whose intensity and distance apart decrease towards the violet. These
three bands reveal the existence of hydrocarbon in comets.

The important _rôle_ which we thus find carbon playing in the
constitution of comets is especially striking when we reflect on the
significance of the same element on the earth. We see it as the chief
constituent of all vegetable life, we find it to be invariably present
in animal life. It is an interesting fact that this element, of such
transcendent importance on the earth, should now have been proved to be
present in these wandering bodies. The hydrocarbon bands are, however,
not always the only features visible in cometary spectra. In a comet
seen in the spring months of 1882, Professor Copeland discovered that a
new bright yellow line, coinciding in position with the D-line of
sodium, had suddenly appeared, and it was subsequently, both by him and
by other observers, seen beautifully double. In fact, sodium was so
strongly represented in this comet, that both the head and the tail
could be perfectly well seen in sodium light by merely opening the slit
of the spectroscope very wide, just as a solar prominence may be seen in
hydrogen light. The sodium line attained its greatest brilliance at the
time when the comet was nearest to the sun, while the hydrocarbon bands
were either invisible or very faint. The same connection between the
intensity of the sodium line and the distance from the sun was noticed
in the great September comet of 1882.

The spectrum of the great comet of 1882 was observed by Copeland and
Lohse on the 18th September in daylight, and, in addition to the sodium
line, they saw a number of other bright lines, which seemed to be due to
iron vapour, while the only line of manganese visible at the temperature
of a Bunsen burner was also seen. This very remarkable observation was
made less than a day after the perihelion passage, and illustrates the
wonderful activity in the interior of a comet when very close to the
sun.

[Illustration: PLATE XVII.

THE COMET OF 1882,

AS SEEN FROM STREATHAM, NOV. 4TH, 4 A.M.

FROM A DRAWING BY T.E. KEY.]

In addition to the bright lines comets generally show a faint
continuous spectrum, in which dark Fraunhofer lines can occasionally be
distinguished. Of course, this shows that the continuous spectrum is to
a great extent due to reflected sunlight, but there is no doubt that
part of it is often due to light actually developed in the comets. This
was certainly the case in the first comet of 1884, as a sudden outburst
of light in this body was accompanied by a considerable increase of
brightness of the continuous spectrum. A change in the relative
brightness of the three hydrocarbon bands indicated a considerable rise
of temperature, during the continuance of which the comet emitted white
light.

As comets are much nearer to the earth than the stars, it will
occasionally happen that the comet must arrive at a position directly
between the earth and a star. There is quite a similar phenomenon in the
movement of the moon. A star is frequently occulted in this way, and the
observations of such phenomena are familiar to astronomers; but when a
comet passes in front of a star the circumstances are widely different.
The star is indeed seen nearly as well through the comet as it would be
if the comet were entirely out of the way. This has often been noticed.
One of the most celebrated observations of this kind was made by the
late Sir John Herschel on Biela's comet, which is one of the periodic
class, and will be alluded to in the next chapter. The illustrious
astronomer saw on one occasion this object pass over a star cluster. It
consisted of excessively minute stars, which could only be seen by a
powerful telescope, such as the one Sir John was using. The faintest
haze or the merest trace of a cloud would have sufficed to hide all the
stars. It was therefore with no little interest that the astronomer
watched the progress of Biela's comet. Gradually the wanderer encroached
on the group of stars, so that if it had any appreciable solidity the
numerous twinkling points would have been completely screened. But what
were the facts? Down to the most minute star in that cluster, down to
the smallest point of light which the great telescope could show, every
object in the group was distinctly seen to twinkle right through the
mass of Biela's comet.

This was an important observation. We must recollect that the veil drawn
between the cluster and the telescope was not a thin curtain; it was a
volume of cometary substance many thousands of miles in thickness.
Contrast, then, the almost inconceivable tenuity of a comet with the
clouds to which we are accustomed. A cloud a few hundred feet thick
will hide not only the stars, but even the great sun himself. The
lightest haze that ever floated in a summer sky would do more to screen
the stars from our view than would one hundred thousand miles of such
cometary material as was here interposed.

The great comet of Donati passed over many stars which were visible
distinctly through its tail. Among these stars was a very bright
one--the well-known Arcturus. The comet, fortunately, happened to pass
over Arcturus, and though nearly the densest part of the comet was
interposed between the earth and the star, yet Arcturus twinkled on with
undiminished lustre through the thickness of this stupendous curtain.
Recent observations have, however, shown that stars in some cases
experience change in lustre when the denser part of the comet passes
over them. It is, indeed, difficult to imagine that a star would remain
visible if the nucleus of a really large comet passed over it; but it
does not seem that an opportunity of testing this supposition has yet
arisen.

As a comet contains transparent gaseous material we might expect that
the place of a star would be deranged when the comet approached it. The
refractive power of air is very considerable. When we look at the
sunset, we see the sun appearing to pass below the horizon; yet the sun
has actually sunk beneath the horizon before any part of its disk
appears to have commenced its descent. The refractive power of the air
bends the luminous rays round and shows the sun, though it is directly
screened by the intervening obstacles. The refractive power of the
material of comets has been carefully tested. A comet has been observed
to approach two stars; one of which was seen through the comet, while
the other could be observed directly. If the body had any appreciable
quantity of gas in its composition the relative places of the two stars
would be altered. This question has been more than once submitted to the
test of actual measurement. It has sometimes been found that no
appreciable change of position could be detected, and that accordingly
in such cases the comet has no perceptible density. Careful measurements
of the great comet in 1881 showed, however, that in the neighbourhood of
the nucleus there was some refractive power, though quite insignificant
in comparison with the refraction of our atmosphere.

[Illustration: PLATE C.

COMET A 1892, 1. SWIFT.

_Photographed by E.E. Barnard, 7th April, 1892._]

From these considerations it will probably be at once admitted that the
_mass_ of a comet must be indeed a very small quantity in comparison
with its bulk. When we attempt actually to weigh the comet, our efforts
have proved abortive. We have been able to weigh the mighty planets
Jupiter and Saturn; we have been even able to weigh the vast sun
himself; the law of gravitation has provided us with a stupendous
weighing apparatus, which has been applied in all these cases with
success, but the same methods applied to comets are speedily seen to be
illusory. No weighing machinery known to the astronomer is delicate
enough to determine the weight of a comet. All that we can accomplish in
any circumstances is to weigh one heavenly body in comparison with
another. Comets seem to be almost imponderable when estimated by such
robust masses as those of the earth, or any of the other great planets.
Of course, it will be understood that when we say the weight of a comet
is inappreciable, we mean with regard to the other bodies of our system.
Perhaps no one now doubts that a great comet must really weigh tons;
though whether those tons are to be reckoned in tens, in hundreds, in
thousands, or in millions, the total seems quite insignificant when
compared with the weight of a body like the earth.

The small mass of comets is also brought before us in a very striking
way when we recall what has been said in the last chapter on the
important subject of the planetary perturbations. We have there treated
of the permanence of our system, and we have shown that this permanence
depends upon certain laws which the planetary motions must invariably
fulfil. The planets move nearly in circles, their orbits are all nearly
in the same plane, and they all move in the same direction. The
permanence of the system would be imperilled if any one of these
conditions was not fulfilled. In that discussion we made no allusion to
the comets. Yet they are members of our system, and they far outnumber
the planets. The comets repudiate these rules of the road which the
planets so rigorously obey. Their orbits are never like circles; they
are, indeed, more usually parabolic, and thus differ as widely as
possible from the circular path. Nor do the planes of the orbits of
comets affect any particular aspect; they are inclined at all sorts of
angles, and the directions in which they move seem to be mere matters of
caprice. All these articles of the planetary convention are violated by
comets, but yet our system lasts; it has lasted for countless ages, and
seems destined to last for ages to come. The comets are attracted by the
planets, and conversely, the comets must attract the planets, and must
perturb their orbits to some extent; but to what extent? If comets moved
in orbits subject to the same general laws which characterise planetary
motion, then our argument would break down. The planets might experience
considerable derangements from cometary attraction, and yet in the lapse
of time those disturbances would neutralise each other, and the
permanence of the system would be unaffected. But the case is very
different when we deal with the actual cometary orbits. If comets could
appreciably disturb planets, those disturbances would not neutralise
each other, and in the lapse of time the system would be wrecked by a
continuous accumulation of irregularities. The facts, however, show that
the system has lived, and is living, notwithstanding comets; and hence
we are forced to the conclusion that their masses must be insignificant
in comparison with those of the great planetary bodies.

These considerations exhibit the laws of universal gravitation and their
relations to the permanence of our system in a very striking light. If
we include the comets, we may say that the solar system includes many
thousands of bodies, in orbits of all sizes, shapes, and positions, only
agreeing in the fact that the sun occupies a focus common to all. The
majority of these bodies are imponderable in comparison with planets,
and their orbits are placed anyhow, so that, although they may suffer
much from the perturbations of the other bodies, they can in no case
inflict any appreciable disturbance. There are, however, a few great
planets capable of producing vast disturbances; and if their orbits were
not properly adjusted, chaos would sooner or later be the result. By the
mutual adaptations of their orbits to a nearly circular form, to a
nearly coincident plane, and to a uniformity of direction, a permanent
truce has been effected among the great planets. They cannot now
permanently disorganise each other, while the slight mass of the comets
renders them incompetent to do so. The stability of the great planets is
thus assured; but it is to be observed that there is no guarantee of
stability for comets. Their eccentric and irregular paths may undergo
the most enormous derangements; indeed, the history of astronomy
contains many instances of the vicissitudes to which a cometary career
is exposed.

Great comets appear in the heavens in the most diverse circumstances.
There is no part of the sky, no constellation or region, which is not
liable to occasional visits from these mysterious bodies. There is no
season of the year, no hour of the day or of the night when comets may
not be seen above the horizon. In like manner, the size and aspect of
the comets are of every character, from the dim spot just visible to an
eye fortified by a mighty telescope, up to a gigantic and brilliant
object, with a tail stretching across the heavens for a distance which
is as far as from the horizon to the zenith. So also the direction of
the tail of the comet seems at first to admit of every possible
position: it may stand straight up in the heavens, as if the comet were
about to plunge below the horizon; it may stream down from the head of
the comet, as if the body had been shot up from below; it may slope to
the right or to the left. Amid all this variety and seeming caprice, can
we discover any feature common to the different phenomena? We shall find
that there is a very remarkable law which the tails of comets obey--a
law so true and satisfactory, that if we are given the place of a comet
in the heavens, it is possible at once to point out in what direction
the tail will lie.

A beautiful comet appears in summer in the northern sky. It is near
midnight; we are gazing on the faintly luminous tail, which stands up
straight and points towards the zenith; perhaps it may be curved a
little or possibly curved a good deal, but still, on the whole, it is
directed from the horizon to the zenith. We are not here referring to
any particular comet. Every comet, large or small, that appears in the
north must at midnight have its tail pointed up in a nearly vertical
direction. This fact, which has been verified on numerous occasions, is
a striking illustration of the law of direction of comets' tails. Think
for one moment of the facts of the case. It is summer; the twilight at
the north shows the position of the sun, and the tail of the comet
points directly away from the twilight and away from the sun. Take
another case. It is evening; the sun has set, the stars have begun to
shine, and a long-tailed comet is seen. Let that comet be high or low,
north or south, east or west, its tail invariably points _away_ from
that point in the west where the departing sunlight still lingers.
Again, a comet is watched in the early morning, and if the eye be moved
from the place where the first streak of dawn is appearing to the head
of the comet, then along that direction, streaming away from the sun, is
found the tail of the comet. This law is of still more general
application. At any season, at any hour of the night, the tail of a
comet is directed away from the sun.

More than three hundred years ago this fact in the movement of comets
arrested the attention of those who pondered on the movements of the
heavenly bodies. It is a fact patent to ordinary observation, it gives
some degree of consistency to the multitudinous phenomena of comets, and
it must be made the basis of our enquiries into the structure of the
tails.

In the adjoining figure, Fig. 71, we show a portion of the parabolic
orbit of a comet, and we also represent the position of the tail of the
comet at various points of its path. It would be, perhaps, going too far
to assert that throughout the whole vast journey of the comet, its tail
must always be directed from the sun. In the first place, it must be
recollected that we can only see the comet during that small part of its
journey when it is approaching to or receding from the sun. It is also
to be remembered that, while actually passing round the sun, the
brilliancy of the comet is so overpowered by the sun that the comet
often becomes invisible, just as the stars are invisible in daylight.
Indeed, in certain cases, jets of cometary material are actually
projected towards the sun.

[Illustration: Fig. 71.--The Tail of a Comet directed from the Sun.]

In a hasty consideration of the subject, it might be thought that as the
comet was dashing along with enormous velocity the tail was merely
streaming out behind, just as the shower of sparks from a rocket are
strewn along the path which it follows. This would be an entirely
erroneous analogy; the comet is moving not through an atmosphere, but
through open space, where there is no medium sufficient to sweep the
tail into the line of motion. Another very remarkable feature is the
gradual growth of the tail as the comet approaches the sun. While the
body is still at a great distance it has usually no perceptible tail,
but as it draws in the tail gradually develops, and in some cases
reaches stupendous dimensions. It is not to be supposed that this
increase is a mere optical consequence of the diminution of distance. It
can be shown that the growth of the tail takes place much more rapidly
than it would be possible to explain in this way. We are thus led to
connect the formation of the tail with the approach to the sun, and we
are accordingly in the presence of an enigma without any analogy among
the other bodies of our system.

That the comet as a whole is attracted by the sun there can be no doubt
whatever. The fact that the comet moves in an ellipse or in a parabola
proves that the two bodies act and react on each other in obedience to
the law of universal gravitation. But while this is true of the comet as
a whole, it is no less certain that the tail of the comet is _repelled_
by the sun. It is impossible to speak with certainty as to how this
comes about, but the facts of the case seem to point to an explanation
of the following kind.

We have seen that the spectroscope has proved with certainty the
presence of hydrocarbon and other gases in comets. But we are not to
conclude from this that comets are merely masses of gas moving through
space. Though the total quantity of matter in a comet, as we have seen,
is exceedingly small, it is quite possible that the comet may consist of
a number of widely scattered particles of appreciable density; indeed,
we shall see in the next chapter, when describing the remarkable
relationship between comets and meteors, that we have reason to believe
this to be the case. We may therefore look on a comet as a swarm of tiny
solid particles, each surrounded by gas.

When we watch a great comet approaching the sun the nucleus is first
seen to become brighter and more clearly defined; at a later stage
luminous matter appears to be projected from it towards the sun, often
in the shape of a fan or a jet, which sometimes oscillates to and fro
like a pendulum. In the head of Halley's comet, for instance, Bessel
observed in October, 1835, that the jet in the course of eight hours
swung through an angle of 36°. On other occasions concentric arcs of
light are formed round the nucleus, one after another, getting fainter
as they travel further from the nucleus. Evidently the material of the
fan or the arcs is repelled by the nucleus of the comet; but it is also
repelled by the sun, and this latter repulsive force compels the
luminous matter to overcome the attraction of gravitation, and to turn
back all round the nucleus in the direction away from the sun. In this
manner the tail is formed. (_See_ Plate XII.) The mathematical theory of
the formation of comets' tails has been developed on the assumption that
the matter which forms the tail is repelled both by the nucleus and by
the sun. This investigation was first undertaken by the great astronomer
Bessel, in his memoir on the appearance of Halley's comet in 1835, and
it has since been considerably developed by Roche and the Russian
astronomer Bredichin. Though we are, perhaps, hardly in a position to
accept this theory as absolutely true, we can assert that it accounts
well for the principal phenomena observed in the formation of comets'
tails.

Professor Bredichin has conducted his labours in the philosophical
manner which has led to many other great discoveries in science. He has
carefully collated the measurements and drawings of the tails of various
comets. One result has been obtained from this preliminary part of his
enquiry, which possesses a value that cannot be affected even if the
ulterior portion of his labours should be found to require
qualification. In the examination of the various tails, he observed that
the curvilinear shapes of the outlines fall into one or other of three
special types. In the first we have the straightest tails, which point
almost directly away from the sun. In the second are classed tails
which, after starting away from the sun, are curved backwards from the
direction towards which the comet is moving. In the third we find the
appendage still more curved in towards the comet's path. It can be shown
that the tails of comets can almost invariably be identified with one or
other of these three types; and in cases where the comet exhibits two
tails, as has sometimes happened, then they will be found to belong to
two of the types.

The adjoining diagram (Fig. 72) gives a sketch of an imaginary comet
furnished with tails of the three different types. The direction in
which the comet is moving is shown by the arrow-head on the line passing
through the nucleus. Bredichin concludes that the straightest of the
three tails, marked as Type I., is most probably due to the element
hydrogen; the tails of the second form are due to the presence of some
of the hydrocarbons in the body of the comet; while the small tails of
the third type may be due to iron or to some other element with a high
atomic weight. It will, of course, be understood that this diagram does
not represent any actual comet.

[Illustration: Fig. 72.--Bredichin's Theory of Comets' Tails.]

[Illustration: Fig. 73.--Tails of the Comet of 1858.]

An interesting illustration of this theory is afforded in the case of
the celebrated comet of 1858 already referred to, of which a drawing is
shown in Fig. 73. We find here, besides the great tail, which is the
characteristic feature of the body, two other faint streaks of light.
These are the edges of the hollow cone which forms a tail of Type I.
When we look through the central regions it will be easily understood
that the light is not sufficiently intense to be visible; at the edges,
however, a sufficient thickness of the cometary matter is presented, and
thus we have the appearance shown in this figure. It would seem that
Donati's comet possessed one tail due to hydrogen, and another due to
some of the compounds of carbon. The carbon compounds involved appear to
be of considerable variety, and there is, in consequence, a disposition
in the tails of the second type to a more indefinite outline than in the
hydrogen tails. Cases have been recorded in which several tails have
been seen simultaneously on the same comet. The most celebrated of these
is that which appeared in the year 1744. Professor Bredichin has devoted
special attention to the theory of this marvellous object, and he has
shown with a high degree of probability how the multiform tail could be
accounted for. The adjoining figure (Fig. 74) is from a sketch of this
object made on the morning of the 7th March by Mademoiselle Kirch at the
Berlin Observatory. The figure shows eleven streaks, of which the first
ten (counting from the left) represent the bright edges of five of the
tails, while the sixth and shortest tail is at the extreme right.
Sketches of this rare phenomenon were also made by Chéseaux at Lausanne
and De L'Isle at St. Petersburg. Before the perihelion passage the
comet had only had one tail, but a very splendid one.

[Illustration: Fig. 74.--The Comet of 1744.]

It is possible to submit some of the questions involved to the test of
calculation, and it can be shown that the repulsive force adequate to
produce the straight tail of Type I. need only be about twelve times as
large as the attraction of gravitation. Tails of the second type could
be produced by a repulsive force which was about equal to gravitation,
while tails of the third type would only require a repulsive force about
one-quarter the power of gravitation.[33] The chief repulsive force
known in nature is derived from electricity, and it has naturally been
surmised that the phenomena of comets' tails are due to the electric
condition of the sun and of the comet. It would be premature to assert
that the electric character of the comet's tail has been absolutely
demonstrated; all that can be said is that, as it seems to account for
the observed facts, it would be undesirable to introduce some mere
hypothetical repulsive force. It must be remembered that on quite other
grounds it is known that the sun is the seat of electric phenomena.

As the comet gradually recedes from the sun the repulsive force becomes
weaker, and accordingly we find that the tail of the comet declines. If
the comet be a periodic one, the same series of changes may take place
at its next return to perihelion. A new tail is formed, which also
gradually disappears as the comet regains the depths of space. If we may
employ the analogy of terrestrial vapours to guide us in our reasoning,
then it would seem that, as the comet retreats, its tail would condense
into myriads of small particles. Over these small particles the law of
gravitation would resume its undivided sway, no longer obscured by the
superior efficiency of the repulsion. The mass of the comet is, however,
so extremely small that it would not be able to recall these particles
by the mere force of attraction. It follows that, as the comet at each
perihelion passage makes a tail, it must on each occasion expend a
corresponding quantity of tail-making material. Let us suppose that the
comet was endowed in the beginning with a certain capital of those
particular materials which are adapted for the production of tails. Each
perihelion passage witnesses the formation of a tail, and the
expenditure of a corresponding amount of the capital. It is obvious that
this operation cannot go on indefinitely. In the case of the great
majority of comets the visits to perihelion are so extremely rare that
the consequences of the extravagance are not very apparent; but to those
periodic comets which have short periods and make frequent returns, the
consequences are precisely what might have been anticipated: the
tail-making capital has been gradually squandered, and thus at length we
have the spectacle of a comet without any tail at all. We can even
conceive that a comet may in this manner be completely dissipated, and
we shall see in the next chapter how this fate seems to have overtaken
Biela's periodic comet.

But as it sweeps through the solar system the comet may chance to pass
very near one of the larger planets, and, in passing, its motion may be
seriously disturbed by the attraction of the planet. If the velocity of
the comet is accelerated by this disturbing influence, the orbit will be
changed from a parabola into another curve known as a hyperbola, and the
comet will swing round the sun and pass away never to return. But if the
planet is so situated as to retard the velocity of the comet, the
parabolic orbit will be changed into an ellipse, and the comet will
become a periodic one. We can hardly doubt that some periodic comets
have been "captured" in this manner and thereby made permanent members
of our solar system, if we remark that the comets of short periods (from
three to eight years) come very near the orbit of Jupiter at some point
or other of their paths. Each of them must, therefore, have been near
the giant planet at some moment during their past history. Similarly the
other periodic comets of longer period approach near to the orbits of
either Saturn, Uranus, or Neptune, the last-mentioned planet being
probably responsible for the periodicity of Halley's comet. We have,
indeed, on more than one occasion, actually witnessed the violent
disturbance of a cometary orbit. The most interesting case is that of
Lexell's comet. In 1770 the French astronomer Messier (who devoted
himself with great success to the discovery of comets) detected a comet
for which Lexell computed the orbit, and found an ellipse with a period
of five years and some months. Yet the comet had never been seen before,
nor did it ever come back again. Long afterwards it was found, from most
laborious investigations by Burckhardt and Le Verrier, that the comet
had moved in a totally different orbit previous to 1767. But at the
beginning of the year 1767 it happened to come so close to Jupiter that
the powerful attraction of this planet forced it into a new orbit, with
a period of five and a half years. It passed the perihelion on the 13th
August, 1770, and again in 1776, but in the latter year it was not
conveniently situated for being seen from the earth. In the summer of
1779 the comet was again in the neighbourhood of Jupiter, and was thrown
out of its elliptic orbit, so that we have never seen it since, or,
perhaps, it would be safer to say that we have not with certainty
identified Lexell's comet with any comet observed since then. We are
also, in the case of several other periodic comets, able to fix in a
similar way the date when they started on their journeys in their
present elliptic orbits.

Such is a brief outline of the principal facts known with regard to
these interesting but perplexing bodies. We must be content with the
recital of what we know, rather than hazard guesses about matters beyond
our reach. We see that they are obedient to the great laws of
gravitation, and afford a striking illustration of their truth. We have
seen how modern science has dissipated the superstition with which, in
earlier ages, the advent of a comet was regarded. We no longer regard
such a body as a sign of impending calamity; we may rather look upon it
as an interesting and a beautiful visitor, which comes to please us and
to instruct us, but never to threaten or to destroy.




CHAPTER XVII.

SHOOTING STARS.


     Small Bodies of our System--Their Numbers--How they are
     Observed--The Shooting Star--The Theory of Heat--A Great Shooting
     Star--The November Meteors--Their Ancient History--The Route
     followed by the Shoal--Diagram of the Shoal of Meteors--How the
     Shoal becomes Spread out along its Path--Absorption of Meteors by
     the Earth--The Discovery of the Relation between Meteors and
     Comets--The Remarkable Investigations concerning the November
     Meteors--Two Showers in Successive Years--No Particles have ever
     been Identified from the Great Shooting Star Showers--Meteoric
     Stones--Chladni's Researches--Early Cases of Stone-falls--The
     Meteorite at Ensisheim--Collections of Meteorites--The Rowton
     Siderite--Relative Frequency of Iron and Stony
     Meteorites--Fragmentary Character of Meteorites--Tschermak's
     Hypothesis--Effects of Gravitation on a Missile ejected from a
     Volcano--Can they have come from the Moon?--The Claims of the Minor
     Planets to the Parentage of Meteorites--Possible Terrestrial
     Origin--The Ovifak Iron.

In the preceding chapters we have dealt with the gigantic bodies which
form the chief objects in what we know as the solar system. We have
studied mighty planets measuring thousands of miles in diameter, and we
have followed the movements of comets whose dimensions are often to be
told by millions of miles. Once, indeed, in a previous chapter we have
made a descent to objects much lower in the scale of magnitude, and we
have examined that numerous class of small bodies which we call the
minor planets. It is now, however, our duty to make a still further, and
this time a very long step, downwards in the scale of magnitude. Even
the minor planets must be regarded as colossal objects when compared
with those little bodies whose presence is revealed to us in an
interesting and sometimes in a striking manner.

These small bodies compensate in some degree for their minute size by
the profusion in which they exist. No attempt, indeed, could be made to
tell in figures the myriads in which they swarm throughout space. They
are probably of very varied dimensions, some of them being many pounds
or perhaps tons in weight, while others seem to be not larger than
pebbles, or even than grains of sand. Yet, insignificant as these bodies
may seem, the sun does not disdain to undertake their control. Each
particle, whether it be as small as the mote in a sunbeam or as mighty
as the planet Jupiter, must perforce trace out its path around the sun
in conformity with the laws of Kepler.

Who does not know that beautiful occurrence which we call a shooting
star, or which, in its more splendid forms, is sometimes called a meteor
or fireball? It is to objects of this class that we are now to direct
our attention.

A small body is moving round the sun. Just as a mighty planet revolves
in an ellipse, so even a small object will be guided round and round in
an ellipse with the sun in the focus. There are, at the present moment,
inconceivable myriads of such meteors moving in this manner. They are
too small and too distant for our telescopes, and we never see them
except under extraordinary circumstances.

When the meteor flashes into view it is moving with such enormous
velocity that it often traverses more than twenty miles in a second of
time. Such a velocity is almost impossible near the earth's surface: the
resistance of the air would prevent it. Aloft, in the emptiness of
space, there is no air to impede its flight. It may have been moving
round and round the sun for thousands, perhaps for millions of years,
without suffering any interference; but the supreme moment arrives, and
the meteor perishes in a streak of splendour.

In the course of its wanderings the body comes near the earth, and
within a few hundred miles of its surface begins to encounter the upper
surface of the atmosphere with which the earth is enclosed. To a body
moving with the appalling velocity of a meteor, a plunge into the
atmosphere is usually fatal. Even though the upper layers of air are
excessively attenuated, yet they suddenly check the velocity almost as
a rifle bullet would be checked when fired into water. As the meteor
rushes through the atmosphere the friction of the air warms its surface;
gradually it becomes red-hot, then white-hot, and is finally driven off
into vapour with a brilliant light, while we on the earth, one or two
hundred miles below, exclaim: "Oh, look, there is a shooting star!"

We have here an experiment illustrating the mechanical theory of heat.
It may seem incredible that mere friction should be sufficient to
generate heat enough to produce so brilliant a display, but we must
recollect two facts: first, that the velocity of the meteor is, perhaps,
one hundred times that of a rifle bullet; and, second, that the
efficiency of friction in developing heat is proportional to the square
of the velocity. The meteor in passing through the air may therefore
develop by the friction of the air about ten thousand times as much heat
as the rifle bullet. We do not make an exaggerated estimate in supposing
that the latter missile becomes heated ten degrees by friction; yet if
this be admitted, we must grant that there is such an enormous
development of heat attending the flight of the meteor that even a
fraction of it would be sufficient to drive the object into vapour.

Let us first consider the circumstances in which these external bodies
are manifested to us, and, for the sake of illustration, we may take a
remarkable fireball which occurred on November 6th, 1869. This body was
seen from many different places in England; and by combining and
comparing these observations, we obtain accurate information as to the
height of the object and the velocity with which it travelled.

It appears that this meteor commenced to be visible at a point ninety
miles above Frome, in Somersetshire, and that it vanished twenty-seven
miles over the sea, near St. Ives, in Cornwall. The path of the body,
and the principal localities from which it was observed, are shown in
the map (Fig. 75). The whole length of its visible course was about 170
miles, which was performed in a period of five seconds, thus giving an
average velocity of thirty-four miles per second. A remarkable feature
in the appearance which this fireball presented was the long persistent
streak of luminous cloud, about fifty miles long and four miles wide,
which remained in sight for fully fifty minutes. We have in this example
an illustration of the chief features of the phenomena of a shooting
star presented on a very grand scale. It is, however, to be observed
that the persistent luminous streak is not a universal, nor, indeed, a
very common characteristic of a shooting star.

[Illustration: Fig. 75.--The Path of the Fireball of November 6th,
1869.]

The small objects which occasionally flash across the field of the
telescope show us that there are innumerable telescopic shooting stars,
too small and too faint to be visible to the unaided eye. These objects
are all dissipated in the way we have described; it is, in fact, only at
the moment, and during the process of their dissolution, that we become
aware of their existence. Small as these missiles probably are, their
velocity is so prodigious that they would render the earth uninhabitable
were they permitted to rain down unimpeded on its surface. We must,
therefore, among the other good qualities of our atmosphere, not forget
that it constitutes a kindly screen, which shields us from a tempest of
missiles, the velocity of which no artillery could equal. It is, in
fact, the very fury of these missiles which is the cause of their utter
destruction. Their anxiety to strike us is so great, that friction
dissolves them into harmless vapour.

Next to a grand meteor such as that we have just described, the most
striking display in connection with shooting stars is what is known as a
shower. These phenomena have attracted a great deal of attention within
the last century, and they have abundantly rewarded the labour devoted
to them by affording some of the most interesting astronomical
discoveries of modern times.

The showers of shooting stars do not occur very frequently. No doubt the
quickened perception of those who especially attend to meteors will
detect a shower when others see only a few straggling shooting stars;
but, speaking generally, we may say that the present generation can
hardly have witnessed more than two or three such occurrences. I have
myself seen two great showers, one of which, in November, 1866, has
impressed itself on my memory as a glorious spectacle.

To commence the history of the November meteors it is necessary to look
back for nearly a thousand years. On the 12th of October, in the year
902, occurred the death of a Moorish king, and in connection with this
event an old chronicler relates how "that night there were seen, as it
were lances, an infinite number of stars, which scattered themselves
like rain to right and left, and that year was called the Year of the
Stars."

No one now believes that the heavens intended to commemorate the death
of the king by that display. The record is, however, of considerable
importance, for it indicates the year 902 as one in which a great shower
of shooting stars occurred. It was with the greatest interest
astronomers perceived that this was the first recorded instance of that
periodical shower, the last of whose regular returns were seen in 1799,
1833, and 1866. Further diligent literary research has revealed here and
there records of startling appearances in the heavens, which fit in with
successive returns of the November meteors. From the first instance, in
902, to the present day there have been twenty-nine visits of the
shower; and it is not unlikely that these may have all been seen in some
parts of the earth. Sometimes they may have been witnessed by savages,
who had neither the inclination nor the means to place on record an
apparition which to them was a source of terror. Sometimes, however,
these showers were observed by civilised communities. Their nature was
not understood, but the records were made; and in some cases, at all
events, these records have withstood the corrosion of time, and have now
been brought together to illustrate this curious subject. We have
altogether historical notices of twelve of these showers, collected
mainly by the industry of Professor H.A. Newton whose labours have
contributed so much to the advancement of our knowledge of shooting
stars.

Let us imagine a swarm of small objects roaming through space. Think of
a shoal of herrings in the ocean, extending over many square miles, and
containing countless myriads of individuals; or think of those enormous
flocks of wild pigeons in the United States of which Audubon has told
us. The shoal of shooting stars is perhaps much more numerous than the
herrings or the pigeons. The shooting stars are, however, not very close
together; they are, on an average, probably some few miles apart. The
actual bulk of the shoal is therefore prodigious; and its dimensions are
to be measured by hundreds of thousands of miles.

[Illustration: Fig. 76.--The Orbit of a Shoal of Meteors.]

The meteors cannot choose their own track, like the shoal of herrings,
for they are compelled to follow the route which is prescribed to them
by the sun. Each one pursues its own ellipse in complete independence of
its neighbours, and accomplishes its journey, thousands of millions of
miles in length, every thirty-three years. We cannot observe the meteors
during the greater part of their flight. There are countless myriads of
these bodies at this very moment coursing round their path. We never see
them till the earth catches them. Every thirty-three years the earth
makes a haul of these meteors just as successfully as the fisherman
among the herrings, and in much the same way, for while the fisherman
spreads his net in which the fishes meet their doom, so the earth has an
atmosphere wherein the meteors perish. We are told that there is no fear
of the herrings becoming exhausted, for those the fishermen catch are as
nothing compared to the profusion in which they abound in ocean. We may
say the same with regard to the meteors. They exist in such myriads,
that though the earth swallows up millions every thirty-three years,
plenty are left for future showers. The diagram (Fig. 76) will explain
the way in which the earth makes her captures. We there see the orbit
in which our globe moves around the sun, as well as the elliptic path of
the meteors, though it should be remarked that it is not convenient to
draw the figure exactly to scale, so that the path of the meteors is
relatively much larger than here represented. Once each year the earth
completes its revolution, and between the 13th and the 16th of November
crosses the track in which the meteors move. It will usually happen that
the great shoal is not at this point when the earth is passing. There
are, however, some stragglers all along the path, and the earth
generally catches a few of these at this date. They dart into our
atmosphere as shooting stars, and form what we usually speak of as the
November meteors.

It will occasionally happen that when the earth is in the act of
crossing the track it encounters the bulk of the meteors. Through the
shoal our globe then plunges, enveloped, of course, with the surrounding
coat of air. Into this net the meteors dash in countless myriads, never
again to emerge. In a few hours' time, the earth, moving at the rate of
eighteen miles a second, has crossed the track and emerges on the other
side, bearing with it the spoils of the encounter. Some few meteors,
which have only narrowly escaped capture, will henceforth bear evidence
of the fray by moving in slightly different orbits, but the remaining
meteors of the shoal continue their journey without interruption;
perhaps millions have been taken, but probably hundreds of millions have
been left.

Such was the occurrence which astonished the world on the night between
November 13th and 14th, 1866. We then plunged into the middle of the
shoal. The night was fine; the moon was absent. The meteors were
distinguished not only by their enormous multitude, but by their
intrinsic magnificence. I shall never forget that night. On the
memorable evening I was engaged in my usual duty at that time of
observing nebulæ with Lord Rosse's great reflecting telescope. I was of
course aware that a shower of meteors had been predicted, but nothing
that I had heard prepared me for the splendid spectacle so soon to be
unfolded. It was about ten o'clock at night when an exclamation from an
attendant by my side made me look up from the telescope, just in time to
see a fine meteor dash across the sky. It was presently followed by
another, and then again by more in twos and in threes, which showed that
the prediction of a great shower was likely to be verified. At this time
the Earl of Rosse (then Lord Oxmantown) joined me at the telescope, and,
after a brief interval, we decided to cease our observations of the
nebulæ and ascend to the top of the wall of the great telescope (Fig. 7,
p. 18), whence a clear view of the whole hemisphere of the heavens could
be obtained. There, for the next two or three hours, we witnessed a
spectacle which can never fade from my memory. The shooting stars
gradually increased in number until sometimes several were seen at once.
Sometimes they swept over our heads, sometimes to the right, sometimes
to the left, but they all diverged from the east. As the night wore on,
the constellation Leo ascended above the horizon, and then the
remarkable character of the shower was disclosed. All the tracks of the
meteors radiated from Leo. (_See_ Fig. 74, p. 368.) Sometimes a meteor
appeared to come almost directly towards us, and then its path was so
foreshortened that it had hardly any appreciable length, and looked like
an ordinary fixed star swelling into brilliancy and then as rapidly
vanishing. Occasionally luminous trains would linger on for many minutes
after the meteor had flashed across, but the great majority of the
trains in this shower were evanescent. It would be impossible to say how
many thousands of meteors were seen, each one of which was bright enough
to have elicited a note of admiration on any ordinary night.

The adjoining figure (Fig. 77) shows the remarkable manner in which the
shooting stars of this shower diverged from a point. It is not to be
supposed that all these objects were in view at the same moment. The
observer of a shower is provided with a map of that part of the heavens
in which the shooting stars appear. He then fixes his attention on one
particular shooting star, and observes carefully its track with respect
to the fixed stars in its vicinity. He then draws a line upon his map
in the direction in which the shooting star moved. Repeating the same
observation for several other shooting stars belonging to the shower,
his map will hardly fail to show that their different tracks almost all
tend from one point or region of the figure. There are, it is true, a
few erratic ones, but the majority observe this law. It certainly looks,
at first sight, as if all the shooting stars did actually dart from this
point; but a little reflection will show that this is a case in which
the real motion is different from the apparent. If there actually were a
point from which these meteors diverged, then from different parts of
the earth the point would be seen in different positions with respect to
the fixed stars; but this is not the case. The radiant, as this point is
called, is seen in the same part of the heavens from whatever station
the shower is visible.

[Illustration: Fig. 77.--The Radiant Point of Shooting Stars.]

We are, therefore, led to accept the simple explanation afforded by the
theory of perspective. Those who are acquainted with the principles of
this science know that when a number of parallel lines in an object have
to be represented in a drawing, they must all be made to pass through
the same point in the plane of the picture. When we are looking at the
shooting stars, we see the projections of their paths upon the surface
of the heavens. From the fact that those paths pass through the same
point, we are to infer that the shooting stars belonging to the same
shower are moving in parallel lines.

We are now able to ascertain the actual direction in which the shooting
stars are moving, because a line drawn from the eye of the observer to
the radiant point must be parallel to that direction. Of course, it is
not intended to convey the idea that throughout all space the shooting
stars of one shower are moving in parallel lines; all we mean is that
during the short time in which we see them the motion of each of the
shooting stars is sensibly a straight line, and that all these straight
lines are parallel.

In the year 1883 the great meteor shoal of the Leonids (for so this
shower is called) attained its greatest distance from the sun, and then
commenced to return. Each year the earth crossed the orbit of the
meteors; but the shoal was not met with, and no noteworthy shower of
stars was perceived. Every succeeding year found the meteors approaching
the critical point, and the year 1899 brought the shoal to the earth's
track. In that year a brilliant meteoric shower was expected, but the
result fell far short of expectation. The shoal of meteors is of such
enormous length that it takes more than a year for the mighty procession
to pass through the critical portion of its orbit which lies across the
track of the earth. We thus see that the meteors cannot escape the
earth. It may be that when the shoal begins to reach this neighbourhood
the earth will have just left this part of its path, and a year will
have elapsed before the earth gets round again. Those meteors that have
the good fortune to be in the front of the shoal will thus escape the
net, but some of those behind will not be so fortunate, and the earth
will again devour an incredible host. It has sometimes happened that
casts into the shoal have been obtained in two consecutive years. If the
earth happened to pass through the front part in one year, then the
shoal is so long that the earth will have moved right round its orbit
of 600,000,000 miles, and will again dash through the critical spot
before the entire number have passed. History contains records of cases
when, in two consecutive Novembers, brilliant showers of Leonids have
been seen.

As the earth consumes such myriads of Leonids each thirty-three years,
it follows that the total number must be decreasing. The splendour of
the showers in future ages will, no doubt, be affected by this
circumstance. They cannot be always so bright as they have been. It is
also of interest to notice that the shape of the shoal is gradually
changing. Each meteor of the shoal moves in its own ellipse round the
sun, and is quite independent of the rest of these bodies. Each one has
thus a special period of revolution which depends upon the length of the
ellipse in which it happens to revolve. Two meteors will move around the
sun in the same time if the lengths of their ellipses are exactly equal,
but not otherwise. The lengths of these ellipses are many hundreds of
millions of miles, and it is impossible that they can be all absolutely
equal. In this may be detected the origin of a gradual change in the
character of the shower. Suppose two meteors A and B be such that A
travels completely round in thirty-three years, while B takes
thirty-four years. If the two start together, then when A has finished
the first round B will be a year behind; the next time B will be two
years behind, and so on. The case is exactly parallel to that of a
number of boys who start for a long race, in which they have to run
several times round the course before the distance has been
accomplished. At first they all start in a cluster, and perhaps for the
first round or two they may remain in comparative proximity; gradually,
however, the faster runners get ahead and the slower ones lag behind, so
the cluster becomes elongated. As the race continues, the cluster
becomes dispersed around the entire course, and perhaps the first boy
will even overtake the last. Such seems the destiny of the November
meteors in future ages. The cluster will in time come to be spread out
around the whole of this mighty track, and no longer will a superb
display have to be recorded every thirty-three years.

It was in connection with the shower of November meteors in 1866 that a
very interesting and beautiful discovery in mathematical astronomy was
made by Professor Adams. We have seen that the Leonids must move in an
elliptic path, and that they return every thirty-three years, but the
telescope cannot follow them during their wanderings. All that we know
by observation is the date of their occurrence, the point of the heavens
from which they radiate, and the great return every thirty-three years.
Putting these various facts together, it is possible to determine the
ellipse in which the meteors move--not exactly: the facts do not go so
far--they only tell us that the ellipse must be one of five possible
orbits. These five possible orbits are--firstly, the immense ellipse in
which we now know the meteorites do revolve, and for which they require
the whole thirty-three years to complete a revolution; secondly, a
nearly circular orbit, very little larger than the earth's path, which
the meteors would traverse in a few days more than a year; another
similar orbit, in which the time would be a few days short of the year;
and two other small elliptical orbits lying inside the earth's orbit. It
was clearly demonstrated by Professor Newton, of New Haven, U.S.A., that
the observed facts would be explained if the meteors moved in any one of
these paths, but that they could not be explained by any other
hypothesis. It remained to see which of these orbits was the true one.
Professor Newton himself made the suggestion of a possible method of
solving the problem. The test he proposed was one of some difficulty,
for it involved certain intricate calculations in the theory of
perturbations. Fortunately, however, Professor Adams undertook the
inquiry, and by his successful labours the path of the Leonids has been
completely ascertained.

[Illustration: Fig. 78.--The History of the Leonids.]

When the ancient records of the appearance of great Leonid showers were
examined, it was found that the date of their occurrence undergoes a
gradual and continuous change, which Professor Newton fixed at one day
in seventy years. It follows as a necessary consequence that the point
where the path of the meteors crosses the earth's track is not fixed,
but that at each successive return they cross at a point about half a
degree further on in the direction in which the earth is travelling. It
follows that the orbit in which the meteors are revolving is undergoing
change; the path they follow in one revolution varies slightly from that
pursued in the next. As, however, these changes proceed in the same
direction, they may gradually attain considerable dimensions; and the
amount of change which is produced in the path of the meteors in the
lapse of centuries may be estimated by the two ellipses shown in Fig.
78. The continuous line represents the orbit in A.D. 126; the dotted
line represents it at present.

This unmistakable change in the orbit is one that astronomers attribute
to what we have already spoken of as perturbation. It is certain that
the elliptic motion of these bodies is due to the sun, and that if they
were only acted on by the sun the ellipse would remain absolutely
unaltered. We see, then, in this gradual change of the ellipse the
influence of the attractions of the planets. It was shown that if the
meteors moved in the large orbit, this shifting of the path must be due
to the attraction of the planets Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and the Earth;
while if the meteors followed one of the smaller orbits, the planets
that would be near enough and massive enough to act sensibly on them
would be the Earth, Venus, and Jupiter. Here, then, we see how the
question may be answered by calculation. It is difficult, but it is
possible, to calculate what the attraction of the planets would be
capable of producing for each of the five different suppositions as to
the orbit. This is what Adams did. He found that if the meteors moved in
the great orbit, then the attraction of Jupiter would account for
two-thirds of the observed change, while the remaining third was due to
the influence of Saturn, supplemented by a small addition on account of
Uranus. In this way the calculation showed that the large orbit was a
possible one. Professor Adams also computed the amount of displacement
in the path that could be produced if the meteors revolved in any of the
four smaller ellipses. This investigation was one of an arduous
character, but the results amply repaid the labour. It was shown that
with the smaller ellipses it would be impossible to obtain a
displacement even one-half of that which was observed. These four orbits
must, therefore, be rejected. Thus the demonstration was complete that
it is in the large path that the meteors revolve.

The movements in each revolution are guided by Kepler's laws. When at
the part of its path most distant from the sun the velocity of a meteor
is at its lowest, being then but little more than a mile a second; as it
draws in, the speed gradually increases, until, when the meteor crosses
the earth's track, its velocity is no less than twenty-six miles a
second. The earth is moving very nearly in the opposite direction at
the rate of eighteen miles a second, so that, if the meteor happen to
strike the earth's atmosphere, it does so with the enormous velocity of
nearly forty-four miles a second. If a collision is escaped, then the
meteor resumes its onward journey with gradually declining velocity, and
by the time it has completed its circuit a period of thirty-three years
and a quarter will have elapsed.

The innumerable meteors which form the Leonids are arranged in an
enormous stream, of a breadth very small in comparison with its length.
If we represent the orbit by an ellipse whose length is seven feet, then
the meteor stream will be represented by a thread of the finest
sewing-silk, about a foot and a half or two feet long, creeping along
the orbit.[34] The size of this stream may be estimated from the
consideration that even its width cannot be less than 100,000 miles. Its
length may be estimated from the circumstance that, although its
velocity is about twenty-six miles a second, yet the stream takes about
two years to pass the point where its orbit crosses the earth's track.
On the memorable night between the 13th and 14th of November, 1866, the
earth plunged into this stream near its head, and did not emerge on the
other side until five hours later. During that time it happened that the
hemisphere of the earth which was in front contained the continents of
Europe, Asia, and Africa, and consequently it was in the Old World that
the great shower was seen. On that day twelvemonth, when the earth had
regained the same spot, the shoal had not entirely passed, and the earth
made another plunge. This time the American continent was in the van,
and consequently it was there that the shower of 1867 was seen. Even in
the following year the great shoal had not entirely passed, and since
then a few stragglers along the route have been encountered at each
annual transit of the earth across this meteoric highway.

The diagram is also designed to indicate a remarkable speculation which
was put forward on the high authority of Le Verrier, with the view of
explaining how the shoal came to be introduced into the solar system.
The orbit in which the meteors revolve does not intersect the paths of
Jupiter, Saturn, or Mars, but it does intersect the orbit of Uranus. It
must sometimes happen that Uranus is passing through this point of its
path just as the shoal arrives there. Le Verrier has demonstrated that
such an event took place in the year A.D. 126, but that it has not
happened since. We thus seem to have a clue to a very wonderful history
by which the meteors are shown to have come into our system in the year
named. The expectations or a repetition of the great shower in 1899
which had been widely entertained, and on good grounds, were not
realised. Hardly more than a few meteors of the ordinary type were
observed.

Assuming that the orbit of the August meteors was a parabola,
Schiaparelli computed the dimensions and position in space of this
orbit, and when he had worked this out, he noticed that the orbit
corresponded in every particular with the orbit of a fine comet which
had appeared in the summer of 1862. This could not be a mere matter of
accident. The plane in which the comet moved coincided exactly with that
in which the meteors moved; so did the directions of the axes of their
orbits, while the direction of the motion is the same, and the shortest
distance from the sun to the orbit is also in the two cases identical.
This proved to demonstration that there must be some profound physical
connection between comets and swarms of meteors. And a further proof of
this was shortly afterwards furnished, when Le Verrier had computed the
orbit of the November meteors, for this was at once noticed to be
precisely the same as the orbit of a comet which had passed its
perihelion in January, 1866, and for which the period of revolution had
been found to be thirty-three years and two months.

Among the Leonids we see occasionally fireballs brighter than Venus, and
even half the apparent size of the moon, bursting out with
lightning-like flashes, and leaving streaks which last from a minute to
an hour or more. But the great majority are only as bright as stars of
the second, third, or fourth magnitude. As the amount of light given by
a meteor depends on its mass and velocity, we can form some idea as to
the actual weight of one of these meteors, and it appears that most of
them do not weigh nearly as much as a quarter of an ounce; indeed, it is
probable that many do not weigh a single grain. But we have seen that a
comet in all probability is nothing but a very loose swarm of small
particles surrounded by gas of very slight density, and we have also
seen that the material of a comet must by degrees be more or less
dissipated through space. We have still to tell a wonderful story of the
breaking up of a comet and what appears to have become of the particles
thereof.

A copious meteoric shower took place on the night of the 27th November,
1872. On this occasion the shooting stars diverged from a radiant point
in the constellation of Andromeda. As a spectacle, it was unquestionably
inferior to the magnificent display of 1866, but it is difficult to say
which of the two showers has been of greater scientific importance.

It surely is a remarkable coincidence that the earth should encounter
the Andromedes (for so this shower is called) at the very moment when it
is crossing the track of Biela's comet. We have observed the direction
from which the Andromedes come when they plunge into the atmosphere; we
can ascertain also the direction in which Biela's comet is moving when
it passes the earth's track, and we find that the direction in which the
comet moves and the direction in which the meteors move are identical.
This is, in itself, a strong and almost overwhelming presumption that
the comet and the shooting stars are connected; but it is not all. We
have observations of this swarm dating back to the eighteenth century,
and we find that the date of its appearance has changed from the 6th or
7th of December to the end of November in perfect accordance with the
retrograde motion of the crossing-point of the earth's orbit and the
orbit of Biela's comet. This comet was observed in 1772, and again in
1805-6, before its periodic return every seven years was discovered. It
was discovered by Biela in 1826, and was observed again in 1832. In 1846
the astronomical world was startled to find that there were now two
comets in place of one, and the two fragments were again perceived at
the return in 1852. In 1859 Biela's comet could not be seen, owing to
its unfavourable situation with regard to the earth. No trace of Biela's
comet was seen in 1865-66, when its return was also due, nor has it ever
been seen since. It therefore appears that in the autumn of 1872 the
time had arrived for the return of Biela's comet, and thus the
occurrence of the great shower of the Andromedes took place about the
time when Biela's comet was actually due. The inference is irresistible
that the shooting stars, if not actually a part of the comet itself, are
at all events most intimately connected therewith. This shower is also
memorable for the telegram sent from Professor Klinkerfues to Mr. Pogson
at Madras. The telegram ran as follows:--"Biela touched earth on 27th.
Search near Theta Centauri." Pogson did search and did find a comet,
but, unfortunately, owing to bad weather he only secured observations of
it on two nights. As we require three observations to determine the
orbit of a planet or comet, it is not possible to compute the orbit of
Pogson's, but it seems almost certain that the latter cannot be
identical with either of the two components of Biela's comet. It is,
however, likely that it really was a comet moving along the same track
as Biela and the meteors.

Another display of the Biela meteors took place in 1885, just giving
time for two complete revolutions of the swarm since 1872. The display
on the 27th November, 1885, was magnificent; Professor Newton estimated
that at the time of maximum the meteors came on at the rate of 75,000
per hour. In 1892 the comet ought again to have returned to perihelion,
but in that year no meteors were seen on the 27th November, while many
were seen on the 23rd from the same radiant. The change in the point of
intersection between the orbit of the meteors and the orbit of the
earth indicated by this difference of four days was found by Bredichin
to be due to the perturbing action of Jupiter on the motion of the
swarm.

It is a noticeable circumstance that the great meteoric showers seem
never yet to have projected a missile which has reached the earth's
surface. Out of the myriads of Leonids, of Perseids, or of Andromedes,
not one particle has ever been seized and identified.[35] Those bodies
which fall from the sky to the earth, and which we call meteorites, do
not seem to come from the great showers, so far as we know. They may,
indeed, have quite a different origin from that of the periodic meteors.

It is somewhat curious that the belief in the celestial origin of
meteorites is of modern growth. In ancient times there were, no doubt,
rumours of wonderful stones which had fallen down from the heavens to
the earth, but these reports seem to have obtained but little credit.
They were a century ago regarded as perfectly fabulous, though there was
abundant testimony on the subject. Eye-witnesses averred that they had
seen the stones fall. The bodies themselves were unlike other objects in
the neighbourhood, and cases were even authenticated where men had been
killed by these celestial visitors.

No doubt the observations were generally made by ignorant and illiterate
persons. The true parts of the record were so mixed up with imaginary
additions, that cautious men refused to credit the statements that such
objects really fell from the sky. Even at the present day it is often
extremely difficult to obtain accurate testimony on such matters. For
instance, the fall of a meteorite was observed by a Hindoo in the
jungle. The stone was there, its meteoric character was undoubted, and
the witness was duly examined as to the details of the occurrence; but
he was so frightened by the noise and by the danger he believed himself
to have narrowly escaped, that he could tell little or nothing. He felt
certain, however, that the meteorite had hunted him for two hours
through the jungle before it fell to the earth!

In the year 1794 Chladni published an account of the remarkable mass of
iron which the traveller Pallas had discovered in Siberia. It was then
for the first time recognised that this object and others similar to it
must have had a celestial origin. But even Chladni's reputation and the
arguments he brought forward failed to procure universal assent. Shortly
afterwards a stone of fifty-six pounds was exhibited in London, which
several witnesses declared they had seen fall at Wold Cottage, in
Yorkshire, in 1795. This body was subsequently deposited in our national
collection, and is now to be seen in the Natural History Museum at South
Kensington. The evidence then began to pour in from other quarters;
portions of stone from Italy and from Benares were found to be of
identical composition with the Yorkshire stone. The incredulity of those
who had doubted the celestial origin of these objects began to give way.
A careful memoir on the Benares meteorite, by Howard, was published in
the "Philosophical Transactions" for 1802, while, as if to complete the
demonstration, a great shower of stones took place in the following year
at L'Aigle, in Normandy. The French Academy deputed the physicist Biot
to visit the locality and make a detailed examination of the
circumstances attending this memorable shower. His enquiry removed every
trace of doubt, and the meteoric stones have accordingly been
transferred from the dominions of geology to those of astronomy. It may
be noted that the recognition of the celestial origin of meteorites
happens to be simultaneous with the discovery of the first of the minor
planets. In each case our knowledge of the solar system has been
extended by the addition of numerous minute bodies, which,
notwithstanding their insignificant dimensions, are pregnant with
information.

When the possibility of stone-falls has been admitted, we can turn to
the ancient records, and assign to them the credit they merit, which
was withheld for so many centuries. Perhaps the earliest of all these
stone-falls which can be said to have much pretension to historical
accuracy is that of the shower which Livy describes as having fallen,
about the year 654 B.C., on the Alban Mount, near Rome. Among the more
modern instances, we may mention one which was authenticated in a very
emphatic manner. It occurred in the year 1492 at Ensisheim, in Alsace.
The Emperor Maximilian ordered a minute narrative of the circumstances
to be drawn up and deposited with the stone in the church. The stone was
suspended in the church for three centuries, until in the French
Revolution it was carried off to Colmar, and pieces were broken from it,
one of which is now in our national collection. Fortunately, this
interesting object has been restored to its ancient position in the
church at Ensisheim, where it remains an attraction to sight-seers at
this day. The account is as follows:--"In the year of the Lord 1492, on
the Wednesday before St. Martin's Day, November 7th, a singular miracle
occurred, for between eleven o'clock and noon there was a loud clap of
thunder and a prolonged confused noise, which was heard at a great
distance, and a stone fell from the air in the jurisdiction of Ensisheim
which weighed 260 pounds, and the confused noise was at other places
much louder than here. Then a boy saw it strike on ploughed ground in
the upper field towards the Rhine and the Ill, near the district of
Gisgang, which was sown with wheat, and it did no harm, except that it
made a hole there; and then they conveyed it from the spot, and many
pieces were broken from it, which the Land Vogt forbade. They therefore
caused it to be placed in the church, with the intention of suspending
it as a miracle, and there came here many people to see this stone, so
there were many remarkable conversations about this stone; the learned
said they knew not what it was, for it was beyond the ordinary course of
nature that such a large stone should smite from the height of the air,
but that it was really a miracle from God, for before that time never
was anything heard like it, nor seen, nor written. When they found that
stone, it had entered into the earth to half the depth of a man's
stature, which everybody explained to be the will of God that it should
be found, and the noise of it was heard at Lucerne, at Villingen, and at
many other places, so loud that the people thought that the houses had
been overturned; and as the King Maximilian was here, the Monday after
St. Catherine's Day of the same year, his Royal Excellency ordered the
stone which had fallen to be brought to the castle, and after having
conversed a long time about it with the noblemen, he said that the
people of Ensisheim should take it and order it to be hung up in the
church, and not to allow anybody to take anything from it. His
Excellency, however, took two pieces of it, of which he kept one, and
sent the other to Duke Sigismund of Austria, and there was a great deal
of talk about the stone, which was suspended in the choir, where it
still is, and a great many people came to see it."

Admitting the celestial origin of the meteorites, they surely claim our
closest attention. They afford the only direct method we possess of
obtaining a knowledge of the materials of bodies exterior to our planet.
We can take a meteorite in our hands, we can analyse it, and find the
elements of which it is composed. We shall not attempt to enter into any
very detailed account of the structure of meteorites; it is rather a
matter for the consideration of chemists and mineralogists than for
astronomers. A few of the more obvious features will be all that we
require. They will serve as a preliminary to the discussion of the
probable origin of these bodies.

In the Natural History Museum at South Kensington we may examine a
superb collection of meteorites. They have been brought together from
all parts of the earth, and vary in size from bodies not much larger
than a pin's head up to vast masses weighing many hundredweights. There
are also models of celebrated meteorites, of which the originals are
dispersed through various other museums.

Many meteorites have nothing very remarkable in their external
appearance. If they were met with on the sea beach, they would be passed
by without more notice than would be given to any other stone. Yet, what
a history a meteorite might tell us if we could only manage to obtain
it! It fell; it was seen to fall from the sky; but what was its course
anterior to that movement? Where was it 100 years ago, 1,000 years ago?
Through what regions of space has it wandered? Why did it never fall
before? Why has it actually now fallen? Such are some of the questions
which crowd upon us as we ponder over these most interesting bodies.
Some of these objects are composed of very characteristic materials;
take, for example, one of the more recent arrivals, known as the Rowton
siderite. This body differs very much from the more ordinary kind of
stony meteorite. It is an object which even a casual passer-by would
hardly pass without notice. Its great weight would also attract
attention, while if it be scratched or rubbed with a file, it would
appear to be a mass of nearly pure iron. We know the circumstances in
which that piece of iron fell to the earth. It was on the 20th of April,
1876, about 3.40 p.m., that a strange rumbling noise, followed by a
startling explosion, was heard over an area of several miles in extent
among the villages in Shropshire, eight or ten miles north of the
Wrekin. About an hour after this occurrence a farmer noticed that the
ground in one of his grass-fields had been disturbed, and he probed the
hole which the meteorite had made, and found it, still warm, about
eighteen inches below the surface. Some men working at no great distance
had heard the noise made in its descent. This remarkable object, weighs
7-3/4 lbs. It is an irregular angular mass of iron, though all its edges
seem to have been rounded by fusion in its transit through the air. It
is covered with a thick black pellicle of the magnetic oxide of iron,
except at the point where it first struck the ground. The Duke of
Cleveland, on whose property it fell, afterwards presented it to our
national institution already referred to, where, as the Rowton siderite,
it attracts the attention of everyone who is interested in these
wonderful bodies.

This siderite is specially interesting on account of its distinctly
metallic character. Falls of objects of this particular type are not so
frequent as are those of the stony meteorites; in fact, there are only a
few known instances of meteoric irons having been actually seen to
fall, while the observed falls of stony meteorites are to be counted in
scores or in hundreds. The inference is that the iron meteorites are
much less frequent than the stony ones. This is, however, not the
impression that the visitor to the Museum would be likely to receive. In
that extensive collection the meteoric irons are by far the most
striking objects. The explanation is not difficult. Those gigantic
masses of iron are unquestionably meteoric: no one doubts that this is
the case. Yet the vast majority of them have never been seen to fall;
they have simply been found, in circumstances which point unmistakably
to their meteoric nature. Suppose, for instance, that a traveller on one
of the plains of Siberia or of Central America finds a mass of metallic
iron lying on the surface of the ground, what explanation can be
rendered of such an occurrence? No one has brought the iron there, and
there is no iron within hundreds of miles. Man never fashioned that
object, and the iron is found to be alloyed with nickel in a manner that
is always observed in known meteorites, and is generally regarded as a
sure indication of a meteoric origin. Observe also, that as iron
perishes by corrosion in our atmosphere, that great mass of iron cannot
have lain where it is for indefinite ages; it must have been placed
there at some finite time. Only one source for such an object is
conceivable; it must have fallen from the sky. On the same plains the
stony meteorites have also fallen in hundreds and in thousands, but they
crumble away in the course of time, and in any case would not arrest the
attention of the traveller as the irons are likely to do. Hence it
follows, that although the stony meteorites seem to fall much more
frequently, yet, unless they are actually observed at the moment of
descent, they are much more liable to be overlooked than the meteoric
irons. Hence it is that the more prominent objects of the British
collection are the meteoric irons.

We have said that a noise accompanied the descent of the Rowton
siderite, and it is on record that a loud explosion took place when the
meteorite fell at Ensisheim. In this we have a characteristic feature of
the phenomenon. Nearly all the descents of meteorites that have been
observed seem to have been ushered in by a detonation. We do not,
however, assert that this is quite an invariable feature; and it is also
the case that meteors often detonate without throwing down any solid
fragments that have been collected. The violence associated with the
phenomenon is forcibly illustrated by the Butsura meteorite. This object
fell in India in 1861. A loud explosion was heard, several fragments of
stone were collected from distances three or four miles apart; and when
brought together, they were found to fit, so as to enable the primitive
form of the meteorite to be reconstructed. A few of the pieces are
wanting (they were, no doubt, lost by falling unobserved into localities
from which they could not be recovered), but we have obtained pieces
quite numerous enough to permit us to form a good idea of the irregular
shape of the object before the explosion occurred which shattered it
into fragments. This is one of the ordinary stony meteorites, and is
thus contrasted with the Rowton siderite which we have just been
considering. There are also other types of meteorites. The Breitenbach
iron, as it is called, is a good representative of a class of these
bodies which lie intermediate between the meteoric irons and the stones.
It consists of a coarsely cellular mass of iron, the cavities being
filled with mineral substances. In the Museum, sections of intermediate
forms are shown in which this structure is exhibited.

Look first at the most obvious characteristic of these meteorites. We do
not now allude to their chemical composition, but to their external
appearance. What is the most remarkable feature in the shape of these
objects?--surely it is that they are fragments. They are evidently
pieces that are _broken_ from some larger object. This is apparent by
merely looking at their form; it is still more manifest when we examine
their mechanical structure. It is often found that meteorites are
themselves composed of smaller fragments. Such a structure may be
illustrated by a section of an aërolite found on the Sierra of Chaco,
weighing about 30 lbs. (Fig. 79).

The section here represented shows the composite structure of this
object, which belongs to the class of stony meteorites. Its shape shows
that it was really a fragment with angular edges and corners. No doubt
it may have been much more considerable when it first dashed into the
atmosphere. The angular edges now seen on the exterior may be due to an
explosion which then occurred; but this will not account for the
structure of the interior. We there see irregular pieces of varied form
and material agglomerated into a single mass. If we would seek for
analogous objects on the earth, we must look to some of the volcanic
rocks, where we have multitudes of irregular angular fragments cemented
together by a matrix in which they are imbedded. The evidence presented
by this meteorite is conclusive as to one circumstance with regard to
the origin of these objects. They must have come as fragments, from some
body of considerable, if not of vast, dimensions. In this meteorite
there are numerous small grains of iron mingled with mineral substances.
The iron in many meteorites has, indeed, characters resembling those
produced by the actual blasting of iron by dynamite. Thus, a large
meteoric iron from Brazil has been found to have been actually shivered
into fragments at some time anterior to its fall on the earth. These
fragments have been cemented together again by irregular veins of
mineral substances.

[Illustration: Fig. 79.--Section of the Chaco Meteorite.]

For an aërolite of a very different type we may refer to the
carbonaceous meteorite of Orgueil, which fell in France on the 14th May,
1864. On the occasion of its descent a splendid meteor was seen,
rivalling the full moon in size. The actual diameter of this globe of
fire must have been some hundreds of yards. Nearly a hundred fragments
of the body were found scattered over a tract of country fifteen miles
long. This object is of particular interest, inasmuch as it belongs to a
rare group of aërolites, from which metallic iron is absent. It contains
many of the same minerals which are met with in other meteorites, but in
these fragments they are _associated with carbon_, and with substances
of a white or yellowish crystallisable material, soluble in ether, and
resembling some of the hydrocarbons. Such a substance, if it had not
been seen falling to the earth, would probably be deemed a product
resulting from animal or vegetable life!

We have pointed out how a body moving with great velocity and impinging
upon the air may become red-hot and white-hot, or even be driven off
into vapour. How, then, does it happen that meteorites escape this fiery
ordeal, and fall down to the earth, with a great velocity, no doubt, but
still, with very much less than that which would have sufficed to drive
them off into vapour? Had the Rowton siderite, for instance, struck our
atmosphere with a velocity of twenty miles a second, it seems
unquestionable that it would have been dissipated by heat, though, no
doubt, the particles would ultimately coalesce so as to descend slowly
to the earth in microscopic beads of iron. How has the meteorite escaped
this fate? It must be remembered that our earth is also moving with a
velocity of about eighteen miles per second, and that the _relative_
velocity with which the meteorite plunges into the air is that which
will determine the degree to which friction is operating. If the
meteorite come into direct collision with the earth, the velocity of the
collision will be extremely great; but it may happen that though the
actual velocities of the two bodies are both enormous, yet the relative
velocity may be comparatively small. This is, at all events, one
conceivable explanation of the arrival of a meteorite on the surface of
the earth.

We have shown in the earlier parts of the chapter that the well-known
star showers are intimately connected with comets. In fact, each star
shower revolves in the path pursued by a comet, and the shooting star
particles have, in all probability, been themselves derived from the
comet. Showers of shooting stars have, therefore, an intimate connection
with comets, but it is doubtful whether meteorites have any connection
with comets. It has already been remarked that meteorites have never
been known to fall in the great star showers. No particle of a meteorite
is known to have dropped from the countless host of the Leonids or of
the Perseids; as far as we know, the Lyrids never dropped a meteorite,
nor did the Quadrantids, the Geminids, or the many other showers with
which every astronomer is familiar. There is no reason to connect
meteorites with these showers, and it is, therefore, doubtful whether we
should connect meteorites with comets.

With reference to the origin of meteorites it is difficult to speak with
any great degree of confidence. Every theory of meteorites presents
difficulties, so it seems that the only course open to us is to choose
that view of their origin which seems least improbable. It appears to me
that this condition is fulfilled in the theory entertained by the
Austrian mineralogist, Tschermak. He has made a study of the meteorites
in the rich collection at Vienna, and he has come to the conclusion that
the "meteorites have had a volcanic source on some celestial body." Let
us attempt to pursue this reasoning and discuss the problem, which may
be thus stated:--Assuming that at least some of the meteorites have been
ejected from volcanoes, on what body or bodies in the universe must
these volcanoes be situated? This is really a question for astronomers
and mathematicians. Once the mineralogists assure us that these bodies
are volcanic, the question becomes one of calculation and of the balance
of probabilities.

The first step in the enquiry is to realise distinctly the dynamical
conditions of the problem. Conceive a volcano to be located on a planet.
The volcano is supposed to be in a state of eruption, and in one of its
mighty throes projects a missile aloft: this missile will ascend, it
will stop, and fall down again. Such is the case at present in the
eruptions of terrestrial volcanoes. Cotopaxi has been known to hurl
prodigious stones to a vast height, but these stones assuredly return to
earth. The gravitation of the earth has gradually overcome the velocity
produced by the explosion, and down the body falls. But let us suppose
that the eruption is still more violent, and that the stones are
projected from the planet to a still greater height above its surface.
Suppose, for instance, that the stone should be shot up to a height
equal to the planet's radius, the attraction of gravitation will then be
reduced to one-fourth of what it was at the surface, and hence the
planet will find greater difficulty in pulling back the stone. Not only
is the distance through which the stone has to be pulled back increased
as the height increases, but the efficiency of gravitation is weakened,
so that in a twofold way the difficulty of recalling the stone is
increased. We have already more than once alluded to this subject, and
we have shown that there is a certain critical velocity appropriate to
each planet, and depending on its mass and its radius. If the missile be
projected upwards with a velocity equal to or greater than this, then it
will ascend never to return. We all recollect Jules Verne's voyage to
the moon, in which he described the Columbiad, an imaginary cannon,
capable of shooting out a projectile with a velocity of six or seven
miles a second. This is the critical velocity for the earth. If we could
imagine the air removed, then a cannon of seven-mile power would project
a body upwards which would never fall down.

The great difficulty about Tschermak's view of the volcanic origin of
the meteorites lies in the tremendous initial velocity which is
required. The Columbiad is a myth, and we know no agent, natural or
artificial, at the present time on the earth, adequate to the production
of a velocity so appalling. The thunders of Krakatoa were heard
thousands of miles away, but in its mightiest throes it discharged no
missiles with a velocity of six miles a second. We are therefore led to
enquire whether any of the other celestial bodies are entitled to the
parentage of the meteorites. We cannot see volcanoes on any other body
except the moon; all the other bodies are too remote for an inspection
so minute. Does it seem likely that volcanoes on the moon can ever
launch forth missiles which fall upon the earth?

This belief was once sustained by eminent authority. The mass of the
moon is about one-eightieth of the mass of the earth. It would not be
true to assert that the critical velocity of projection varies directly
as the mass of the planet. The correct law is, that it varies directly
as the square root of the mass, and inversely as the square root of the
radius. It is hence shown that the velocity required to project a
missile away from the moon is only about one-sixth of that which would
be required to project a missile away from the earth. If the moon had on
its surface volcanoes of one-mile power, it is quite conceivable that
these might be the source of meteorites. We have seen how the whole
surface of the moon shows traces of intense volcanic activity. A missile
thus projected from the moon could undoubtedly fall on the earth, and it
is not impossible that some of the meteorites may really have come from
this source. There is, however, one great difficulty about the volcanoes
on the moon. Suppose an object were so projected, it would, under the
attraction of the earth, in accordance with Kepler's laws, move around
the earth as a focus. If we set aside the disturbances produced by all
other bodies, as well as the disturbance produced by the moon itself, we
see that the meteorite if it once misses the earth can never fall
thereon. It would be necessary that the shortest distance of the earth's
centre from the orbit of the projectile should be less than the radius
of the earth, so that if a lunar meteorite is to fall on the earth, it
must do so the first time it goes round. The journey of a meteorite from
the moon to the earth is only a matter of days, and therefore, as
meteorites are still falling, it would follow that they must still be
constantly ejected from the moon. The volcanoes on the moon are,
however, not now active; observers have long studied its surface, and
they find no reliable traces of volcanic activity at the present day.
It is utterly out of the question, whatever the moon may once have been
able to do, that at the present date she could still continue to launch
forth meteorites. It is just possible that a meteorite expelled from the
moon in remote antiquity, when its volcanoes were active, may, under the
influence of the disturbances of the other bodies of the system, have
its orbit so altered, that at length it comes within reach of the
atmosphere and falls to the earth, but in no circumstances could the
moon send us a meteorite at present. It is therefore reasonable to look
elsewhere in our search for volcanoes fulfilling the conditions of the
problem.

Let us now direct our attention to the planets, and examine the
circumstances in which volcanoes located thereon could eject a meteorite
which should ultimately tumble on the earth. We cannot see the planets
well enough to tell whether they have or ever had any volcanoes; but the
almost universal presence of heat in the large celestial masses seems to
leave us in little doubt that some form of volcanic action might be
found in the planets. We may at once dismiss the giant planets, such as
Jupiter or Saturn: their appearance is very unlike a volcanic surface;
while their great mass would render it necessary to suppose that the
meteorites were expelled with terrific velocity if they should succeed
in escaping from the gravitation of the planet. Applying the rule
already given, a volcano on Jupiter would have to be five or six times
as powerful as the volcano on the earth. To avoid this difficulty, we
naturally turn to the smaller planets of the system; take, for instance,
one of that innumerable host of minor planets, and let us enquire how
far this body is likely to have ejected a missile which should fall upon
the earth. Some of these globes are only a few miles in diameter. There
are bodies in the solar system so small that a very moderate velocity
would be sufficient to project a missile away from them altogether. We
have, indeed, already illustrated this point in discussing the minor
planets. It has been suggested that a volcano placed on one of the minor
planets might be quite powerful enough to start the meteorites on a
long ramble through space until the chapter of accidents brought them
into collision with the earth. There is but little difficulty in
granting that there might be such volcanoes, and that they might be
sufficiently powerful to drive bodies from the surface of the planet;
but we must remember that the missiles are to fall on the earth, and
dynamical considerations are involved which merit our close attention.
To concentrate our ideas, we shall consider one of the minor planets,
and for this purpose let us take Ceres. If a meteorite is to fall upon
the earth, it must pass through the narrow ring, some 8,000 miles wide,
which marks the earth's path; it will not suffice for the missile to
pass through the ecliptic on the inside or on the outside of the ring,
it must be actually through this narrow strip, and then if the earth
happens to be there at the same moment the meteorite will fall. The
first condition to be secured is, therefore, that the path of the
meteorite shall traverse this narrow ring. This is to be effected by
projection from some point in the orbit of Ceres. But it can be shown on
purely dynamical grounds that although the volcanic energy sufficient to
remove the projectile from Ceres may be of no great account, yet if that
projectile is to cross the earth's track, the dynamical requirements of
the case demand a volcano on Ceres at the very least of three-mile
power. We have thus gained but little by the suggestion of a minor
planet, for we have not found that a moderate volcanic power would be
adequate. But there is another difficulty in the case of Ceres, inasmuch
as the ring on the ecliptic is very narrow in comparison with the other
dimensions of the problem. Ceres is a long way off, and it would require
very great accuracy in volcanic practice on Ceres to project a missile
so that it should just traverse this ring and fall neither inside nor
outside, neither above nor below. There must be a great many misses for
every hit. We have attempted to make the calculation by the aid of the
theory of probabilities, and we find that the chances against this
occurrence are about 50,000 to 1, so that out of every 50,000
projectiles hurled from a point in the orbit of Ceres only a single one
can be expected to satisfy even the first of the conditions necessary if
it is ever to tumble on our globe. It is thus evident that there are two
objections to Ceres (and the same may be said of the other minor
planets) as a possible source of the meteorites. Firstly, that
notwithstanding the small mass of the planet a very powerful volcano
would still be required; and secondly, that we are obliged to assume
that for every one which ever reached the earth at least 50,000 must
have been ejected. It is thus plain that if the meteorites have really
been driven from some planet of the solar system, large or small, the
volcano must, from one cause or another, have been a very powerful one.
We are thus led to enquire which planet possesses on other grounds the
greatest probability in its favour.

We admit of course that at the present time the volcanoes on the earth
are utterly devoid of the necessary power; but were the terrestrial
volcanoes always so feeble as they are in these later days? Grounds are
not wanting for the belief that in the very early days of geological
time the volcanic energy on the earth was much greater than at present.
We admit fully the difficulties of the view that the meteorites have
really come from the earth; but they must have some origin, and it is
reasonable to indicate the source which seems to have most probability
in its favour. Grant for a moment that in the primæval days of volcanic
activity there were some mighty throes which hurled forth missiles with
the adequate velocity: these missiles would ascend, they would pass from
the gravitation of the earth, they would be seized by the gravitation of
the sun, and they would be compelled to revolve around the sun for ever
after. No doubt the resistance of the air would be a very great
difficulty, but this resistance would be greatly lessened were the
crater at a very high elevation above the sea level, while, if a vast
volume of ejected gases or vapours accompanied the more solid material,
the effect of the resistance of the air would be still further reduced.
Some of these objects might perhaps revolve in hyperbolic orbits, and
retreat never to return; while others would be driven into elliptic
paths. Round the sun these objects would revolve for ages, but at each
revolution--and here is the important point--they would traverse the
point from which they were originally launched. In other words, every
object so projected from the earth would at each revolution cross the
track of the earth. We have in this fact an enormous probability in
favour of the earth as contrasted with Ceres. Only one Ceres-ejected
meteorite out of every 50,000 would probably cross the earth's track,
while every earth-projected meteorite would necessarily do so.

If this view be true, then there must be hosts of meteorites traversing
space in elliptic orbits around the sun. These orbits have one feature
in common: they all intersect the track of the earth. It will sometimes
happen that the earth is found at this point at the moment the meteorite
is crossing; when this is the case the long travels of the little body
are at an end, and it tumbles back on the earth from which it parted so
many ages ago.

It is well to emphasise the contrast between the lunar theory of
meteorites (which we think improbable) and the terrestrial theory (which
appears to be probable). For the lunar theory it would, as we have seen,
be necessary that some of the lunar volcanoes should be still active. In
the terrestrial theory it is only necessary to suppose that the
volcanoes on the earth once possessed sufficient explosive power. No one
supposes that the volcanoes at present on the earth eject now the
fragments which are to form future meteorites; but it seems possible
that the earth may be now slowly gathering back, in these quiet times,
the fragments she ejected in an early stage of her history. Assuming,
therefore, with Tschermak, that many meteorites have had a volcanic
origin on some considerable celestial body, we are led to agree with
those who think that most probably that body is the earth.

It is interesting to notice a few circumstances which seem to
corroborate the view that many meteorites are of ancient terrestrial
origin. The most characteristic constituent of these bodies is the alloy
of iron and nickel, which is almost universally present. Sometimes, as
in the Rowton siderite, the whole object consists of little else;
sometimes this alloy is in grains distributed through the mass. When
Nordenskjöld discovered in Greenland a mass of native iron containing
nickel, this was at once regarded as a celestial visitor. It was called
the Ovifak meteorite, and large pieces of the iron were conveyed to our
museums. There is, for instance, in the national collection a most
interesting exhibit of the Ovifak substance. Close examination shows
that this so-called meteorite lies in a bed of basalt which has been
vomited from the interior of the earth. Those who believe in the
meteoric origin of the Ovifak iron are constrained to admit that shortly
after the eruption of the basalt, and while it was still soft, this
stupendous iron meteorite of gigantic mass and bulk happened to fall
into this particular soft bed. The view is, however, steadily gaining
ground that this great iron mass was no celestial visitor at all, but
that it simply came forth from the interior of the earth with the basalt
itself. The beautiful specimens in the British Museum show how the iron
graduates into the basalt in such a way as to make it highly probable
that the source of the iron is really to be sought in the earth and not
external thereto. Should further research establish this, as now seems
probable, a most important step will have been taken in proving the
terrestrial origin of meteorites. If the Ovifak iron be really
associated with the basalt, we have a proof that the iron-nickel alloy
is indeed a terrestrial substance, found deep in the interior of the
earth, and associated with volcanic phenomena. This being so, it will be
no longer difficult to account for the iron in undoubted meteorites.
When the vast volcanoes were in activity they ejected masses of this
iron-alloy, which, having circulated round the sun for ages, have at
last come back again. As if to confirm this view, Professor Andrews
discovered particles of native iron in the basalt of the Giant's
Causeway, while the probability that large masses of iron are there
associated with the basaltic formation was proved by the researches on
magnetism of the late Provost Lloyd.

Besides the more solid meteorites there can be no doubt that the
_débris_ of the ordinary shooting stars must rain down upon the earth in
gentle showers of celestial dust. The snow in the Arctic regions has
often been found stained with traces of dust which contains particles of
iron. Similar particles have been found on the towers of cathedrals and
in many other situations where it could only have been deposited from
the air. There can be hardly a doubt that some of the motes in the
sunbeam, and many of the particles which good housekeepers abhor as
dust, have indeed a cosmical origin. In the famous cruise of the
_Challenger_ the dredges brought up from the depths of the Atlantic no
"wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl," but among the mud which
they raised are to be found numerous magnetic particles which there is
every reason to believe fell from the sky, and thence subsided to the
depths of the ocean. Sand from the deserts of Africa, when examined
under the microscope, yield traces of minute iron particles which bear
the marks of having experienced a high temperature.

The earth draws in this cosmic dust continuously, but the earth now
never parts with a particle of its mass. The consequence is inevitable;
the mass of the earth must be growing, and though the change may be a
small one, yet to those who have studied Darwin's treatise on
"Earth-worms," or to those who are acquainted with the modern theory of
evolution, it will be manifest that stupendous results can be achieved
by slight causes which tend in one direction. It is quite probable that
an appreciable part of the solid substance of our globe may have been
derived from meteoric matter which descends in perennial showers upon
its surface.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE STARRY HEAVENS.


     The Constellations--The Great Bear and the Pointers--The Pole
     Star--Cassiopeia--Andromeda, Pegasus, and Perseus--The Pleiades:
     Auriga, Capella, Aldebaran--Taurus, Orion, Sirius; Castor and
     Pollux--The Lion--Boötes, Corona, and Hercules--Virgo and
     Spica--Vega and Lyra--The Swan.

The student of astronomy should make himself acquainted with the
principal constellations in the heavens. This is a pleasing acquirement,
and might well form a part of the education of every child in the
kingdom. We shall commence our discussion of the sidereal system with a
brief account of the principal constellations visible in the northern
hemisphere, and we accompany our description with such outline maps of
the stars as will enable the beginner to identify the chief features of
the starry heavens.

In an earlier chapter we directed the attention of the student to the
remarkable constellation of stars which is known to astronomers as Ursa
Major, or the Great Bear. It forms the most conspicuous group in the
northern skies, and in northern latitudes it never sets. At eleven p.m.
in the month of April the Great Bear is directly overhead (for an
observer in the United Kingdom); at the same hour in September it is low
down in the north; at the same hour July it is in the west; by Christmas
it is at the east. From the remotest antiquity this group of stars has
attracted attention. The stars in the Great Bear were comprised in a
great catalogue of stars, made two thousand years ago, which has been
handed down to us. From the positions of the stars given in this
catalogue it is possible to reconstruct the Great Bear as it appeared in
those early days. This has been done, and it appears that the seven
principal stars have not changed in this lapse of time to any large
extent, so that the configuration of the Great Bear remains practically
the same now as it was then. The beginner must first obtain an
acquaintance with this group of seven stars, and then his further
progress in this branch of astronomy will be greatly facilitated. The
Great Bear is, indeed, a splendid constellation, and its only rival is
to be found in Orion, which contains more brilliant stars, though it
does not occupy so large a region in the heavens.

[Illustration: Fig. 80.--The Great Bear and Pole Star.]

[Illustration: Fig. 81.--The Great Bear and Cassiopeia.]

In the first place, we observe how the Great Bear enables the Pole Star,
which is the most important object in the northern heavens, to be
readily found. The Pole Star is very conveniently indicated by the
direction of the two stars, b and a, of the Great Bear, which
are, accordingly, generally known as the "pointers." This use of the
Great Bear is shown on the diagram in Fig. 80, in which the line b
a, produced onwards and slightly curved, will conduct to the Pole
Star. There is no likelihood of making any mistake in this star, as it
is the only bright one in the neighbourhood. Once it has been seen it
will be readily identified on future occasions, and the observer will
not fail to notice how constant is the position which it preserves in
the heavens. The other stars either rise or set, or, like the Great
Bear, they dip down low in the north without actually setting, but the
Pole Star exhibits no considerable changes. In summer or winter, by
night or by day, the Pole Star is ever found in the same place--at
least, so far as ordinary observation is concerned. No doubt, when we
use the accurate instruments of the observatory the notion of the fixity
of the Pole Star is abandoned; we then see that it has a slow motion,
and that it describes a small circle every twenty-four hours around the
true pole of the heavens, which is not coincident with the Pole Star,
though closely adjacent thereto. The distance is at present a little
more than a degree, and it is gradually lessening, until, in the year
A.D. 2095, the distance will be under half a degree.

The Pole Star itself belongs to another inconsiderable group of stars
known as the Little Bear. The two principal members of this group, next
in brightness to the Pole Star, are sometimes called the "Guards." The
Great Bear and the Little Bear, with the Pole Star, form a group in the
northern sky not paralleled by any similarly situated constellation in
the southern heavens. At the South Pole there is no conspicuous star to
indicate its position approximately--a circumstance disadvantageous to
astronomers and navigators in the southern hemisphere.

It will now be easy to add a third constellation to the two already
acquired. On the opposite side of the Pole Star to the Great Bear, and
at about the same distance, lies a very pleasing group of five bright
stars, forming a W. These are the more conspicuous members of the
constellation Cassiopeia, which contains altogether about sixty stars
visible to the naked eye. When the Great Bear is low down in the north,
then Cassiopeia is high overhead. When the Great Bear is high overhead,
then Cassiopeia is to be looked for low down in the north. The
configuration of the leading stars is so striking that once the eye has
recognised them future identification will be very easy--the more so
when it is borne in mind that the Pole Star lies midway between
Cassiopeia and the Great Bear (Fig. 81). These important constellations
will serve as guides to the rest. We shall accordingly show how the
learner may distinguish the various other groups visible from the
British Islands or similar northern latitudes.

The next constellation to be recognised is the imposing group which
contains the Great Square of Pegasus. This is not, like Ursa Major, or
like Cassiopeia, said to be "circumpolar." The Great Square of Pegasus
sets and rises daily. It cannot be seen conveniently during the spring
and the summer, but in autumn and in winter the four stars which mark
the corners of the square can be easily recognised. There are certain
small stars within the region so limited; perhaps about thirty can be
counted by an unaided eye of ordinary power in these latitudes. In the
south of Europe, with its pure and bright skies, the number of visible
stars appears to be greatly increased. An acute observer at Athens has
counted 102 in the same region.

[Illustration: Fig. 82.--The Great Square of Pegasus.]

The Great Square of Pegasus can be reached by a line from the Pole Star
over the end of Cassiopeia. If it be produced about as far again it will
conduct the eye to the centre of the Great Square of Pegasus (Fig. 82).

The line through b and a in Pegasus continued 45° to the
south points out the important star Fomalhaut in the mouth of the
Southern Fish. To the right of this line, nearly half-way down, is the
rather vague constellation of Aquarius, where a small equilateral
triangle with a star in the centre may be noticed.

The square of Pegasus is not a felicitous illustration of the way in
which the boundaries of the constellations should be defined. There can
be no more naturally associated group than the four stars of this
square, and they ought surely to be included in the same constellation.
Three of the stars--marked a, b, g--do belong to Pegasus; but that at
the fourth corner--also marked a--is placed in a different figure, known
as Andromeda, whereof it is, indeed, the brightest member. The remaining
bright stars of Andromeda are marked b and g, and they are readily
identified by producing one side of the Square of Pegasus in a curved
direction. We have thus a remarkable array of seven stars, which it is
both easy to identify and easy to remember, notwithstanding that they
are contributed to by three different constellations. They are
respectively a, b, and g of Pegasus; a, b, and g of Andromeda; and a of
Perseus. The three form a sort of handle, as it were, extending from one
side of the square, and are a group both striking in appearance, and
useful in the further identification of celestial objects. b Andromedæ,
with two smaller stars, form the girdle of the unfortunate heroine.

a Persei lies between two other stars (g and d) of the
same constellation. If we draw a curve through these three and prolong
it in a bold sweep, we are conducted to one of the gems of the northern
heavens--the beautiful star Capella, in Auriga (Fig. 83). Close to
Capella are three small stars forming an isosceles triangle--these are
the Hoedi or Kids. Capella and Vega are, with the exception of
Arcturus, the two most brilliant stars in the northern heavens; and
though Vega is probably the more lustrous of the two, yet the opposite
opinion has been entertained. Different eyes will frequently form
various estimates of the relative brilliancy of stars which approach
each other in brightness. The difficulty of making a satisfactory
comparison between Vega and Capella is greatly increased by the wide
distance in the heavens at which they are separated, as well as by a
slight difference in colour, for Vega is distinctly whiter than Capella.
This contrast between the colour of stars is often a source of
uncertainty in the attempt to compare their relative brilliancy; so
that when actual measurements have to be effected by instrumental means,
it is necessary to compare the two stars alternately with some object of
intermediate hue.

[Illustration: Fig. 83.--Perseus and its Neighbouring Stars.]

On the opposite side of the pole to Capella, but not quite so far away,
will be found four small stars in a quadrilateral. They form the head of
the Dragon, the rest of whose form coils right round the pole.

If we continue the curve formed by the three stars g, a, and
d in Perseus, and if we bend round this curve gracefully into one
of an opposite flexion, in the manner shown in Fig. 83, we are first
conducted to two other principal stars in Perseus, marked e and
z. The region of Perseus is one of the richest in the heavens. We
have here a most splendid portion of the Milky Way, and the field of
the telescope is crowded with stars beyond number. Even a small
telescope or an opera-glass directed to this teeming constellation
cannot fail to delight the observer, and convey to him a profound
impression of the extent of the sidereal heavens. We shall give in a
subsequent paragraph a brief enumeration of some of the remarkable
telescopic objects in Perseus. Pursuing in the same figure the line
e and z, we are conducted to the remarkable little group
known as the Pleiades.

[Illustration: Fig. 84.--The Pleiades.]

The Pleiades form a group so universally known and so easily identified
that it hardly seems necessary to give any further specific instructions
for their discovery. It may, however, be observed that in these
latitudes they cannot be seen before midnight during the summer. Let us
suppose that the search is made at about 11 p.m. at night: on the 1st of
January the Pleiades will be found high up in the sky in the south-west;
on the 1st of March, at the same hour, they will be seen to be setting
in the west. On the 1st of May they are not visible; on the 1st of July
they are not visible; on the 1st of September they will be seen low down
in the east. On the 1st of November they will be high in the heavens in
the south-east. On the ensuing 1st of January the Pleiades will be in
the same position as they were on the same date in the previous year,
and so on from year to year. It need, perhaps, hardly be explained here
that these changes are not really due to movements of the
constellations; they are due, of course, to the apparent annual motion
of the sun among the stars.

[Illustration: Fig. 85.--Orion, Sirius, and the Neighbouring Stars.]

The Pleiades are shown in the figure (Fig. 84), where a group of ten
stars is represented, this being about the number visible with the
unaided eye to those who are gifted with very acute vision. The lowest
telescopic power will increase the number of stars to thirty or forty
(Galileo saw more than forty with his first telescope), while with
telescopes of greater power the number is largely increased; indeed, no
fewer than 625 have been counted with the aid of a powerful telescope.
The group is, however, rather too widely scattered to make an effective
telescopic object, except with a large field and low power. Viewed
through an opera-glass it forms a very pleasing spectacle.

[Illustration: Fig. 86.--Castor and Pollux.]

If we draw a ray from the Pole Star to Capella, and produce it
sufficiently far, as shown in Fig. 85, we come to the great
constellation of our winter sky, the splendid group of Orion. The
brilliancy of the stars in Orion, the conspicuous belt, and the
telescopic objects which it contains, alike render this group
remarkable, and place it perhaps at the head of the constellations. The
leading star in Orion is known either as a Orionis, or as
Betelgeuze, by which name it is here designated. It lies above the three
stars, d, e, z, which form the belt. Betelgeuze is a
star of the first magnitude, and so also is Rigel, on the opposite side
of the belt. Orion thus enjoys the distinction of containing two stars
of the first magnitude in its group, while the five other stars shown in
Fig. 85 are of the second magnitude.

The neighbourhood of Orion contains some important stars. If we carry on
the line of the belt upwards to the right, we are conducted to another
star of the first magnitude, Aldebaran, which strongly resembles
Betelgeuze in its ruddy colour. Aldebaran is the brightest star in the
constellation of Taurus. It is this constellation which contains the
Pleiades already referred to, and another more scattered group known as
the Hyades, which can be discovered near Aldebaran.

[Illustration: Fig. 87.--The Great Bear and the Lion.]

The line of the belt of Orion continued downwards to the left conducts
the eye to the gem of the sky, the splendid Sirius, which is the most
brilliant star in the heavens. It has, indeed, been necessary to create
a special order of magnitude for the reception of Sirius alone; all the
other first magnitude stars, such as Vega and Capella, Betelgeuze and
Aldebaran, coming a long way behind. Sirius, with a few other stars of
much less lustre, form the constellation of Canis Major.

It is useful for the learner to note the large configuration, of an
irregular lozenge shape, of which the four corners are the first
magnitude stars, Aldebaran, Betelgeuze, Sirius, and Rigel (Fig. 85).
The belt of Orion is placed symmetrically in the centre of the group,
and the whole figure is so striking that once perceived it is not likely
to be forgotten.

About half way from the Square of Pegasus to Aldebaran is the chief star
in the Ram--a bright orb of the second magnitude; with two others it
forms a curve, at the other end of which will be found g of the
same constellation, which was the first double star ever noticed.

We can again invoke the aid of the Great Bear to point out the stars in
the constellation of Gemini (Fig. 86). If the diagonal joining the stars
d and b of the body of the Bear be produced in the direction
opposite to the tail, it will lead to Castor and Pollux, two remarkable
stars of the second magnitude. This same line carried a little further
on passes near the star Procyon, of the first magnitude, which is the
only conspicuous object in the constellation of the Little Dog.

[Illustration: Fig. 88.--Boötes and the Crown.]

[Illustration: Fig. 89.--Virgo and the neighbouring Constellations.]

The pointers in the Great Bear marked a b will also serve to
indicate the constellation of the Lion. If we produce the line joining
them in the direction opposite from that used in finding the Pole, we
are brought into the body of the Lion. This group will be recognised by
the star of the first magnitude called Regulus. It is one of a series of
stars forming an object somewhat resembling a sickle: three of the group
are of the second magnitude. The Sickle has a special claim on our
notice because it contains the radiant point from which the periodic
shooting star shower known as the Leonids diverges. Regulus lies
alongside the sun's highway through the stars, at a point which he
passes on the 21st of August every year.

Between Gemini and Leo the inconspicuous constellation of the Crab may
be found; the most striking object it contains is the misty patch called
Præsepe or the Bee-Hive, which the smallest opera-glass will resolve
into its component stars.

[Illustration: Fig. 90.--The Constellation of Lyra.]

The tail of the Great Bear, when prolonged with a continuation of the
curve which it possesses, leads to a brilliant star of the first
magnitude known as Arcturus, the principal star in the constellation of
Boötes (Fig. 88). A few other stars, marked b, g, d,
and e in the same constellation, are also shown in the figure.
Among the stars visible in these latitudes Arcturus is to be placed next
to Sirius in point of brightness. Two stars in the southern hemisphere,
invisible in these latitudes, termed a Centauri and Canopus, are
nearly as bright as Vega and Capella, but not quite as bright as
Arcturus.

In the immediate neighbourhood of Boötes is a striking semicircular
group known as the Crown or Corona Borealis. It will be readily found
from its position as indicated in the figure, or it may be identified by
following the curved line indicated by b, d, e, and z in the Great Bear.

[Illustration: Fig. 91.--Vega, the Swan, and the Eagle.]

The constellation of Virgo is principally characterised by the first
magnitude star called Spica, or a Virginis. This may be found from
the Great Bear; for if the line joining the two stars a and
g in that constellation be prolonged with a slight curve, it will
conduct the eye to Spica. We may here notice another of those large
configurations which are of great assistance in the study of the stars.
There is a fine equilateral triangle, whereof Arcturus and Spica form
two of the corners, while the third is indicated by Denebola, the bright
star near the tail of the Lion (Fig. 89).

In the summer evenings when the Crown is overhead, a line from the Pole
Star through its fainter edge, continued nearly to the southern horizon,
encounters the brilliant red star Cor Scorpionis, or the Scorpion's
Heart (Antares), which was the first star mentioned as having been seen
with the telescope in the daytime.

The first magnitude star, Vega, in the constellation of the Lyre, can
be readily found at the corner of a bold triangle, of which the Pole
Star and Arcturus form the base (Fig. 90). The brilliant whiteness of
Vega will arrest the attention, while the small group of neighbouring
stars which form the Lyre produces one of the best defined
constellations.

Near Vega is another important constellation, known as the Swan or
Cygnus. The brightest star will be identified as the vertex of a
right-angled triangle, of which the line from Vega to the Pole Star is
the base, as shown in Fig. 91. There are in Cygnus five principal stars,
which form a constellation of rather remarkable form.

The last constellation which we shall here describe is that of Aquila or
the Eagle, which contains a star of the first magnitude, known as
Altair; this group can be readily found by a line from Vega over b
Cygni, which passes near the line of three stars, forming the
characteristic part of the Eagle.

We have taken the opportunity to indicate in these sketches of the
constellations the positions of some other remarkable telescopic
objects, the description of which we must postpone to the following
chapters.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE DISTANT SUNS.


     Sirius Contrasted with the Sun--Stars can be Weighed, but not in
     general Measured--The Companion of Sirius--Determination of the
     Weights of Sirius and his Companion--Dark Stars--Variable and
     Temporary Stars--Enormous Number of Stars.

The splendid pre-eminence of Sirius has caused it to be observed with
minute care from the earliest times in the history of astronomy. Each
generation of astronomers devoted time and labour to determine the exact
places of the brightest stars in the heavens. A vast mass of
observations as to the place of Sirius among the stars had thus been
accumulated, and it was found that, like many other stars, Sirius had
what astronomers call _proper motion_. Comparing the place of Sirius
with regard to the other stars now with the place which it occupied one
hundred years ago, there is a difference of two minutes (127") in its
situation. This is a small quantity: it is so small that the unaided eye
could not see it. Could we now see the sky as it appeared one century
ago, we should still see this star in its well-known place to the left
of Orion. Careful alignment by the eye would hardly detect that Sirius
was moving in two, or even in three or in four centuries. But the
accuracy of the meridian circle renders these minute quantities evident,
and gives to them their true significance. To the eye of the astronomer,
Sirius, instead of creeping along with a movement which centuries will
not show, is pursuing its majestic course with a velocity appropriate to
its dimensions.

Though the velocity of Sirius is _about_ 1,000 miles a minute, yet it
is sometimes a little more and sometimes a little less than its mean
value. To the astronomer this fact is pregnant with information. Were
Sirius an isolated star, attended only by planets of comparative
insignificance, there could be no irregularity in its motion. If it were
once started with a velocity of 1,000 miles a minute, then it must
preserve that velocity. Neither the lapse of centuries nor the mighty
length of the journey could alter it. The path of Sirius would be
inflexible in its direction; and it would be traversed with unalterable
velocity.

[Illustration: Fig. 92.--The Orbit of Sirius (Professor Burnham).]

The fact that Sirius had not been moving uniformly was of such interest
that it arrested the attention of Bessel when he discovered the
irregularities in 1844. Believing, as Bessel did, that there must be
some adequate cause for these disturbances, it was hardly possible to
doubt what the cause must be. When motion is disturbed there must be
force in action, and the only force that we recognise in such cases is
that known as gravitation. But gravity can only act from one body to
another body; so that when we seek for the derangement of Sirius by
gravitation, we are obliged to suppose that there must be some mighty
and massive body near Sirius. The question was taken up again by Peters
and by Auwers, who were able to discover, from the irregularities of
Sirius, the nature of the path of the disturbing body. They were able to
show that it must revolve around Sirius in a period of about fifty
years, and although they could not tell its distance from Sirius, yet
they were able to point out the direction in which it must lie. Fig. 92
shows the orbit of Sirius as given by Mr. Burnham, of Yerkes
Observatory.

The detection of the attendant of Sirius, and the measures which have
been made thereon, enable us to determine the weight of this famous
star. Let us attempt to illustrate this subject. It must, no doubt, be
admitted that the numerical estimates we employ have to be received with
a certain degree of caution. The companion of Sirius is a difficult
object to observe, and previous to 1896 it had only been followed
through an arc of 90°. We are, therefore, hardly as yet in a position to
speak with absolute accuracy as to the periodic time in which the
companion completes its revolution. We may, however, take this time to
be fifty-two years. We also know the distance from Sirius to his
companion, and we may take it to be about twenty-one times the distance
from the earth to the sun. It is useful, in the first place, to compare
the revolution of the companion around Sirius with the revolution of the
planet Uranus around the sun. Taking the earth's distance as unity, the
radius of the orbit of Uranus is about nineteen, and Uranus takes
eighty-four years to accomplish a complete revolution. We have no planet
in the solar system at a distance of twenty-one; but from Kepler's third
law it may be shown that, if there were such a planet, its periodic time
would be about ninety-nine years. We have now the necessary materials
for making the comparison between the mass of Sirius and the mass of
the sun. A body revolving around Sirius at a certain distance completes
its journey in fifty-two years. To revolve around the sun at the same
distance a body should complete its journey in ninety-nine years. The
quicker the body is moving the greater must be the centrifugal force,
and the greater must be the attractive power of the central body. It can
be shown from the principles of dynamics that the attractive power is
inversely proportional to the square of the periodic time. Hence, then,
the attractive power of Sirius must bear to the attractive power of the
sun the proportion which the square of ninety-nine has to the square of
fifty-two. As the distances are in each case supposed to be equal, the
attractive powers will be proportional to the masses, and hence we
conclude that the mass of Sirius, together with that of his companion,
is to the mass of the sun, together with that of his planet, in the
ratio of three and a half to one. We had already learned that Sirius was
much brighter than the sun; now we have learned that it is also much
more massive.

Before we leave the consideration of Sirius, there is one additional
point of very great interest which it is necessary to consider. There is
a remarkable contrast between the brilliancy of Sirius and his
companion. Sirius is a star far transcending all other stars of the
first magnitude, while his companion is extremely faint. Even if it were
completely withdrawn from the dazzling proximity of Sirius, the
companion would be only a small star of the eighth or ninth magnitude,
far below the limits of visibility to the unaided eye. To put the matter
in numerical language, Sirius is 5,000 times as bright as its companion,
but only about twice as heavy! Here is a very great contrast; and this
point will appear even more forcible if we contrast the companion of
Sirius with our sun. The companion is slightly heavier than our sun; but
in spite of its slightly inferior bulk, our sun is much more powerful as
a light-giver. One hundred of the companions of Sirius would not give as
much light as our sun! This is a result of very considerable
significance. It teaches us that besides the great bodies in the
universe which attract attention by their brilliancy, there are also
other bodies of stupendous mass which have but little
brilliancy--probably some of them possess none at all. This suggests a
greatly enhanced conception of the majestic scale of the universe. It
also invites us to the belief that the universe which we behold bears
but a small ratio to the far larger part which is invisible in the
sombre shades of night. In the wide extent of the material universe we
have here or there a star or a mass of gaseous matter sufficiently
heated to be luminous, and thus to become visible from the earth; but
our observation of these luminous points can tell us little of the
remaining contents of the universe.

The most celebrated of all the variable stars is that known as Algol,
whose position in the constellation of Perseus is shown in Fig. 83. This
star is conveniently placed for observation, being visible every night
in our latitude, and its interesting changes can be observed without any
telescopic aid. Everyone who desires to become acquainted with the great
truths of astronomy should be able to recognise this star, and should
have also followed it during one of its periods of change. Algol is
usually a star of the second magnitude; but in a period between two and
three days, or, more accurately, in an interval of 2 days 20 hours 48
minutes and 55 seconds, its brilliancy goes through a most remarkable
cycle of variations. The series commences with a gradual decline of the
star's brightness, which in the course of four and a half hours falls
from the second magnitude down to the fourth. At this lowest stage of
brightness Algol remains for about twenty minutes, and then begins to
increase, until in three and a half hours it regains the second
magnitude, at which it continues for about 2 days 12 hours, when the
same series commences anew. It seems that the period required by Algol
to go through its changes is itself subject to a slow but certain
variation. We shall see in a following chapter how it has been proved
that the variability of Algol is due to the occasional interposition of
a dark companion which cuts off a part of the lustre of the star. All
the circumstances can thus be accounted for, and even the weight and the
size of Algol and its dark companion be determined.

There are, however, other classes of variable stars, the fluctuation of
whose light can hardly be due to occasional obscuration by dark bodies.
This is particularly the case with those variables which are generally
faint, but now and then flare up for a short time, after which temporary
exaltation they again sink down to their original condition. The periods
of such changes are usually from six months to two years. The best known
example of a star of this class was discovered more than three hundred
years ago. It is situated in the constellation Cetus, a little south of
the equator. This object was the earliest known case of a variable star,
except the so-called temporary stars, to which we shall presently refer.
The variable in Cetus received the name of Mira, or the wonderful. The
period of the fluctuations of Mira Ceti is about eleven months, during
the greater part of which time the star is of the ninth magnitude, and
consequently invisible to the naked eye. When the proper time has
arrived, its brightness begins to increase rather suddenly. It soon
becomes a conspicuous object of the second or third magnitude. In this
condition it remains for eight or ten days, and then declines more
slowly than it rose until it is reduced to its original faintness, about
three hundred days after the rise commenced.

More striking to the general observer than the ordinary variable stars
are the _temporary stars_ which on rare occasions suddenly make their
appearance in the heavens. The most famous object of this kind was that
which blazed out in the beginning of November, 1572, and which when
first seen was as bright as Venus at its maximum brightness. It could,
indeed, be seen in full daylight by sharp-sighted people. As far as
history can tell us, no other temporary star has ever been as bright as
this one. It is specially associated with the name of Tycho Brahe, for
although he was not the discoverer, he made the best observations of the
object, and he proved that it was at a distance comparable with that of
the ordinary fixed stars. Tycho described carefully the gradual decline
of the wonderful star until it disappeared from his view about the end
of March, 1574, for the telescope, by which it could doubtless have been
followed further, had not yet been invented. During the decline the
colour of the object gradually changed; at first it was white, and by
degrees became yellow, and in the spring of 1573 reddish, like
Aldebaran. About May, 1573, we are told somewhat enigmatically that it
"became like lead, or somewhat like Saturn," and so it remained as long
as it was visible. What a fund of information our modern spectroscopes
and other instruments would supply us with if so magnificent a star were
to burst out in these modern days!

But though we have not in our own times been favoured with a view of a
temporary star as splendid as the one seen by Tycho Brahe and his
contemporaries, it has been our privilege to witness several minor
outbursts of this kind. It seems likely that we should possess more
records of temporary stars from former times if a better watch had been
kept for them. That is at any rate the impression we get when we see how
several of the modern stars of this kind have nearly escaped us
altogether, notwithstanding the great number of telescopes which are now
pointed to the sky on every clear night.

In 1866 a star of the second magnitude suddenly appeared in the
constellation of the crown (Corona Borealis). It was first seen on the
12th May, and a few days afterwards it began to fade away. Argelander's
maps of the northern heavens had been published some years previously,
and when the position of the new star had been accurately determined, it
was found that it was identical with an insignificant looking star
marked on one of the maps as of the 9-1/2 magnitude. The star exists in
the same spot to this day, and it is of the same magnitude as it was
prior to its spasmodic outburst in 1866. This was the first new star
which was spectroscopically examined. We shall give in Chapter XXIII. a
short account of the features of its spectrum.

The next of these temporary bright stars, Nova Cygni, was first seen by
Julius Schmidt at Athens on the 24th November, 1876, when it was between
the third and fourth magnitudes, and he maintains that it cannot have
been conspicuous four days earlier, when he was looking at the same
constellation. By some inadvertence the news of the discovery was not
properly circulated, and the star was not observed elsewhere for about
ten days, when it had already become considerably fainter. The decrease
of brightness went on very slowly; in October, 1877, the star was only
of the tenth magnitude, and it continued getting fainter until it
reached the fifteenth magnitude; in other words, it became a minute
telescopic star, and it is so still in the very same spot. As this star
did not reach the first or second magnitude it would probably have
escaped notice altogether if Schmidt had not happened to look at the
Swan on that particular evening.

We are not so likely to miss seeing a new star since astronomers have
pressed the photographic camera into their service. This became evident
in 1892, when the last conspicuous temporary star appeared in Auriga. On
the 24th January, Dr. Anderson, an astronomer in Edinburgh, noticed a
yellowish star of the fifth magnitude in the constellation Auriga, and a
week later, when he had compared a star-map with the heavens and made
sure that the object was really a new star, he made his discovery
public. In the case of this star we are able to fix fairly closely the
moment when it first blazed out. In the course of the regular
photographic survey of the heavens undertaken at the Harvard College
Observatory (Cambridge, Massachusetts) the region of the sky where the
new star appeared had been photographed on thirteen nights from October
21st to December 1st, 1891, and on twelve nights from December 10th to
January 20th, 1892. On the first series of plates there was no trace of
the Nova, while it was visible on the very first plate of the second
series as a star of the fifth magnitude. Fortunately it turned out that
Professor Max Wolf of Heidelberg, a most successful celestial
photographer, had photographed the same region on the 8th December, and
this photograph does not show the star, so that it cannot on that night
have been as bright as the ninth magnitude. Nova Auriga must therefore
have flared up suddenly between the 8th and the 10th of December.
According to the Harvard photographs, the first maximum of brightness
occurred about the 20th of December, when the magnitude was 4-1/2. The
decrease of the brightness was very irregular; the star fluctuated for
the five weeks following the first of February between the fourth and
the sixth magnitude, but after the beginning of March, 1892, the
brightness declined very rapidly, and at the end of April the star was
seen as an exceedingly faint one (sixteenth magnitude) with the great
Lick Refractor. When this mighty instrument was again pointed to the
Nova in the following August, it had risen nearly to the tenth
magnitude, after which it gradually became extremely faint again, and is
so still.

The temporary and the variable stars form but a very small section of
the vast number of stars with which the vault of the heavens is studded.
That the sun is no more than a star, and the stars are no less than
suns, is a cardinal doctrine of astronomy. The imposing magnificence of
this truth is only realised when we attempt to estimate the countless
myriads of stars. This is a problem on which our calculations are
necessarily vain. Let us, therefore, invoke the aid of the poet to
attempt to express the innumerable, and conclude this chapter with the
following lines of Mr. Allingham:--

  "But number every grain of sand,
  Wherever salt wave touches land;
  Number in single drops the sea;
  Number the leaves on every tree,
  Number earth's living creatures, all
  That run, that fly, that swim, that crawl;
  Of sands, drops, leaves, and lives, the count
  Add up into one vast amount,
  And then for every separate one
  Of all those, let a flaming SUN
  Whirl in the boundless skies, with each
  Its massy planets, to outreach
  All sight, all thought: for all we see
  Encircled with infinity,
  Is but an island."




CHAPTER XX.

DOUBLE STARS.


     Interesting Stellar Objects--Stars Optically Double--The Great
     Discovery of the Binary Stars made by Herschel--The Binary Stars
     describe Elliptic Paths--Why is this so important?--The Law of
     Gravitation--Special Double Stars--Castor--Mizar--The Coloured
     Double Stars--b Cygni.

The sidereal heavens contain few more interesting objects for the
telescope than can be found in the numerous class of double stars. They
are to be counted in thousands; indeed, _many_ thousands can be found in
the catalogues devoted to this special branch of astronomy. Many of
these objects are, no doubt, small and comparatively uninteresting, but
some of them are among the most conspicuous stars in the heavens, such
as Sirius, whose system we have already described. We shall in this
brief account select for special discussion and illustration a few of
the more remarkable double stars. We shall particularly notice some of
those that can be readily observed with a small telescope, and we have
indicated on the sketches of the constellations in a previous chapter
how the positions of these objects in the heavens can be ascertained.

It had been shown by Cassini in 1678 that certain stars, which appeared
to the unaided eye as single points of light, really consisted of two or
more stars, so close together that the telescope was required for their
separation.[36] The number of these objects was gradually increased by
fresh discoveries, until in 1781 (the same year in which Herschel
discovered Uranus) a list containing eighty double stars was published
by the astronomer Bode. These interesting objects claimed the attention
of Herschel during his memorable researches. The list of known doubles
rapidly swelled. Herschel's discoveries are to be enumerated by
hundreds, while he also commenced systematic measurements of the
distance by which the stars were separated, and the direction in which
the line joining them pointed. It was these measurements which
ultimately led to one of the most important and instructive of all
Herschel's discoveries. When, in the course of years, his observations
were repeated, Herschel found that in some cases the relative position
of the stars had changed. He was thus led to the discovery that in many
of the double stars the components are so related that they revolve
around each other. Mark the importance of this result. We must remember
that the stars are suns, comparable, it may be, with our sun in
magnitude; so that here we have the astonishing spectacle of pairs of
suns in mutual revolution. There is nothing very surprising in the fact
that movements should be observed, for in all probability every body in
the universe is in motion. It is the particular character of the
movement which is specially interesting and instructive.

It had been imagined that the proximity of the two stars forming a
double must be only accidental. It was thought that amid the vast host
of stars in the heavens it not unfrequently happened that one star was
so nearly behind another (as seen from the earth) that when the two were
viewed in the telescope they produced the effect of a double star. No
doubt many of the so-called double stars are produced in this way.
Herschel's discovery shows that this explanation will not always answer,
but that in many cases we really have two stars close together, and in
motion round their common centre of gravity.

When the measurements of the distances and the positions of double stars
had been accumulated during many years, they were taken over by the
mathematicians to be treated by their methods. There is one peculiarity
about double star observations: they have not--they cannot have--the
accuracy which the computer of an orbit demands. If the distance between
the pair of stars forming a binary be four seconds, the orbit we have to
scrutinise is only as large as the apparent size of a penny-piece at the
distance of one mile. It would require very careful measurement to make
out the form of a penny a mile off, even with good telescopes. If the
penny were tilted a little, it would appear, not circular, but oval; and
it would be possible, by measuring this oval, to determine how much the
penny was tilted. All this requires skilful work: the errors, viewed
intrinsically, may not be great, but viewed with reference to the whole
size of the quantities under consideration, they are very appreciable.
We therefore find the errors of observation far more prominent in
observations of this class than is generally the case when the
mathematician assumes the task of discussing the labours of the
observer.

The interpretation of Herschel's discovery was not accomplished by
himself; the light of mathematics was turned on his observations of the
binary stars by Savary, and afterwards by other mathematicians. Under
their searching enquiries the errors of the measurements were disclosed,
and the observations were purified from the grosser part of their
inaccuracy. Mathematicians could then apply to their corrected materials
the methods of enquiry with which they were familiar; they could deduce
with fair precision the actual shape of the orbit of the binary stars,
and the position of the plane in which that orbit is contained. The
result is not a little remarkable. It has been proved that the motion of
each of the stars is performed in an ellipse which contains the centre
of gravity of the two stars in its focus. This has been actually shown
to be true in many binary stars; it is believed to be true in all. But
why is this so important? Is not motion in an ellipse common enough?
Does not the earth revolve in an ellipse round the sun? And do not the
planets also revolve in ellipses?

It is this very fact that elliptic motion is so common in the planets of
the solar system which renders its discovery in binary stars of such
importance. From what does the elliptic motion in the solar system
arise? Is it not due to the law of attraction, discovered by Newton,
which states that every mass attracts every other mass with a force
which varies inversely as the square of the distance? That law of
attraction had been found to pervade the whole solar system, and it
explained the movements of the bodies of our system with marvellous
fidelity. But the solar system, consisting of the sun, and the planets,
with their satellites, the comets, and a host of smaller bodies, formed
merely a little island group in the universe. In the economy of this
tiny cosmical island the law of gravitation reigns supreme; before
Herschel's discovery we never could have known whether that law was not
merely a piece of local legislation, specially contrived for the
exigencies of our particular system. This discovery gave us the
knowledge which we could have gained from no other source. From the
binary stars came a whisper across the vast abyss of space. That whisper
told us that the law of gravitation was not peculiar to the solar
system. It told us the law extended to the distant shores of the abyss
in which our island is situated. It gives us grounds for believing that
the law of gravitation is obeyed throughout the length, breadth, and
depth of the entire visible universe.

One of the finest binary stars is that known as Castor, the brighter of
the two principal stars in the constellation of Gemini. The position of
Castor on the heavens is indicated in Fig. 86, page 418. Viewed by the
unaided eye, Castor resembles a single star; but with a moderately good
telescope it is found that what seems to be one star is really two
separate stars, one of which is of the third magnitude, while the other
is somewhat less. The angular distance of these two stars in the heavens
is not so great as the angle subtended by a line an inch long viewed at
a distance of half a mile. Castor is one of the double stars in which
the components have been observed to possess a motion of revolution. The
movement is, however, extremely slow, and the lapse of centuries will be
required before a revolution is completely effected.

A beautiful double star can be readily identified in the constellation
of Ursa Major (_see_ Fig. 80, page 410). It is known as Mizar, and is
the middle star (z) of the three which form the tail. In the close
neighbourhood of Mizar is the small star Alcor, which can be readily
seen with the unaided eye; but when we speak of Mizar as a double star,
it is not to be understood that Alcor is one of the components of the
double. Under the magnifying power of the telescope Alcor is seen to be
transferred a long way from Mizar, while Mizar itself is split up into
two suns close together. These components are of the second and the
fourth magnitudes respectively, and as the apparent distance is nearly
three times as great as in Castor, they are observed with facility even
in a small telescope. This is, indeed, the best double star in the
heavens for the beginner to commence his observations upon. We cannot,
however, assert that Mizar is a binary, inasmuch as observations have
not yet established the existence of a motion of revolution. Still less
are we able to say whether Alcor is also a member of the same group, or
whether it may not merely be a star which happens to fall nearly in the
line of vision. Recent spectroscopic observations have shown that the
larger component of Mizar is itself a double, consisting of a pair of
suns so close together that there is not the slightest possibility of
their ever being seen separately by the most powerful telescope in the
world.

A pleasing class of double stars is that in which we have the remarkable
phenomenon of colours, differing in a striking degree from the colours
of ordinary stars. Among the latter we find, in the great majority of
cases, no very characteristic hue; some are, however, more or less
tinged with red, some are decidedly ruddy, and some are intensely red.
Stars of a bluish or greenish colour are much more rare,[37] and when a
star of this character does occur, it is almost invariably as one of a
pair which form a double. The other star of the double is sometimes of
the same hue, but more usually it is yellow or ruddy.

One of the loveliest of these objects, which lies within reach of
telescopes of very moderate pretensions, is that found in the
constellation of the Swan, and known as b Cygni (Fig. 91). This
exquisite object is composed of two stars. The larger, about the third
magnitude, is of a golden-yellow, or topaz, colour; the smaller, of the
sixth magnitude, is of a light blue. These colours are nearly
complementary, but still there can be no doubt that the effect is not
merely one of contrast. That these two stars are both tinged with the
hues we have stated can be shown by hiding each in succession behind a
bar placed in the field of view. It has also been confirmed in a very
striking manner by spectroscopic investigation; for we see that the blue
star has experienced a special absorption of the red rays, while the
more ruddy light of the other star has arisen from the absorption of the
blue rays. The contrast of the colours in this object can often be very
effectively seen by putting the eye-piece out of focus. The discs thus
produced show the contrast of colours better than when the telescope
exhibits merely two stellar points.

Such are a few of these double and multiple stars. Their numbers are
being annually augmented; indeed, one observer--Mr. Burnham, formerly on
the staff of the Lick Observatory, and now an observer in the Yerkes
Observatory--has added by his own researches more than 1,000 new doubles
to the list of those previously known.

The interest in this class of objects must necessarily be increased when
we reflect that, small as the stars appear to be in our telescopes, they
are in reality suns of great size and splendour, in many cases rivalling
our own sun, or, perhaps, even surpassing him. Whether these suns have
planets attending upon them we cannot tell; the light reflected from the
planet would be utterly inadequate to the penetration of the vast extent
of space which separates us from the stars. If there be planets
surrounding these objects, then, instead of a single sun, such planets
will be illuminated by two, or, perhaps, even more suns. What wondrous
effects of light and shade must be the result! Sometimes both suns will
be above the horizon together, sometimes only one sun, and sometimes
both will be absent. Especially remarkable would be the condition of a
planet whose suns were of the coloured type. To-day we have a red sun
illuminating the heavens, to-morrow it would be a blue sun, and,
perhaps, the day after both the red sun and the blue sun will be in the
firmament together. What endless variety of scenery such a thought
suggests! There are, however, grave dynamical reasons for doubting
whether the conditions under which such a planet would exist could be
made compatible with life in any degree resembling the life with which
we are familiar. The problem of the movement of a planet under the
influence of two suns is one of the most difficult that has ever been
proposed to mathematicians, and it is, indeed, impossible in the present
state of analysis to solve with accuracy all the questions which it
implies. It seems not at all unlikely that the disturbances of the
planet's orbit would be so great that it would be exposed to
vicissitudes of light and of temperature far transcending those
experienced by a planet moving, like the earth, under the supreme
control of a single sun.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE DISTANCES OF THE STARS.


     Sounding-line for Space--The Labours of Bessel--Meaning of Annual
     Parallax--Minuteness of the Parallactic Ellipse Illustrated--The
     Case of 61 Cygni--Different Comparison Stars used--The Proper
     Motion of the Star--Struve's Investigations--Can they be
     Reconciled?--Researches at Dunsink--Conclusion obtained--Accuracy
     which such Observations admit Examined--The Proper Motion of 61
     Cygni--The Permanence of the Sidereal Heavens--The New Star in
     Cygnus--Its History--No Appreciable Parallax--A Mighty Outburst of
     Light--The Movement of the Solar System through Space--Herschel's
     Discovery--Journey towards Lyra--Probabilities.

We have long known the dimensions of the solar system with more or less
accuracy. Our knowledge includes the distances of the planets and the
comets from the sun, as well as their movements. We have also
considerable knowledge of the diameters and the masses of many of the
different bodies which belong to the solar system. We have long known,
in fact, many details of the isolated group nestled together under the
protection of the sun. The problem for consideration in the present
chapter involves a still grander survey than is required for measures of
our solar system. We propose to carry the sounding-line across the vast
abyss which separates the group of bodies closely associated about our
sun from the other stars which are scattered through the realms of
space. For centuries the great problem of star distance has engaged the
attention of those who have studied the heavens. It would be impossible
to attempt here even an outline of the various researches which have
been made on the subject. In the limited survey which we can make, we
must glance first at the remarkable speculative efforts which have been
directed to the problem, and then we shall refer to those labours which
have introduced the problem into the region of accurate astronomy.

No attempt to solve the problem of the absolute distances of the stars
was successful until many years after Herschel's labours were closed.
Fresh generations of astronomers, armed with fresh appliances, have for
many years pursued the subject with unremitting diligence, but for a
long time the effort seemed hopeless. The distances of the stars were so
great that they could not be ascertained until the utmost refinements of
mechanical skill and the most elaborate methods of mathematical
calculation were brought to converge on the difficulty. At last it was
found that the problem was beginning to yield. A few stars have been
induced to disclose the secret of their distance. We are able to give
some answer to the question--How far are the stars? though it must be
confessed that our reply up to the present moment is both hesitating and
imperfect. Even the little knowledge which has been gained possesses
interest and importance. As often happens in similar cases, the
discovery of the distance of a star was made independently about the
same time by two or three astronomers. The name of Bessel stands out
conspicuously in this memorable chapter of astronomy. Bessel proved
(1840) that the distance of the star known as 61 Cygni was a measurable
quantity. His demonstration possessed such unanswerable logic that
universal assent could not be withheld. Almost simultaneously with the
classical labours of Bessel we have Struve's measurement of the distance
of Vega, and Henderson's determination of the distance of the southern
star a Centauri. Great interest was excited in the astronomical
world by these discoveries, and the Royal Astronomical Society awarded
its gold medal to Bessel. It appropriately devolved on Sir John Herschel
to deliver the address on the occasion of the presentation of the medal:
that address is a most eloquent tribute to the labours of the three
astronomers. We cannot resist quoting the few lines in which Sir John
said:--

     "Gentlemen of the Royal Astronomical Society,--I congratulate you
     and myself that we have lived to see the great and hitherto
     impassable barrier to our excursion into the sidereal universe,
     that barrier against which we have chafed so long and so
     vainly--_æstuantes angusto limite mundi_--almost simultaneously
     overleaped at three different points. It is the greatest and most
     glorious triumph which practical astronomy has ever witnessed.
     Perhaps I ought not to speak so strongly; perhaps I should hold
     some reserve in favour of the bare possibility that it may be all
     an illusion, and that future researches, as they have repeatedly
     before, so may now fail to substantiate this noble result. But I
     confess myself unequal to such prudence under such excitement. Let
     us rather accept the joyful omens of the time, and trust that, as
     the barrier has begun to yield, it will speedily be effectually
     prostrated."

Before proceeding further, it will be convenient to explain briefly how
the distance of a star can be measured. The problem is one of a wholly
different character from that of the sun's distance, which we have
already discussed in these pages. The observations for the determination
of stellar parallax are founded on the familiar truth that the earth
revolves around the sun. We may for our present purpose assume that the
earth revolves in a circular path. The centre of that path is at the
centre of the sun, and the radius of the path is 92,900,000 miles. Owing
to our position on the earth, we observe the stars from a point of view
which is constantly changing. In summer the earth is 185,800,000 miles
distant from the position which it occupied in winter. It follows that
the apparent positions of the stars, as projected on the background of
the sky, must present corresponding changes. We do not now mean that the
actual positions of the stars are really displaced. The changes are only
apparent, and while oblivious of our own motion, which produces the
displacements, we attribute the changes to the stars.

On the diagram in Fig. 93 is an ellipse with certain months--viz.,
January, April, July, October--marked upon its circumference. This
ellipse may be regarded as a miniature picture of the earth's orbit
around the sun. In January the earth is at the spot so marked; in April
it has moved a quarter of the whole journey; and so on round the whole
circle, returning to its original position in the course of one year.
When we look from the position of the earth in January, we see the star
A projected against the point of the sky marked 1. Three months later
the observer with his telescope is carried round to April; but he now
sees the star projected to the position marked 2. Thus, as the observer
moves around the whole orbit in the annual revolution of the earth, so
the star appears to move round in an ellipse on the background of the
sky. In the technical language of astronomers, we speak of this as the
parallactic ellipse, and it is by measuring the major axis of this
ellipse that we determine the distance of the star from the sun. Half of
this major axis, or, what comes to the same thing, the angle which the
radius of the earth's orbit subtends as seen from the star, is called
the star's "annual parallax."

[Illustration: Fig. 93.--The Parallactic Ellipse.]

The figure shows another star, B, more distant from the earth and the
solar system generally than the star previously considered. This star
also describes an elliptic path. We cannot, however, fail to notice that
the parallactic ellipse belonging to B is much smaller than that of A.
The difference in the sizes of the ellipses arises from the different
distances of the stars from the earth. The nearer the star is to the
earth the greater is the ellipse, so that the nearest star in the
heavens will describe the largest ellipse, while the most distant star
will describe the smallest ellipse. We thus see that the distance of the
star is inversely proportional to the size of the ellipse, and if we
measure the angular value of the major axis of the ellipse, then, by an
exceedingly simple mathematical manipulation, the distance of the star
can be expressed as a multiple of a radius of the earth's orbit.
Assuming that radius to be 92,900,000 miles, the distance of the star is
obtained by simple arithmetic. The difficulty in the process arises from
the fact that these ellipses are so small that our micrometers often
fail to detect them.

How shall we adequately describe the extreme minuteness of the
parallactic ellipses in the case of even the nearest stars? In the
technical language of astronomers, we may state that the longest
diameter of the ellipse never subtends an angle of more than one and a
half seconds. In a somewhat more popular manner, we would say that one
thousand times the major axis of the very largest parallactic ellipse
would not be as great as the diameter of the full moon. For a still more
simple illustration, let us endeavour to think of a penny-piece placed
at a distance of two miles. If looked at edgeways it will be linear, if
tilted a little it would be elliptic; but the ellipse would, even at
that distance, be greater than the greatest parallactic ellipse of any
star in the sky. Suppose a sphere described around an observer, with a
radius of two miles. If a penny-piece were placed on this sphere, in
front of each of the stars, every parallactic ellipse would be totally
concealed.

The star in the Swan known as 61 Cygni is not remarkable either for its
size or for its brightness. It is barely visible to the unaided eye, and
there are some thousands of stars which are apparently larger and
brighter. It is, however, a very interesting example of that remarkable
class of objects known as double stars. It consists of two nearly equal
stars close together, and evidently connected by a bond of mutual
attraction. The attention of astronomers is also specially directed
towards the star by its large proper motion. In virtue of that proper
motion, the two components are carried together over the sky at the rate
of five seconds annually. A proper motion of this magnitude is extremely
rare, yet we do not say it is unparalleled, for there are some few stars
which have a proper motion even more rapid; but the remarkable duplex
character of 61 Cygni, combined with the large proper motion, render it
an unique object, at all events, in the northern hemisphere.

When Bessel proposed to undertake the great research with which his name
will be for ever connected, he determined to devote one, or two, or
three years to the continuous observations of one star, with the view of
measuring carefully its parallactic ellipse. How was he to select the
object on which so much labour was to be expended? It was all-important
to choose a star which should prove sufficiently near to reward his
efforts by exhibiting a measurable parallax. Yet he could have but
little more than surmise and analogy as a guide. It occurred to him that
the exceptional features of 61 Cygni afforded the necessary presumption,
and he determined to apply the process of observation to this star. He
devoted the greater part of three years to the work, and succeeded in
discovering its distance from the earth.

Since the date of Sir John Herschel's address, 61 Cygni has received the
devoted and scarcely remitted attention of astronomers. In fact, we
might say that each succeeding generation undertakes a new discussion of
the distance of this star, with the view of confirming or of criticising
the original discovery of Bessel. The diagram here given (Fig. 94) is
intended to illustrate the recent history of 61 Cygni.

When Bessel engaged in his labours, the pair of stars forming the double
were at the point indicated on the diagram by the date 1838. The next
epoch occurred fifteen years later, when Otto Struve undertook his
researches, and the pair of stars had by that time moved to the
position marked 1853. Finally, when the same object was more recently
observed at Dunsink Observatory, the pair had made still another
advance, to the position indicated by the date 1878. Thus, in forty
years this double star had moved over an arc of the heavens upwards of
three minutes in length. The actual path is, indeed, more complicated
than a simple rectilinear movement. The two stars which form the double
have a certain relative velocity, in consequence of their mutual
attraction. It will not, however, be necessary to take this into
account, as the displacement thus arising in the lapse of a single year
is far too minute to produce any inconvenient effect on the parallactic
ellipse.

[Illustration: Fig. 94.--61 Cygni and the Comparison Stars.]

The case of 61 Cygni is, however, exceptional. It is one of our nearest
neighbours in the heavens. We can never find its distance accurately to
one or two billions of miles; but still we have a consciousness that an
uncertainty amounting to twenty billions is too large a percentage of
the whole. We shall presently show that we believe Struve was right,
yet it does not necessarily follow that Bessel was wrong. The apparent
paradox can be easily explained. It would not be easily explained if
Struve had used the _same comparison star_ as Bessel had done; but
Struve's comparison star was different from either of Bessel's, and this
is probably the cause of the discrepancy. It will be recollected that
the essence of the process consists of the comparison of the small
ellipse made by the distant star with the larger ellipse made by the
nearer star. If the two stars were at the same distance, the process
would be wholly inapplicable. In such a case, no matter how near the
stars were to the earth, no parallax could be detected. For the method
to be completely successful, the comparison star should be at least
eight times as far as the principal star. Bearing this in mind, it is
quite possible to reconcile the measures of Bessel with those of Struve.
We need only assume that Bessel's comparison stars are about three times
as far as 61 Cygni, while Struve's comparison star is at least eight or
ten times as far. We may add that, as the comparison stars used by
Bessel are brighter than that of Struve, there really is a presumption
that the latter is the most distant of the three.

We have here a characteristic feature of this method of determining
parallax. Even if all the observations and the reductions of a parallax
series were mathematically correct, we could not with strict propriety
describe the final result as the parallax of one star. It is only the
_difference_ between the parallax of the star and that of the comparison
star. We can therefore only assert that the parallax sought cannot be
less than the quantity determined. Viewed in this manner, the
discrepancy between Struve and Bessel vanishes. Bessel asserted that the
distance of 61 Cygni could not be _more_ than sixty billions of miles.
Struve did not contradict this--nay, he certainly confirmed it--when he
showed that the distance could not be more than forty billions.

Nearly half a century has elapsed since Struve made his observations.
Those observations have certainly been challenged; but they are, on the
whole, confirmed by other investigations. In a critical review of the
subject Auwers showed that Struve's determination is worthy of
considerable confidence. Yet, notwithstanding this authoritative
announcement, the study of 61 Cygni has been repeatedly resumed. Dr.
Brünnow, when Astronomer Royal of Ireland, commenced a series of
observations on the parallax of 61 Cygni, which were continued and
completed by the present writer, his successor. Brünnow chose a fourth
comparison star (marked on the diagram), different from any of those
which had been used by the earlier observers. The method of observing
which Brünnow employed was quite different from that of Struve, though
the filar micrometer was used in both cases. Brünnow sought to determine
the parallactic ellipse by measuring the difference in declination
between 61 Cygni and the comparison star.[38] In the course of a year it
is found that the difference in declination undergoes a periodic change,
and from that change the parallactic ellipse can be computed. In the
first series of observations I measured the difference of declination
between the preceding star of 61 Cygni and the comparison star; in the
second series I took the other component of 61 Cygni and the same
comparison star. We had thus two completely independent determinations
of the parallax resulting from two years' work. The first of these makes
the distance forty billions of miles, and the second makes it almost
exactly the same. There can be no doubt that this work supports Struve's
determination in correction of Bessel's, and therefore we may perhaps
sum up the present state of our knowledge of this question by saying
that the distance of 61 Cygni is much nearer to the forty billions of
miles which Struve found than to the sixty billions which Bessel
found.[39]

It is desirable to give the reader the means of forming his own opinion
as to the quality of the evidence which is available in such researches.
The diagram in Fig. 95 here shown has been constructed with this object.
It is intended to illustrate the second series of observations of
difference of declination which I made at Dunsink. Each of the dots
represents one night's observations. The height of the dot is the
observed difference of declination between 61 (B) Cygni and the
comparison star. The distance along the horizontal line--or the
abscissa, as a mathematician would call it--represents the date. These
observations are grouped more or less regularly in the vicinity of a
certain curve. That curve expresses where the observations should have
been, had they been absolutely perfect. The distances between the dots
and the curve may be regarded as the errors which have been committed in
making the observations.

[Illustration: Fig. 95.--Parallax in Declination of 61 Cygni.]

Perhaps it will be thought that in many cases these errors appear to
have attained very undesirable dimensions. Let us, therefore, hasten to
say that it was precisely for the purpose of setting forth these errors
that this diagram has been shown; we have to exhibit the weakness of the
case no less than its strength. The errors of the observations are not,
however, intrinsically so great as might at first sight be imagined. To
perceive this, it is only necessary to interpret the scale on which this
diagram has been drawn by comparison with familiar standards. The
distance from the very top of the curve to the horizontal line denotes
an angle of only four-tenths of a second. This is about the apparent
diameter of a penny-piece at a distance of _ten miles_! We can now
appraise the true magnitude of the errors which have been made. It will
be noticed that no one of the dots is distant from the curve by much
more than half of the height of the curve. It thus appears that the
greatest error in the whole series of observations amounts to but two or
three tenths of a second. This is equivalent to our having pointed the
telescope to the upper edge of a penny-piece fifteen or twenty miles
off, instead of to the lower edge. This is not a great blunder. A rifle
team whose errors in pointing were more than a hundred times as great
might still easily win every prize at Bisley.

We have entered into the history of 61 Cygni with some detail, because
it is the star whose distance has been most studied. We do not say that
61 Cygni is the nearest of all the stars; it would, indeed, be very rash
to assert that any particular star was the nearest of all the countless
millions in the heavenly host. We certainly know one star which seems
nearer than 61 Cygni; it lies in one of the southern constellations, and
its name is a Centauri. This star is, indeed, of memorable
interest in the history of the subject. Its parallax was first
determined at the Cape of Good Hope by Henderson; subsequent researches
have confirmed his observations, and the elaborate investigations of Dr.
Gill have proved that the parallax of this star is about three-quarters
of a second, so that it is only two-thirds of the distance of 61 Cygni.

61 Cygni arrested our attention, in the first instance, by the
circumstance that it had the large proper motion of five seconds
annually. We have also ascertained that the annual parallax is about
half a second. The combination of these two statements leads to a result
of considerable interest. It teaches us that 61 Cygni must each year
traverse a distance of not less than ten times the radius of the earth's
orbit. Translating this into ordinary figures, we learn that this star
must travel nine hundred and twenty million miles per annum. It must
move between two and three million miles each day, but this can only be
accomplished by maintaining the prodigious velocity of thirty miles per
second. There seems to be no escape from this conclusion. The facts
which we have described, and which are now sufficiently well
established, are inconsistent with the supposition that the velocity of
61 Cygni is less than thirty miles per second; the velocity may be
greater, but less it cannot be.

For the last hundred and fifty years we know that 61 Cygni has been
moving in the same direction and with the same velocity. Prior to the
existence of the telescope we have no observation to guide us; we
cannot, therefore, be absolutely certain as to the earlier history of
this star, yet it is only reasonable to suppose that 61 Cygni has been
moving from remote antiquity with a velocity comparable with that it has
at present. If disturbing influences were entirely absent, there could
be no trace of doubt about the matter. _Some_ disturbing influence,
however, there must be; the only question is whether that disturbing
influence is sufficient to modify seriously the assumption we have made.
A powerful disturbing influence might greatly alter the velocity of the
star; it might deflect the star from its rectilinear course; it might
even force the star to move around a closed orbit. We do not, however,
believe that any disturbing influence of this magnitude need be
contemplated, and there can be no reasonable doubt that 61 Cygni moves
at present in a path very nearly straight, and with a velocity very
nearly uniform.

As the distance of 61 Cygni from the sun is forty billions of miles, and
its velocity is thirty miles a second, it is easy to find how long the
star would take to accomplish a journey equal to its distance from the
sun. The time required will be about 40,000 years. In the last 400,000
years 61 Cygni will have moved over a distance ten times as great as
its present distance from the sun, whatever be the direction of motion.
This star must therefore have been about ten times as far from the earth
400,000 years ago as it is at present. Though this epoch is incredibly
more remote than any historical record, it is perhaps not incomparable
with the duration of the human race; while compared with the vast lapse
of geological time, such periods seem trivial and insignificant.
Geologists have long ago repudiated mere thousands of years; they now
claim millions, and many millions of years, for the performance of
geological phenomena. If the earth has existed for the millions of years
which geologists assert, it becomes reasonable for astronomers to
speculate on the phenomena which have transpired in the heavens in the
lapse of similar ages. By the aid of our knowledge of star distances,
combined with an assumed velocity of thirty miles per second, we can
make the attempt to peer back into the remote past, and show how great
are the changes which our universe seems to have undergone.

In a million years 61 Cygni will apparently have moved through a
distance which is twenty-five times as great as its present distance
from the sun. Whatever be the direction in which 61 Cygni is
moving--whether it be towards the earth or from the earth, to the right
or to the left, it must have been about twenty-five times as far off a
million years ago as it is at present; but even at its present distance
61 Cygni is a small star; were it ten times as far it could only be seen
with a good telescope; were it twenty-five times as far it would barely
be a visible point in our greatest telescopes.

The conclusions arrived at with regard to 61 Cygni may be applied with
varying degrees of emphasis to other stars. We are thus led to the
conclusion that many of the stars with which the heavens are strewn are
apparently in slow motion. But this motion though apparently slow may
really be very rapid. When standing on the sea-shore, and looking at a
steamer on the distant horizon, we can hardly notice that the steamer is
moving. It is true that by looking again in a few minutes we can detect
a change in its place; but the motion of the steamer seems slow. Yet if
we were near the steamer we would find that it was rushing along at the
rate of many miles an hour. It is the distance which causes the
illusion. So it is with the stars: they seem to move slowly because they
are very distant, but were we near them, we could see that in the
majority of cases their motions are a thousand times as fast as the
quickest steamer that ever ploughed the ocean.

It thus appears that the permanence of the sidereal heavens, and the
fixity of the constellations in their relative positions, are only
ephemeral. When we rise to the contemplation of such vast periods of
time as the researches of geology disclose, the durability of the
constellations vanishes! In the lapse of those stupendous ages stars and
constellations gradually dissolve from view, to be replaced by others of
no greater permanence.

It not unfrequently happens that a parallax research proves abortive.
The labour has been finished, the observations are reduced and
discussed, and yet no value of the parallax can be obtained. The
distance of the star is so vast that our base-line, although it is
nearly two hundred millions of miles long, is too short to bear any
appreciable ratio to the distance of the star. Even from such failures,
however, information may often be drawn.

Let me illustrate this by an account derived from my own experience at
Dunsink. We have already mentioned that on the 24th November, 1876, a
well-known astronomer--Dr. Schmidt, of Athens--noticed a new bright star
of the third magnitude in the constellation Cygnus. On the 20th of
November Nova Cygni was invisible. Whether it first burst forth on the
21st, 22nd, or 23rd no one can tell; but on the 24th it was discovered.
Its brilliancy even then seemed to be waning; so, presumably, it was
brightest at some moment between the 20th and 24th of November. The
outbreak must thus have been comparatively sudden, and we know of no
cause which would account for such a phenomenon more simply than a
gigantic collision. The decline in the brilliancy was much more tardy
than its growth, and more than a fortnight passed before the star
relapsed into insignificance--two or three days (or less) for the rise,
two or three weeks for the fall. Yet even two or three weeks was a short
time in which to extinguish so mighty a conflagration. It is
comparatively easy to suggest an explanation of the sudden outbreak; it
is not equally easy to understand how it can have been subdued in a few
weeks. A good-sized iron casting in one of our foundries takes nearly as
much time to cool as sufficed to abate the celestial fires in Nova
Cygni!

On this ground it seemed not unreasonable to suppose that perhaps Nova
Cygni was not really a very extensive conflagration. But, if such were
the case, the star must have been comparatively _near_ to the earth,
since it presented so brilliant a spectacle and attracted so much
attention. It therefore appeared a plausible object for a parallax
research; and consequently a series of observations were made some years
ago at Dunsink. I was at the time too much engaged with other work to
devote very much labour to a research which might, after all, only prove
illusory. I simply made a sufficient number of micrometric measurements
to test whether a _large_ parallax existed. It has been already pointed
out how each star appears to describe a minute parallactic ellipse, in
consequence of the annual motion of the earth, and by measurement of
this ellipse the parallax--and therefore the distance--of the star can
be determined. In ordinary circumstances, when the parallax of a star is
being investigated, it is necessary to measure the position of the star
in its ellipse on many different occasions, distributed over a period of
at least an entire year. The method we adopted was much less laborious.
It was sufficiently accurate to test whether or not Nova Cygni had a
_large_ parallax, though it might not have been delicate enough to
disclose a small parallax. At a certain date, which can be readily
computed, the star is at one end of the parallactic ellipse, and six
months later the star is at the other end. By choosing suitable times in
the year for our observations, we can measure the star in those two
positions when it is most deranged by parallax. It was by observations
of this kind that I sought to detect the parallax of Nova Cygni. Its
distance from a neighbouring star was carefully measured by the
micrometer at the two seasons when, if parallax existed, those distances
should show their greatest discrepancy; but no certain difference
between these distances could be detected. The observations, therefore,
failed to reveal the existence of a parallactic ellipse--or, in other
words, the distance of Nova Cygni was too great to be measured by
observations of this kind.

It is certain that if Nova Cygni had been one of the nearest stars these
observations would not have been abortive. We are therefore entitled to
believe that Nova Cygni must be at least 20,000,000,000,000 miles from
the solar system; and the suggestion that the brilliant outburst was of
small dimensions must, it seems, be abandoned. The intrinsic brightness
of Nova Cygni, when at its best, cannot have been greatly if at all
inferior to the brilliancy of our sun himself. If the sun were withdrawn
from us to the distance of Nova Cygni, it would seemingly have dwindled
down to an object not more brilliant than the variable star. How the
lustre of such a stupendous object declined so rapidly remains,
therefore, a mystery not easy to explain. Have we not said that the
outbreak of brilliancy in this star occurred between the 20th and the
24th of November, 1876? It would be more correct to say that the tidings
of that outbreak reached our system at the time referred to. The real
outbreak must have taken place at least three years previously. Indeed,
at the time that the star excited such commotion in the astronomical
world here, it had already relapsed again into insignificance.

In connection with the subject of the present chapter we have to
consider a great problem which was proposed by Sir William Herschel. He
saw that the stars were animated by proper motion; he saw also that the
sun is a star, one of the countless host of heaven, and he was therefore
led to propound the stupendous question as to whether the sun, like the
other stars which are its peers, was also in motion. Consider all that
this great question involves. The sun has around it a retinue of
planets and their attendant satellites, the comets, and a host of
smaller bodies. The question is, whether all this superb system is
revolving around the sun _at rest_ in the middle, or whether the whole
system--sun, planets, and all--is not moving on bodily through space.

Herschel was the first to solve this noble problem; he discovered that
our sun and the splendid retinue by which it is attended are moving in
space. He not only discovered this, but he ascertained the direction in
which the system was moving, as well as the approximate velocity with
which that movement was probably performed. It has been shown that the
sun and his system is now hastening towards a point of the heavens near
the constellation Lyra. The velocity with which the motion is performed
corresponds to the magnitude of the system; quicker than the swiftest
rifle-bullet that was ever fired, the sun, bearing with it the earth and
all the other planets, is now sweeping onwards. We on the earth
participate in that motion. Every half hour we are something like ten
thousand miles nearer to the constellation of Lyra than we should have
been if the solar system were not animated by this motion. As we are
proceeding at this stupendous rate towards Lyra, it might at first be
supposed that we ought soon to get there; but the distances of the stars
in that neighbourhood seem not less than those of the stars elsewhere,
and we may be certain that the sun and his system must travel at the
present rate for far more than a million years before we have crossed
the abyss between our present position and the frontiers of Lyra. It
must, however, be acknowledged that our estimate of the actual _speed_
with which our solar system is travelling is exceedingly uncertain, but
this does not in the least affect the fact that we are moving in the
direction first approximately indicated by Herschel (_see_ Chapter
XXIII.).

It remains to explain the method of reasoning which Herschel adopted, by
which he was able to make this great discovery. It may sound strange to
hear that the detection of the motion of the sun was not made by looking
at the sun; all the observations of the luminary itself with all the
telescopes in the world would never tell us of that motion, for the
simple reason that the earth, whence our observations must be made,
participates in it. A passenger in the cabin of a ship usually becomes
aware that the ship is moving by the roughness of the sea; but if the
sea be perfectly calm, then, though the tables and chairs in the cabin
are moving as rapidly as the ship, yet we do not see them moving,
because we are also travelling with the ship. If we could not go out of
the cabin, nor look through the windows, we would never know whether the
ship was moving or at rest; nor could we have any idea as to the
direction in which the ship was going, or as to the velocity with which
that motion was performed.

The sun, with his attendant host of planets and satellites, may be
likened to the ship. The planets may revolve around the sun just as the
passengers may move about in the cabin, but as the passengers, by
looking at objects on board, can never tell whither the ship is going,
so we, by merely looking at the sun, or at the other planets or members
of the solar system, can never tell if our system as a whole is in
motion.

The conditions of a perfectly uniform movement along a perfectly calm
sea are not often fulfilled on the waters with which we are acquainted,
but the course of the sun and his system is untroubled by any
disturbance, so that the majestic progress is conducted with absolute
uniformity. We do not feel the motion; and as all the planets are
travelling with us, we can get no information from them as to the common
motion by which the whole system is animated.

The passengers are, however, at once apprised of the ship's motion when
they go on deck, and when they look at the sea surrounding them. Let us
suppose that their voyage is nearly accomplished, that the distant land
appears in sight, and, as evening approaches, the harbour is discerned
into which the ship is to enter. Let us suppose that the harbour has, as
is often the case, a narrow entrance, and that its mouth is indicated by
a lighthouse on each side. When the harbour is still a long way off,
near the horizon, the two lights are seen close together, and now that
the evening has closed in, and the night has become quite dark, these
two lights are all that remain visible. While the ship is still some
miles from its destination the two lights seem close together, but as
the distance decreases the two lights seem to open out; gradually the
ship gets nearer, while the lights are still opening, till finally, when
the ship enters the harbour, instead of the two lights being directly in
front, as at the commencement, one of the lights is passed by on the
right hand, while the other is similarly found on the left. If, then, we
are to discover the motion of the solar system, we must, like the
passenger, look at objects unconnected with our system, and learn our
own motion by their apparent movements. But are there any objects in the
heavens unconnected with our system? If all the stars were like the
earth, merely the appendages of our sun, then we never could discover
whether we were at rest or whether we were in motion: our system might
be in a condition of absolute rest, or it might be hurrying on with an
inconceivably great velocity, for anything we could tell to the
contrary. But the stars do not belong to the system of our sun; they
are, rather, suns themselves, and do not recognise the sway of our sun,
as this earth is obliged to do. The stars will, therefore, act as the
external objects by which we can test whether our system is voyaging
through space.

With the stars as our beacons, what ought we to expect if our system be
really in motion? Remember that when the ship was approaching the
harbour the lights gradually opened out to the right and left. But the
astronomer has also lights by which he can observe the navigation of
that vast craft, our solar system, and these lights will indicate the
path along which he is borne. If our solar system be in motion, we
should expect to find that the stars were gradually spreading away from
that point in the heavens towards which our motion tends. This is
precisely what we do find. The stars in the constellations are gradually
spreading away from a central point near the constellation of Lyra, and
hence we infer that it is towards Lyra that the motion of the solar
system is directed.

There is one great difficulty in the discussion of this question. Have
we not had occasion to observe that the stars themselves are in actual
motion? It seems certain that every star, including the sun himself as a
star, has each an individual motion of its own. The motions of the stars
as we see them are partly apparent as well as partly real; they partly
arise from the actual motion of each star and partly from the motion of
the sun, in which we partake, and which produces an apparent motion of
the star. How are these to be discriminated? Our telescopes and our
observations can never effect this decomposition directly. To accomplish
the analysis, Herschel resorted to certain geometrical methods. His
materials at that time were but scanty, but in his hands they proved
adequate, and he boldly announced his discovery of the movement of the
solar system.

So astounding an announcement demanded the severest test which the most
refined astronomical resources could suggest. There is a certain
powerful and subtle method which astronomers use in the effort to
interpret nature. Bishop Butler has said that probability is the guide
of life. The proper motion of a star has to be decomposed into two
parts, one real and the other apparent. When several stars are taken, we
may conceive an infinite number of ways into which the movements of each
star can be so decomposed. Each one of these conceivable divisions will
have a certain element of probability in its favour. It is the business
of the mathematician to determine the amount of that probability. The
case, then, is as follows:--Among all the various systems one must be
true. We cannot lay our finger for certain on the true one, but we can
take that which has the highest degree of probability in its favour, and
thus follow the precept of Butler to which we have already referred. A
mathematician would describe his process by calling it the method of
least squares. Since Herschel's discovery, one hundred years ago, many
an astronomer using observations of hundreds of stars has attacked the
same problem. Mathematicians have exhausted every refinement which the
theory of probabilities can afford, but only to confirm the truth of
that splendid theory which seems to have been one of the flashes of
Herschel's genius.




CHAPTER XXII.

STAR CLUSTERS AND NEBULÆ.


     Interesting Sidereal Objects--Stars not Scattered uniformly--Star
     Clusters--Their Varieties--The Cluster in Perseus--The Globular
     Cluster in Hercules--The Milky Way--A Cluster of Minute Stars--The
     Magellanic Clouds--Nebulæ distinct from Clouds--Number of known
     Nebulæ--The Constellation of Orion--The Position of the Great
     Nebula--The Wonderful Star th Orionis--The Drawing of the
     Great Nebula in Lord Rosse's Telescope--Photographs of this
     Wonderful Object--The Great Nebula in Andromeda--The Annular Nebula
     in Lyra--Resemblance to Vortex Rings--Planetary Nebulæ--Drawings of
     Several Remarkable Nebulæ--Nature of Nebulæ--Spectra of
     Nebulæ--Their Distribution; the Milky Way.

We have already mentioned Saturn as one of the most glorious telescopic
spectacles in the heavens. Setting aside the obvious claims of the sun
and of the moon, there are, perhaps, two other objects visible from
these latitudes which rival Saturn in the splendour and the interest of
their telescopic picture. One of these objects is the star cluster in
Hercules; the other is the great nebula in Orion. We take these objects
as typical of the two great classes of bodies to be discussed in this
chapter, under the head of Star Clusters and Nebulæ.

The stars, which to the number of several millions bespangle the sky,
are not scattered uniformly. We can see that while some regions are
comparatively barren, others contain stars in profusion. Sometimes we
have a small group, like the Pleiades; sometimes we have a stupendous
region of the heavens strewn over with stars, as in the Milky Way. Such
objects are called star clusters. We find every variety in the clusters;
sometimes the stars are remarkable for their brilliancy, sometimes for
their enormous numbers, and sometimes for the remarkable form in which
they are grouped. Sometimes a star cluster is adorned with
brilliantly-coloured stars; sometimes the luminous points are so close
together that their separate rays cannot he disentangled; sometimes the
stars are so minute or so distant that the cluster is barely
distinguishable from a nebula.

Of the clusters remarkable at once both for richness and brilliancy of
the individual stars, we may mention the cluster in the Sword-handle of
Perseus. The position of this object is marked on Fig. 83, page 415. To
the unaided eye a hazy spot is visible, which in the telescope expands
into two clusters separated by a short distance. In each of them we have
innumerable stars, crowded together so as to fill the field of view of
the telescope. The splendour of this object may be appreciated when we
reflect that each one of these stars is itself a brilliant sun, perhaps
rivalling our own sun in lustre. There are, however, regions in the
heavens near the Southern Cross, of course invisible from northern
latitudes, in which parts of the Milky Way present a richer appearance
even than the cluster in Perseus.

The most striking type of star cluster is well exhibited in the
constellation of Hercules. In this case we have a group of minute stars
apparently in a roughly globular form. Fig. 96 represents this object as
seen in Lord Rosse's great telescope, and it shows three radiating
streaks, in which the stars seem less numerous than elsewhere. It is
estimated that this cluster must contain from 1,000 to 2,000 stars, all
concentrated into an extremely small part of the heavens. Viewed in a
very small telescope, this object resembles a nebula. The position of
the cluster in Hercules is shown in a diagram previously given (Fig. 88,
page 420). We have already referred to this glorious aggregation of
stars as one of the three especially interesting objects in the heavens.

[Illustration: PLATE D.

MILKY WAY NEAR MESSIER II.

_Photographed by E.E. Barnard, 29th June, 1892._]

The Milky Way forms a girdle which, with more or less regularity,
sweeps completely around the heavens; and when viewed with the
telescope, is seen to consist of myriads of minute stars. In some places
the stars are much more numerous than elsewhere. All these stars are
incomparably more distant than the sun, which they surround, so it is
evident that our sun and, of course, the system which attends him lie
actually inside the Milky Way. It seems tempting to pursue the thought
here suggested, and to reflect that the whole Milky Way may, after all,
be merely a star cluster, comparable in size with some of the other star
clusters which we see, and that, viewed from a remote point in space,
the Milky Way would seem to be but one of the many clusters of stars
containing our sun as an indistinguishable unit.

[Illustration: Fig. 96.--The Globular Cluster in Hercules.]

In the southern hemisphere there are two immense masses which are
conspicuously visible to the naked eye, and resemble detached portions
of the Milky Way. They cannot be seen by observers in our latitude, and
are known as the Magellanic clouds or the two nubeculæ. Their structure,
as revealed to an observer using a powerful telescope, is of great
complexity. Sir John Herschel, who made a special study of these
remarkable objects, gives the following description of them: "The
general ground of both consists of large tracts and patches of
nebulosity in every stage of resolution, from light irresolvable, in a
reflector of eighteen inches aperture, up to perfectly separated stars
like the Milky Way, and clustering groups sufficiently insulated and
condensed to come under the designation of irregular and in some cases
pretty rich clusters. But besides these there are also nebulæ in
abundance and globular clusters in every state of condensation." It can
hardly be doubted that the two nubeculæ, which are, roughly speaking,
round, or, rather, oval, are not formed accidentally by a vast number of
very different objects being ranged at various distances along the same
line of sight, but that they really represent two great systems of
objects, widely different in constitution, which here are congregated in
each other's neighbourhood, whereas they generally do not co-exist close
to each other in the Milky Way, with which the mere naked-eye view would
otherwise lead us to associate the Magellanic clouds.

When we direct a good telescope to the heavens, we shall occasionally
meet with one of the remarkable celestial objects which are known as
nebulæ. They are faint cloudy spots, or stains of light on the black
background of the sky. They are nearly all invisible to the naked eye.
These celestial objects must not for a moment be confounded with clouds,
in the ordinary meaning of the word. The latter exist only suspended in
the atmosphere, while nebulæ are immersed in the depths of space. Clouds
shine by the light of the sun, which they reflect to us; nebulæ shine
with no borrowed light; they are self-luminous. Clouds change from hour
to hour; nebulæ do not change even from year to year. Clouds are far
smaller than the earth; while the smallest nebula known to us is
incomparably greater than the sun. Clouds are within a few miles of the
earth; the nebulæ are almost inconceivably remote.

Immediately after Herschel and his sister had settled at Slough he
commenced his review of the northern heavens in a systematic manner. For
observations of this kind it is essential that the sky be free from
cloud, while even the light of the moon is sufficient to obliterate the
fainter and more interesting objects. It was in the long and fine
winter nights, when the stars were shining brilliantly and the pale path
of the Milky Way extended across the heavens, that the labour was to be
done. The telescope being directed to the heavens, the ordinary diurnal
motion by which the sun and stars appear to rise and set carries the
stars across the field of view in a majestic panorama. The stars enter
slowly into the field of view, slowly move across it, and slowly leave
it, to be again replaced by others. Thus the observer, by merely
remaining passive at the eye-piece, sees one field after another pass
before him, and is enabled to examine their contents. It follows, that
even without moving the telescope a long narrow strip of the heavens is
brought under review, and by moving the telescope slightly up and down
the width of this strip can be suitably increased. On another night the
telescope is brought into a different position, and another strip of the
sky is examined; so that in the course of time the whole heavens can be
carefully scrutinised.

Herschel stands at the eye-piece to watch the glorious procession of
celestial objects. Close by, his sister Caroline sits at her desk, pen
in hand, to take down the observations as they fall from her brother's
lips. In front of her is a chronometer from which she can note the time,
and a contrivance which indicates the altitude of the telescope, so that
she can record the exact position of the object in connection with the
description which her brother dictated. Such was the splendid scheme
which this brother and sister had arranged to carry out as the object of
their life-long devotion. The discoveries which Herschel was destined to
make were to be reckoned not by tens or by hundreds, but by thousands.
The records of these discoveries are to be found in the "Philosophical
Transactions of the Royal Society," and they are among the richest
treasures of those volumes. It was left to Sir John Herschel, the only
son of Sir William, to complete his father's labour by repeating the
survey of the northern heavens and extending it to the southern
hemisphere. He undertook with this object a journey to the Cape of Good
Hope, and sojourned there for the years necessary to complete the great
work.

[Illustration: Fig. 97.--The Constellation of Orion, showing the
Position of the Great Nebula.]

As the result of the gigantic labours thus inaugurated and continued by
other observers, there are now about eight thousand nebulæ known to us,
and with every improvement of the telescope fresh additions are being
made to the list. They differ from one another as eight thousand pebbles
selected at random on a sea-beach might differ--namely, in form, size,
colour, and material--but yet, like the pebbles, bear a certain generic
resemblance to each other. To describe this class of bodies in any
detail would altogether exceed the limits of this chapter; we shall
merely select a few of the nebulæ, choosing naturally those of the most
remarkable character, and also those which are representatives of the
different groups into which nebulæ may be divided.

[Illustration: PLATE XIV.

THE GREAT NEBULA IN ORION.]

We have already stated that the great nebula in the constellation of
Orion is one of the most interesting objects in the heavens. It is alike
remarkable whether we consider its size or its brilliancy, the care with
which it has been studied, or the success which has attended the efforts
to learn something of its character. To find this object, we refer to
Fig. 97 for the sketch of the chief stars in this constellation, where
the letter A indicates the middle one of the three stars which form the
sword-handle of Orion. Above the handle will be seen the three stars
which form the well-known belt so conspicuous in the wintry sky. The
star A, when viewed attentively with the unaided eye, presents a
somewhat misty appearance. In the year 1618 Cysat directed a telescope
to this star, and saw surrounding it a curious luminous haze, which
proved to be the great nebula. Ever since his time this object has been
diligently studied by many astronomers, so that very many observations
have been made of the great nebula, and even whole volumes have been
written which treat of nothing else. Any ordinary telescope will show
the object to some extent, but the more powerful the telescope the more
are the curious details revealed.

[Illustration: Fig. 98.--The Multiple star (th Orionis) in the
Great Nebula of Orion.]

In the first place, the object which we have denoted by A (th
Orionis, also called the trapezium of Orion) is in itself the most
striking multiple star in the whole heavens. It consists really of six
stars, represented in the next diagram (Fig. 98). These points are so
close together that their commingled rays cannot be distinguished
without a telescope. Four of them are, however, easily seen in quite
small instruments, but the two smaller stars require telescopes of
considerable power. And yet these stars are suns, comparable, it may be,
with our sun in magnitude.

It is not a little remarkable that this unrivalled group of six suns
should be surrounded by the renowned nebula; the nebula or the multiple
star would, either of them alone, be of exceptional interest, and here
we have a combination of the two. It seems impossible to resist drawing
the conclusion that the multiple star really lies in the nebula, and not
merely along the same line of vision. It would, indeed, seem to be at
variance with all probability to suppose that the presentation of these
two exceptional objects in the same field of view was merely accidental.
If the multiple star be really in the nebula, then this object affords
evidence that in one case at all events the distance of a nebula is a
quantity of the same magnitude as the distance of a star. This is
unhappily almost the entire extent of our knowledge of the distances of
the nebulæ from the earth.

The great nebula of Orion surrounds the multiple star, and extends out
to a vast distance into the neighbouring space. The dotted circle drawn
around the star marked A in Fig. 97 represents approximately the extent
of the nebula, as seen in a moderately good telescope. The nebula is of
a faint bluish colour, impossible to represent in a drawing. Its
brightness is much greater in some places than in others; the central
parts are, generally speaking, the most brilliant, and the luminosity
gradually fades away as the edge of the nebula is approached. In fact,
we can hardly say that the nebula has any definite boundary, for with
each increase of telescopic power faint new branches can be seen. There
seems to be an empty space in the nebula immediately surrounding the
multiple star, but this is merely an illusion, produced by the contrast
of the brilliant light of the stars, as the spectroscopic examination of
the nebula shows that the nebulous matter is continuous between the
stars.

The plate of the great nebula in Orion which is here shown (Plate XIV.)
represents, in a reduced form, the elaborate drawing of this object,
which has been made with the Earl of Rosse's great reflecting telescope
at Parsonstown.[40] A telescopic view of the nebula shows two hundred
stars or more, scattered over its surface. It is not necessary to
suppose that these stars are immersed in the substance of the nebula as
the multiple star appears to be; they may be either in front of it, or,
less probably, behind it, so as to be projected on the same part of the
sky.

[Illustration: PLATE XV.

PHOTOGRAPH OF THE NEBULA 31 M ANDROMEDÆ

EXPOSURE 4 HOURS, ENLARGED 3 TIMES.

TAKEN BY MR. ISAAC ROBERTS, 29 DECEMBER, 1882.]

A considerable number of drawings of this unique object have been made
by other astronomers. Among these we must mention that executed by
Professor Bond, in Cambridge, Mass., which possesses a faithfulness in
detail that every student of this object is bound to acknowledge. Of
late years also successful attempts have been made to photograph the
great nebula. The late Professor Draper was fortunate enough to obtain
some admirable photographs. In England Mr. Common was the first to take
most excellent photographs of the nebula, and superb photographs of the
same object have also been obtained by Dr. Roberts and Mr. W.E. Wilson,
which show a vast extension of the nebula into regions which it was not
previously known to occupy.

The great nebula in Andromeda, which is faintly visible to the unaided
eye, is shown in Plate XV., which has been copied with permission from
one of the astonishing photographs that Dr. Isaac Roberts has obtained.
Two dark channels in the nebula cannot fail to be noticed, and the
number of faint stars scattered over its surface is also a point to
which attention may be drawn. To find this object we must look out for
Cassiopeia and the Great Square of Pegasus, and then the nebula will be
easily perceived in the position shown on p. 413. In the year 1885 a new
star of the seventh magnitude suddenly appeared close to the brightest
part of the nebula, and declined again to invisibility after the lapse
of a few months.

The nebula in Lyra is the most conspicuous ring nebula in the heavens,
but it is not to be supposed that it is the only member of this class.
Altogether, there are about a dozen of these objects. It seems difficult
to form any adequate conception of the nature of such a body. It is,
however, impossible to view the annular nebulæ without being, at all
events, reminded of those elegant objects known as vortex rings. Who has
not noticed a graceful ring of steam which occasionally escapes from the
funnel of a locomotive, and ascends high into the air, only dissolving
some time after the steam not so specialised has disappeared? Such
vortex rings can be produced artificially by a cubical box, one open
side of which is covered with canvas, while on the opposite side of the
box is a circular hole. A tap on the canvas will cause a vortex ring to
start from the hole; and if the box be filled with smoke, this ring will
be visible for many feet of its path. It would certainly be far too much
to assert that the annular nebulæ have any real analogy to vortex rings;
but there is, at all events, no other object known to us with which they
can be compared.

The heavens contain a number of minute but brilliant objects known as
the planetary nebulæ. They can only be described as globes of glowing
bluish-coloured gas, often small enough to be mistaken for a star when
viewed through a telescope. One of the most remarkable of these objects
lies in the constellation Draco, and can be found half-way between the
Pole Star and the star g Draconis. Some of the more recently
discovered planetary nebulæ are extremely small, and they have indeed
only been distinguished from small stars by the spectroscope. It is also
to be noticed that such objects are a little out of the stellar focus in
the refracting telescope in consequence of their blue colour. This
remark does not apply to a reflecting telescope, as this instrument
conducts all the rays to a common focus.

There are many other forms of nebulæ: there are long nebulous rays;
there are the wondrous spirals which have been disclosed in Lord Rosse's
great reflector; there are the double nebulæ. But all these various
objects we must merely dismiss with this passing reference. There is a
great difficulty in making pictorial representations of such nebulæ.
Most of them are very faint--so faint, indeed, that they can only be
seen with close attention even in powerful instruments. In making
drawings of these objects, therefore, it is impossible to avoid
intensifying the fainter features if an intelligible picture is to be
made. With this caution, however, we present Plate XVI., which exhibits
several of the more remarkable nebulæ as seen through Lord Rosse's great
telescope.

[Illustration: Fig. 99.--The Nebula N.G.C., 1,499.

(_By E.E. Barnard, Lick Observatory, September 21, 1895._)]

The actual nature of the nebulæ offers a problem of the greatest
interest, which naturally occupied the mind of the first assiduous
observer of nebulæ, William Herschel, for many years. At first he
assumed all nebulæ to be nothing but dense aggregations of stars--a very
natural conclusion for one who had so greatly advanced the optical power
of telescopes, and was accustomed to see many objects which in a small
telescope looked nebulous become "resolved" into stars when scrutinised
with a telescope of large aperture. But in 1864, when Sir William
Huggins first directed a telescope armed with a spectroscope to one of
the planetary nebulæ, it became evident that at least some nebulæ were
really clouds of fiery mist and not star clusters.

We shall in our next chapter deal with the spectra of the fixed stars,
but we may here in anticipation remark that these spectra are
continuous, generally showing the whole length of spectrum, from red to
violet, as in the sun's spectrum, though with many and important
differences as to the presence of dark and bright lines. A star cluster
must, of course, give a similar spectrum, resulting from the
superposition of the spectra of the single stars in the cluster. Many
nebulæ give a spectrum of this kind; for instance, the great nebula in
Andromeda. But it does not by any means follow from this that these
objects are only clusters of ordinary stars, as a continuous spectrum
may be produced not only by matter in the liquid or solid state, or by
gases at high pressure, but also by gases at lower pressure but high
temperature under certain conditions. A continuous spectrum in the case
of a nebula, therefore, need not indicate that the nebula is a cluster
of bodies comparable in size and general constitution with our sun. But
if a spectrum of bright lines is given by a nebula, we can be certain
that gases at low pressure are present in the object under examination.
And this was precisely what Sir William Huggins discovered to be the
case in many nebulæ. When he first decided to study the spectra of
nebulæ, he selected for observation those objects known as planetary
nebulæ--small, round, or slightly oval discs, generally without central
condensation, and looking like ill-defined planets. The colour of their
light, which often is blue tinted with green, is remarkable, since this
is a colour very rare among single stars. The spectrum was found to be
totally different to that of any star, consisting merely of three or
four bright lines. The brightest one is situated in the bluish-green
part of the spectrum, and was at first thought to be identical with a
line of the spectrum of nitrogen, but subsequent more accurate measures
have shown that neither this nor the second nebular line correspond to
any dark line in the solar spectrum, nor can they be produced
experimentally in the laboratory, and we are therefore unable to ascribe
them to any known element. The third and fourth lines were at once seen
to be identical with the two hydrogen lines which in the solar spectrum
are named F and g.

[Illustration: PLATE E.

NEBULÆ IN THE PLEIADES.

_From a Photograph by Dr. Isaac Roberts._]

Spectrum analysis has here, as on so many other occasions, rendered
services which no telescope could ever have done. The spectra of nebulæ
have, after Huggins, been studied, both visually and photographically,
by Vogel, Copeland, Campbell, Keeler, and others, and a great many very
faint lines have been detected in addition to those four which an
instrument of moderate dimensions shows. It is remarkable that the red
C-line of hydrogen, ordinarily so bright, is either absent or
excessively faint in the spectra of nebulæ, but experiments by Frankland
and Lockyer have shown that under certain conditions of temperature and
pressure the complicated spectrum of hydrogen is reduced to one green
line, the F-line. It is, therefore, not surprising that the spectra of
gaseous nebulæ are comparatively simple, as the probably low density of
the gases in them and the faintness of these bodies would tend to reduce
the spectra to a small number of lines. Some gaseous nebulæ also show
faint continuous spectra, the place of maximum brightness of which is
not in the yellow (as in the solar spectrum), but about the green. It is
probable that these continuous spectra are really an aggregate of very
faint luminous lines.

A list of all the nebulæ known to have a gaseous spectrum would now
contain about eighty members. In addition to the planetary nebulæ, many
large and more diffused nebulæ belong to this class, and this is also
the case with the annular nebula in Lyra and the great nebula of Orion.
It is needless to say that it is of special interest to find this grand
object enrolled among the nebulæ of a gaseous nature. In this nebula
Copeland detected the wonderful D3 line of helium at a time when
"helium" was a mere name, a hypothetical something, but which we now
know to be an element very widely distributed through the universe. It
has since been found in several other nebulæ. The ease with which the
characteristic gaseous spectrum is recognised has suggested the idea of
sweeping the sky with a spectroscope in order to pick up new planetary
nebulæ, and a number of objects have actually been discovered by
Pickering and Copeland in this manner, as also more recently by
Pickering by examining spectrum photographs of various regions of the
sky. Most of these new objects when seen through a telescope look like
ordinary stars, and their real nature could never have been detected
without the spectroscope.

When we look up at the starry sky on a clear night, the stars seem at
first sight to be very irregularly distributed over the heavens. Here
and there a few bright stars form characteristic groups, like Orion or
the Great Bear, while other equally large tracts are almost devoid of
bright stars and only contain a few insignificant ones. If we take a
binocular, or other small telescope, and sweep the sky with it, the
result seems to be the same--now we come across spaces rich in stars;
now we meet with comparatively empty places. But when we approach the
zone of the Milky Way, we are struck with the rapid increase of the
number of stars which fill the field of the telescope; and when we reach
the Milky Way itself, the eye is almost unable to separate the single
points of light, which are packed so closely together that they produce
the appearance to the naked eye of a broad, but very irregular, band of
dim light, which even a powerful telescope in some places can hardly
resolve into stars. How are we to account for this remarkable
arrangement of the stars? What is the reason of our seeing so few at the
parts of the heavens farthest from the Milky Way, and so very many in or
near that wonderful belt? The first attempt to give an answer to these
questions was made by Thomas Wright, an instrument maker in London, in a
book published in 1750. He supposed the stars of our sidereal system to
be distributed in a vast stratum of inconsiderable thickness compared
with its length and breadth. If we had a big grindstone made of glass,
in which had become uniformly imbedded a vast quantity of grains of sand
or similar minute particles, and if we were able to place our eye
somewhere near the centre of this grindstone, it is easy to see that we
should see very few particles near the direction of the axle of the
grindstone, but a great many if we looked towards any point of the
circumference. This was Wright's idea of the structure of the Milky Way,
and he supposed the sun to be situated not very far from the centre of
this stellar stratum.

[Illustration: PLATE F.

ô CENTAURI.

_From a Drawing in the Publications of Harvard College Observatory._]

If the Milky Way itself did not exist--and we had simply the fact to
build on that the stars appeared to increase rapidly in number towards a
certain circle (almost a great circle) spanning the heavens--then the
disc theory might have a good deal in its favour. But the telescopic
study of the Milky Way, and even more the marvellous photographs of its
complicated structure produced by Professor Barnard, have given the
death blow to the old theory, and have made it most reasonable to
conclude that the Milky Way is really, and not only apparently, a mighty
stream of stars encircling the heavens. We shall shortly mention a few
facts which point in this direction. A mere glance is sufficient to show
that the Milky Way is not a single belt of light; near the constellation
Aquila it separates into two branches with a fairly broad interval
between them, and these branches do not meet again until they have
proceeded far into the southern hemisphere. The disc theory had, in
order to explain this, to assume that the stellar stratum was cleft in
two nearly to the centre. But even if we grant this, how can we account
for the numerous more or less dark holes in the Milky Way, the largest
and most remarkable of which is the so-called "coal sack" in the
southern hemisphere? Obviously we should have to assume the existence of
a number of tunnels, drilled through the disc-like stratum, and by some
strange sympathy all directed towards the spot where our solar system is
situated. And the many small arms which stretch out from the Milky Way
would have to be either planes seen edgeways or the convexities of
curved surfaces viewed tangentially. The improbability of these various
assumptions is very great. But evidence is not wanting that the
relatively bright stars are crowded together along the same zone where
the excessively faint ones are so closely packed. The late Mr. Proctor
plotted all the stars which occur in Argelander's great atlas of the
northern hemisphere, 324,198 in number, on a single chart, and though
these stars are all above the tenth magnitude, and thus superior in
brightness to that innumerable host of stars of which the individual
members are more or less lost in the galactic zone, and on the
hypothesis of uniform distribution ought to be relatively near to us,
the chart shows distinctly the whole course of the Milky Way by the
clustering of these stars. This disposes sufficiently of the idea that
the Milky Way is nothing but a disc-like stratum seen projected on the
heavenly sphere; after this it is hardly necessary to examine Professor
Barnard's photographs and see how fairly bright and very faint regions
alternate without any attempt at regularity, in order to become
convinced that the Milky Way is more probably a stream of stars
clustered together, a stream or ring of incredibly enormous dimensions,
inside which our solar system happens to be situated. But it must be
admitted that it is premature to attempt to find the actual figure of
this stream or to determine the relative distance of the various
portions of it.

[Illustration: PLATE XVI.

NEBULÆ

OBSERVED WITH LORD ROSSE'S GREAT TELESCOPE.]




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE PHYSICAL NATURE OF THE STARS.


     Star Spectroscopes--Classification of Stellar Spectra--Type I.,
     with very Few Absorption Lines--Type II., like the Sun--Type III.,
     with Strongly Marked Dark Bands--Distribution of these Classes over
     the Heavens--Motion in the Line of Sight--Orbital Motion Discovered
     with the Spectroscope: New Class of Binaries--Spectra of Temporary
     Stars--Nature of these Bodies.

We have frequently in the previous chapters had occasion to refer to the
revelations of the spectroscope, which form an important chapter in the
history of modern science. By its aid a mighty stride has been taken in
our attempt to comprehend the physical constitution of the sun. In the
present chapter we propose to give an account of what the spectroscope
tells us about the physical constitution of the fixed stars.

Quite a new phase of astronomy is here opened up. Every improvement in
telescopes revealed fainter and fainter objects, but all the telescopes
in the world could not answer the question as to whether iron and other
elements are to be found in the stars. The ordinary star is a mighty
glowing globe, hotter than a Bessemer converter or a Siemens furnace; if
iron is in the star, it must be not only white-hot and molten, but
actually converted into vapour. But the vapour of iron is not visible in
the telescope. How would you recognise it? How would you know if it
commingled with the vapour of many other metals or other substances? It
is, in truth, a delicate piece of analysis to discriminate iron in the
glowing atmosphere of a star. But the spectroscope is adequate to the
task, and it renders its analysis with an amount of evidence that is
absolutely convincing.

That the spectra of the moon and planets are practically nothing but
faint reproductions of the spectrum of the sun was discovered by the
great German optician Fraunhofer about the year 1816. By placing a prism
in front of the object glass of a small theodolite (an instrument used
for geodetic measurements) he was able to ascertain that Venus and Mars
showed the same spectrum as the sun, while Sirius gave a very different
one. This important observation encouraged him to procure better
instrumental means with which to continue the work, and he succeeded in
distinguishing the chief characteristics of the various types of stellar
spectra. The form of instrument which Fraunhofer adopted for this work,
in which the prism was placed outside the object glass of the telescope,
has not been much used until within the last few years, owing to the
difficulty of obtaining prisms of large dimensions (for it is obvious
that the prism ought to be as large as the object glass if the full
power of the latter is to be made use of), but this is the simplest form
of spectroscope for observing spectra of objects of no sensible angular
diameter, like the fixed stars. The parallel rays from the stars are
dispersed by the prism into a spectrum, and this is viewed by means of
the telescope. But as the image of the star in the telescope is nothing
but a luminous point, its spectrum will be merely a line in which it
would not be possible to distinguish any lines crossing it laterally
such as those we see in the spectrum of the sun. A cylindrical lens is,
therefore, placed before the eye-piece of the telescope, and as this has
the effect of turning a point into a line and a line into a band, the
narrow spectrum of the star is thereby broadened out into a luminous
band in which we can distinguish any details that exist. In other forms
of stellar spectroscope we require a slit which must be placed in the
focus of the object glass, and the general arrangement is similar to
that which we have described in the chapter on the sun, except that a
cylindrical lens is required.

The study of the spectra of the fixed stars made hardly any progress
until the principles of spectrum analysis had been established by
Kirchhoff in 1859. When the dark lines in the solar spectrum had been
properly interpreted, it was at once evident that science had opened
wide the gates of a new territory for human exploration, of the very
existence of which hardly anyone had been aware up to that time. We have
seen to what splendid triumphs the study of the sun has led the
investigators in this field, and we have seen how very valuable results
have been obtained by the new method when applied to observations of
comets and nebulæ. We shall now give some account of what has been
learned with regard to the constitution of the fixed stars by the
researches which were inaugurated by Sir William Huggins and continued
and developed by him, as well as by Secchi, Vogel, Pickering, Lockyer,
Dunér, Scheiner and others. Here, as in the other modern branches of
astronomy, photography has played a most important part, not only
because photographed spectra of stars extend much farther at the violet
end than the observer can follow them with his eye, but also because the
positions of the lines can be very accurately measured on the
photographs.

The first observer who reduced the apparently chaotic diversity of
stellar spectra to order was Secchi, who showed that they might all be
grouped according to four types. Within the last thirty years, however,
so many modifications of the various types have been found that it has
become necessary to subdivide Secchi's types, and most observers now
make use of Vogel's classification, which we shall also for convenience
adopt in this chapter.

_Type I._--In the spectra of stars of this class the metallic lines,
which are so very numerous and conspicuous in the sun's violet spectrum,
are very faint and thin, or quite invisible, and the blue and white
parts are very intensely bright. Vogel subdivides the class into three
groups. In the first (I.a) the hydrogen lines are present, and are
remarkably broad and intense; Sirius, Vega, and Regulus are examples of
this group. The great breadth of the lines probably indicates that these
stars are surrounded by hydrogen atmospheres of great dimensions. It is
generally acknowledged that stars of this group must be the hottest of
all, and support is lent to this view by the appearance in their
spectra of a certain magnesium line, which, as Sir Norman Lockyer showed
many years ago, by laboratory experiments, does not appear in the
ordinary spectrum of magnesium, but is indicative of the presence of the
substance at a very high temperature. In the spectra of stars of Group
I.b the hydrogen lines and the few metallic lines are of equal breadth,
and the magnesium line just mentioned is the strongest of all. Rigel and
several other bright stars in Orion belong to this group, and it is
remarkable that helium is present at least in some of these stars, so
that (as Professor Keeler remarks) the spectrum of Rigel may almost be
regarded as the nebular spectrum reversed (lines dark instead of
bright), except that the two chief nebular lines are not reversed in the
star. This fact will doubtless eventually be of great importance to our
understanding the successive development of a star from a nebula; and a
star like Rigel is no doubt also of very high temperature. This is
probably not the case with stars of the third subdivision of Type I.
(I.c), the spectra of which are distinguished by the presence of bright
hydrogen lines and the bright helium line D3. Among the stars having
this very remarkable kind of spectrum is a very interesting variable
star in the constellation Lyra (b) and the star known as g
Cassiopeiæ, both of which have been assiduously observed, their spectra
possessing numerous peculiarities which render an explanation of the
physical constitution of the stars of this subdivision a very difficult
matter.

Passing to _Type II._, we find spectra in which the metallic lines are
strong. The more refrangible end of the spectrum is fainter than in the
previous Class, and absorption bands are sometimes found towards the red
end. In its first subdivision (II.a) are contained spectra with a large
number of strong and well-defined lines due to metals, the hydrogen
lines being also well seen, though they are not specially conspicuous.
Among the very numerous stars of this group are Capella, Aldebaran,
Arcturus, Pollux, etc. The spectra of these stars are in fact
practically identical with the spectrum of our own sun, as shown, for
instance, by Dr. Scheiner, of the Potsdam Astrophysical Observatory, who
has measured several hundred lines on photographs of the spectrum of
Capella, and found a very close agreement between these lines and
corresponding ones in the solar spectrum. We can hardly doubt that the
physical constitution of these stars is very similar to that of our sun.
This cannot be the case with the stars of the second subdivision (II.b),
the spectra of which are very complex, each consisting of a continuous
spectrum crossed by numerous dark lines, on which is superposed a second
spectrum of bright lines. Upwards of seventy stars are known to possess
this extraordinary spectrum, the only bright one among them being a star
of the third magnitude in the southern constellation Argus. Here again
we have hydrogen and helium represented by bright lines, while the
origin of the remaining bright lines is doubtful. With regard to the
physical constitution of the stars of this group it is very difficult to
come to a definite conclusion, but it would seem not unlikely that we
have here to do with stars which are not only surrounded by an
atmosphere of lower temperature, causing the dark lines, but which,
outside of that, have an enormous envelope of hydrogen and other gases.
In one star at least of this group Professor Campbell, of the Lick
Observatory, has seen the F line as a long line extending a very
appreciable distance on each side of the continuous spectrum, and with
an open slit it was seen as a large circular disc about six seconds in
diameter; two other principal hydrogen lines showed the same appearance.
As far as this observation goes, the existence of an extensive gaseous
envelope surrounding the star seems to be indicated.

_Type III._ contains comparatively few stars, and the spectra are
characterised by numerous dark bands in addition to dark lines, while
the more refrangible parts are very faint, for which reason the stars
are more or less red in colour. This class has two strongly marked
subdivisions. In the first (III.a) the principal absorption lines
coincide with similar ones in the solar spectrum, but with great
differences as to intensity, many lines being much stronger in these
stars than in the sun, while many new lines also appear. These
dissimilarities are, however, of less importance than the peculiar
absorption bands in the red, yellow, and green parts of the spectrum,
overlying the metallic lines, and being sharply defined on the side
towards the violet and shading off gradually towards the red end of the
spectrum. Bands of this kind belong to chemical combinations, and this
appears to show that somewhere in the atmospheres of these distant suns
the temperature is low enough to allow stable chemical combinations to
be formed. The most important star of this kind is Betelgeuze or a
Orionis, the red star of the first magnitude in the shoulder of Orion;
but it is of special importance to note that many variable stars of long
period have spectra of Type III.a. Sir Norman Lockyer predicted in 1887
that bright lines, probably of hydrogen, would eventually be found to
appear at the maximum of brightness, when the smaller swarm is supposed
to pass through the larger one, and this was soon afterwards confirmed
by the announcement that Professor Pickering had found a number of
hydrogen lines bright on photographs, obtained at Harvard College
Observatory, of the spectrum of the remarkable variable, Mira Ceti, at
the time of maximum. Professor Pickering has since then reported that
bright lines have been found on the plates of forty-one previously known
variables of this class, and that more than twenty other stars have been
detected as variables by this peculiarity of their spectrum; that is,
bright lines being seen in them suggested that the stars were variable,
and further photometric investigations corroborated the fact.

The second subdivision (III.b) contains only comparatively faint stars,
of which none exceed the fifth magnitude, and is limited to a small
number of red stars. The strongly marked bands in their spectra are
sharply defined and dark on the red side, while they fade away gradually
towards the violet, exactly the reverse of what we see in the spectra of
III.a. These bands appear to arise from the absorption due to
hydrocarbon vapours present in the atmospheres of these stars; but there
are also some lines visible which indicate the presence of metallic
vapours, sodium being certainly among these. There can be little doubt
that these stars represent the last stage in the life of a sun, when it
has cooled down considerably and is not very far from actual extinction,
owing to the increasing absorption of its remaining light in the
atmosphere surrounding it.

The method employed for the spectroscopic determination of the motion of
a star in the line of sight is the same as the method we have described
in the chapter on the sun. The position of a certain line in the
spectrum of a star is compared with the position of the corresponding
bright line of an element in an artificially produced spectrum, and in
this manner a displacement of the stellar line either towards the violet
(indicating that the star is approaching us) or towards the red
(indicating that it is receding) may be detected. The earliest attempt
of this sort was made in 1867 by Sir William Huggins, who compared the F
line in the spectrum of Sirius with the same line of the spectrum of
hydrogen contained in a vacuum tube reflected into the field of his
astronomical spectroscope, so that the two spectra appeared side by
side. The work thus commenced and continued by him was afterwards taken
up at the Greenwich Observatory; but the results obtained by these
direct observations were never satisfactory, as remarkable discrepancies
appeared between the values obtained by different observers, and even by
the same observer on different nights. This is not to be wondered at
when we bear in mind that the velocity of light is so enormous compared
with any velocity with which a heavenly body may travel, that the change
of wave length resulting from the latter motion can only be a very
minute one, difficult to perceive, and still more difficult to measure.
But since photography was first made use of for these investigations by
Dr. Vogel, of Potsdam, much more accordant and reliable results have
been obtained, though even now extreme care is required to avoid
systematic errors. To give some idea of the results obtainable, we
present in the following table the values of the velocity per second of
a number of stars observed in 1896 and 1897 by Mr. H.F. Newall with the
Bruce spectrograph attached to the great 25-inch Newall refractor of the
Cambridge Observatory, and we have added the values found at Potsdam by
Vogel and Scheiner. The results are expressed in kilometres (1 km. =
0·62 English mile). The sign + means that the star is receding from
us,-that it is approaching.

                   Newall.   Vogel.   Scheiner.
  Aldebaran        + 49·2    + 47·6    + 49·4
  Betelgeuze       + 10·6    + 15·6    + 18·8
  Procyon          -  4·2    -  7·2    - 10·5
  Pollux           -  0·7    +  1·9    +  0·4
  g Leonis          - 39·9    - 36·5    - 40·5
  Arcturus         -  6·4    -  7·0    -  8·3

These results have been corrected for the earth's orbital motion round
the sun, but not for the sun's motion through space, as the amount of
the latter is practically unknown, or at least very uncertain; so that
the above figures really represent the velocity per second of the
various stars relative to the sun. We may add that the direction and
velocity of the sun's motion may eventually be ascertained from
spectroscopic measures of a great number of stars, and it seems likely
that the sun's velocity will be much more accurately found in this way
than by the older method of combining proper motions of stars with
speculations as to the average distances of the various classes of
stars. This has already been attempted by Dr. Kempf, who from the
Potsdam spectrographic observations found the sun's velocity to be 18·6
kilometres, or 11·5 miles per second, a result which is probably not far
from the truth.

But the spectra of the fixed stars can also tell us something about
orbital motion in these extremely distant systems. If one star revolved
round another in a plane passing through the sun, it must on one side of
the orbit move straight towards us and on the other side move straight
away from us, while it will not alter its distance from us while it is
passing in front of, or behind, the central body. If we therefore find
from the spectroscopic observations that a star is alternately moving
towards and away from the earth in a certain period, there can be no
doubt that this star is travelling round some unseen body (or, rather,
round the centre of gravity of both) in the period indicated by the
shifting of the spectral lines. In Chapter XIX. we mentioned the
variable star Algol in the constellation Perseus, which is one of a
class of variable stars distinguished by the fact that for the greater
part of the period they remain of unaltered brightness, while for a very
short time they become considerably fainter. That this was caused by
some sort of an eclipse--or, in other words, by the periodic passage of
a dark body in front of the star, hiding more or less of the latter from
us--was the simplest possible hypothesis, and it had already years ago
been generally accepted. But it was not possible to prove that this was
the true explanation of the periodicity of stars like Algol until
Professor Vogel, from the spectroscopic observations made at Potsdam,
found that before every minimum Algol is receding from the sun, while it
is approaching us after the minimum. Assuming the orbit to be circular,
the velocity of Algol was found to be twenty-six miles per second. From
this and the length of the period (2d. 22h. 48m. 55s.) and the time of
obscuration it was easy to compute the size of the orbit and the actual
dimensions of the two bodies. It was even possible to go a step further
and to calculate from the orbital velocities the masses of the two
bodies,[41] assuming them to be of equal density--an assumption which is
no doubt very uncertain. The following are the approximate elements of
the Algol system found by Vogel:--

  Diameter of Algol                      1,054,000 miles.
  Diameter of companion                    825,000 miles.
  Distance between their centres         3,220,000 miles.
  Orbital velocity of Algol             26 miles per sec.
  Orbital velocity of companion         55 miles per sec.
  Mass of Algol                        4/9 of sun's mass.
  Mass of companion                    2/9 of sun's mass.

The period of Algol has been gradually decreasing during the last
century (by six or seven seconds), but whether this is caused by the
motion of the pair round a third and very much more distant body, as
suggested by Mr. Chandler, has still to be found out.

We have already mentioned that in order to produce eclipses, and thereby
variations of light, it is necessary that the line of sight should lie
nearly in the plane of the orbit. It is also essential that there should
be a considerable difference of brightness between the two bodies. These
conditions must be fulfilled in the fifteen variable stars of the Algol
class now known; but according to the theory of probability, there must
be many more binary systems like that of Algol where these conditions
are not fulfilled, and in those cases no variations will occur in the
stars' brightness. Of course, we know many cases of a luminous star
travelling round another, but there must also be cases of a large
companion travelling round another at so small a distance that our
telescopes are unable to "divide" the double star. This has actually
been discovered by means of the spectroscope. If we suppose an extremely
close double star to be examined with the spectroscope, the spectra of
the two components will be superposed, and we shall not be aware that we
really see two different spectra. But during the revolution of the two
bodies round their common centre of gravity there must periodically come
a time when one body is moving towards us and the other moving from us,
and consequently the lines in the spectrum of the former will be subject
to a minute, relative shift towards the violet end of the spectrum, and
those of the other to a minute shift towards the red. Those lines which
are common to the two spectra will therefore periodically become double.
A discovery of this sort was first made in 1889 by Professor Pickering
from photographs of the spectrum of Mizar, or z Ursa Majoris, the
larger component of the well-known double star in the tail of the Great
Bear. Certain of the lines were found to be double at intervals of
fifty-two days. The maximum separation of the two components of each
line corresponds to a relative velocity of one star as compared with the
other of about a hundred miles per second, but subsequent observations
have shown the case to be very complicated, either with a very eccentric
elliptic orbit or possibly owing to the presence of a third body. The
Harvard College photographs also showed periodic duplicity of lines in
the star b Aurigæ, the period being remarkably short, only three
days and twenty-three hours and thirty-seven minutes. In 1891 Vogel
found, from photographs of the spectrum of Spica, the first magnitude
star in Virgo, that this star alternately recedes from and approaches to
the solar system, the period being four days. Certain other
"spectroscopic binaries" have since then been found, notably one
component of Castor, with a period of three days, found by M.
Belopolsky, and a star in the constellation Scorpio, with a period of
only thirty-four hours, detected on the Harvard spectrograms.

Quite recently Mr. H.F. Newall, at Cambridge, and Mr. Campbell, of the
Lick Observatory, have shown that a Aurigæ, or Capella, consists
of a sun-like star and a Procyon-like star, revolving in 104 days.

At first sight there is something very startling in the idea of two suns
circling round each other, separated by an interval which, in comparison
with their diameters, is only a very small one. In the Algol system, for
instance, we have two bodies, one the size of our own sun and the other
slightly larger, moving round their common centre of gravity in less
than three days, and at a distance between their surfaces equal to only
twice the diameter of the larger one. Again, in the system of Spica we
have two great suns swinging round each other in only four days, at a
distance equal to that between Saturn and his sixth satellite. But
although we have at present nothing analogous to this in our solar
system, it can be proved mathematically that it is perfectly possible
for a system of this kind to preserve its stability, if not for ever, at
any rate for ages, and we shall see in our last chapter that there was
in all probability a time when the earth and the moon formed a peculiar
system of two bodies revolving rapidly at a very small distance compared
to the diameters of the bodies.

It is possible that we have a more complicated system in the star known
as b Lyræ. This is a variable star of great interest, having a
period of twelve days and twenty-two hours, in which time it rises from
magnitude 4-1/2 to a little above 3-1/2, sinks nearly to the fourth
magnitude, rises again to fully 3-1/2, and finally falls to magnitude
4-1/2. In 1891 Professor Pickering discovered that the bright lines in
the spectrum of this star changed their position from time to time,
appearing now on one side, now on the other side of corresponding dark
lines. Obviously these bright lines change their wave length, the
light-giving source alternately receding from and approaching to the
earth, and the former appeared to be the case during one-half of the
period of variation of the star's light, the latter during the other
half. The spectrum of this star has been further examined by Belopolsky
and others, who have found that the lines are apparently double, but
that one of the components either disappears or becomes very narrow from
time to time. On the assumption that these lines were really single (the
apparent duplicity resulting from the superposition of a dark line),
Belopolsky determined the amount of their displacement by measuring the
distances from the two edges of a line of hydrogen (F) to the artificial
hydrogen line produced by gas glowing in a tube and photographed along
with the star-spectrum. Assuming the alternate approach and recession to
be caused by orbital revolution, Belopolsky found that the body emitting
the light of the bright lines moved with an orbital velocity of
forty-one miles. He succeeded in 1897 in observing the displacement of a
dark line due to magnesium, and found that the body emitting it was also
moving in an orbit, but while the velocities given by the bright F line
are positive after the principal minimum of the star's light, those
given by the dark line are negative. Therefore, during the principal
minimum it is a star giving the dark line which is eclipsed, and during
the secondary minimum another star giving the bright line is eclipsed.
This wonderful variable will, however, require more observatioêns before
the problem of its constitution is finally solved, and the same may be
said of several variable stars, _e.g._ ê Aquilæ and d Cephei,
in which a want of harmony has been found between the changes of
velocity and the fluctuations of the light.

There are some striking analogies between the complicated spectrum of
b Lyræ and the spectra of temporary stars. The first "new star"
which could be spectroscopically examined was that which appeared in
Corona Borealis in 1866, and which was studied by Sir W. Huggins. It
showed a continuous spectrum with dark absorption lines, and also the
bright lines of hydrogen; practically the same spectrum as the stars of
Type II.b. This was also the case with Schmidt's star of 1876, which
showed the helium line (D3) and the principal nebula line in addition
to the lines of hydrogen; but in the autumn of 1877, when the star had
fallen to the tenth magnitude, Dr. Copeland was surprised to find that
only one line was visible, the principal nebula line, in which almost
the whole light of the star was concentrated, the continuous spectrum
being hardly traceable. It seemed, in fact, that the star had been
transformed into a planetary nebula, but later the spectrum seems to
have lost this peculiar monochromatic character, the nebula line having
disappeared and a faint continuous spectrum alone being visible, which
is also the case with the star of 1866 since it sank down to the tenth
magnitude. A continuous spectrum was all that could be seen of the new
star which broke out in the nebula of Andromeda in 1885, much the same
as the spectrum of the nebula itself.

When the new star in Auriga was announced, in February, 1892,
astronomers were better prepared to observe it spectroscopically, as it
was now possible by means of photography to study the ultra-violet part
of the spectrum which to the eye is invisible. The visible spectrum was
very like that of Nova Cygni of 1876, but when the wave-lengths of all
the bright lines seen and photographed at the Lick Observatory and at
Potsdam were measured, a strong resemblance to the bright line spectrum
of the chromosphere of the sun became very evident. The hydrogen lines
were very conspicuous, while the iron lines were very numerous, and
calcium and magnesium were also represented. The most remarkable
revelation made by the photographs was, however, that the bright lines
were in many cases accompanied, on the side next the violet, by broad
dark bands, while both bright and dark lines were of a composite
character. Many of the dark lines had a thin bright line superposed in
the middle, while on the other hand many of the bright lines had two or
three points maxima of brightness. The results of the measures of motion
in the line of sight were of special importance. They showed that the
source of light, whence came the thin bright lines within the dark ones,
was travelling towards the sun at the enormous rate of 400 miles per
second, and if the bright lines were actual "reversals" of the dark
ones, then the source of the absorption spectrum must have been endowed
with much the same velocity. On the other hand, if the two or three
maxima of brightness in the bright lines really represent two or three
separate bodies giving bright lines, the measures indicate that the
principal one was almost at rest as regards the sun, while the others
were receding from us at the extraordinary rates of 300 and 600 miles
per second. And as if this were not sufficiently puzzling, the star on
its revival in August, 1892, as a tenth magnitude star had a totally
different spectrum, showing nothing but a number of the bright lines
belonging to planetary nebulæ! It is possible that the principal ones of
these were really present in the spectrum from the first, but that their
wave lengths had been different owing to change of the motion in the
line of sight, so that the nebula lines seen in the autumn were
identical with others seen in the spring at slightly different places.
Subsequent observations of these nebula lines seemed to point to a
motion of the Nova towards the solar system (of about 150 miles per
second) which gradually diminished.

But although we are obliged to confess our inability to say for certain
why a temporary star blazes up so suddenly, we have every cause to think
that these strange bodies will by degrees tell us a great deal about the
constitution of the fixed stars. The great variety of spectra which we
see in the starry universe, nebula spectra with bright lines, stellar
spectra of the same general character, others with broad absorption
bands, or numerous dark lines like our sun, or a few absorption lines
only--all this shows us the universe as teeming with bodies in various
stages of evolution. We shall have a few more words to say on this
matter when we come to consider the astronomical significance of heat;
but we have reached a point where man's intellect can hardly keep pace
with the development of our instrumental resources, and where our
imagination stands bewildered when we endeavour to systematise the
knowledge we have gained. That great caution will have to be exercised
in the interpretation of the observed phenomena is evident from the
recent experience of Professor Rowland, of Baltimore, from which we
learn that spectral lines are not only widened by increased pressure of
the light-giving vapour, but that they may be bodily shifted thereby.
Dr. Zeeman's discovery, that a line from a source placed in a strong
magnetic field may be both widened, broadened, and doubled, will also
increase our difficulties in the interpretation of these obscure
phenomena.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE PRECESSION AND NUTATION OF THE EARTH'S AXIS.


     The Pole is not a Fixed Point--Its Effect on the Apparent Places of
     the Stars--The Illustration of the Peg-Top--The Disturbing Force
     which acts on the Earth--Attraction of the Sun on a Globe--The
     Protuberance at the Equator--The Attraction of the Protuberance by
     the Sun and by the Moon produces Precession--The Efficiency of the
     Precessional Agent varies inversely as the Cube of the
     Distance--The Relative Efficiency of the Sun and the Moon--How the
     Pole of the Earth's Axis revolves round the Pole of the
     Ecliptic--Variation of Latitude.

The position of the pole of the heavens is most conveniently indicated
by the bright star known as the Pole Star, which lies in its immediate
vicinity. Around this pole the whole heavens appear to rotate once in a
sidereal day; and we have hitherto always referred to the pole as though
it were a fixed point in the heavens. This language is sufficiently
correct when we embrace only a moderate period of time in our review. It
is no doubt true that the pole lies near the Pole Star at the present
time. It did so during the lives of the last generation, and it will do
so during the lives of the next generation. All this time, however, the
pole is steadily moving in the heavens, so that the time will at length
come when the pole will have departed a long way from the present Pole
Star. This movement is incessant. It can be easily detected and measured
by the instruments in our observatories, and astronomers are familiar
with the fact that in all their calculations it is necessary to hold
special account of this movement of the pole. It produces an apparent
change in the position of a star, which is known by the term
"precession."

[Illustration: Fig. 100.]

The movement of the pole is very clearly shown in the accompanying
figure (Fig. 100), for which I am indebted to the kindness of the late
Professor C. Piazzi Smyth. The circle shows the track along which the
pole moves among the stars.

The centre of the circle in the constellation of Draco is the pole of
the ecliptic. A complete journey of the pole occupies the considerable
period of about 25,867 years. The drawing shows the position of the
pole at the several dates from 4000 B.C. to 2000 A.D. A glance at this
map brings prominently before us how casual is the proximity of the pole
to the Pole Star. At present, indeed, the distance of the two is
actually lessening, but afterwards the distance will increase until,
when half of the revolution has been accomplished, the pole will be at a
distance of twice the radius of the circle from the Pole Star. It will
then happen that the pole will be near the bright star Vega or a
Lyræ, so that our successors some 12,000 years hence may make use of
Vega for many of the purposes for which the Pole Star is at present
employed! Looking back into past ages, we see that some 2,000 or 3,000
years B.C. the star a Draconis was suitably placed to serve as the
Pole Star, when b and d of the Great Bear served as pointers.
It need hardly be added, that since the birth of accurate astronomy the
course of the pole has only been observed over a very small part of the
mighty circle. We are not, however, entitled to doubt that the motion of
the pole will continue to pursue the same path. This will be made
abundantly clear when we proceed to render an explanation of this very
interesting phenomenon.

The north pole of the heavens is the point of the celestial sphere
towards which the northern end of the axis about which the earth rotates
is directed. It therefore follows that this axis must be constantly
changing its position. The character of the movement of the earth, so
far as its rotation is concerned, may be illustrated by a very common
toy with which every boy is familiar. When a peg-top is set spinning, it
has, of course, a very rapid rotation around its axis; but besides this
rotation there is usually another motion, whereby the axis of the
peg-top does not remain in a constant direction, but moves in a conical
path around the vertical line. The adjoining figure (Fig. 101) gives a
view of the peg-top. It is, of course, rotating with great rapidity
around its axis, while the axis itself revolves around the vertical line
with a very deliberate motion. If we could imagine a vast peg-top which
rotated on its axis once a day, and if that axis were inclined at an
angle of twenty-three and a half degrees to the vertical, and if the
slow conical motion of the axis were such that the revolution of the
axis were completed in about 26,000 years, then the movements would
resemble those actually made by the earth. The illustration of the
peg-top comes, indeed, very close to the actual phenomenon of
precession. In each case the rotation about the axis is far more rapid
than that of the revolution of the axis itself; in each case also the
slow movement is due to an external interference. Looking at the figure
of the peg-top (Fig. 101) we may ask the question, Why does it not fall
down? The obvious effect of gravity would seem to say that it is
impossible for the peg-top to be in the position shown in the figure.
Yet everybody knows that this is possible so long as the top is
spinning. If the top were not spinning, it would, of course, fall. It
therefore follows that the effect of the rapid rotation of the top so
modifies the effect of gravitation that the latter, instead of producing
its apparently obvious consequence, causes the slow conical motion of
the axis of rotation. This is, no doubt, a dynamical question of some
difficulty, but it is easy to verify experimentally that it is the case.
If a top be constructed so that the point about which it is spinning
shall coincide with the centre of gravity, then there is no effect of
gravitation on the top, and there is no conical motion perceived.

[Illustration: Fig. 101.--Illustration of the Motion of Precession.]

If the earth were subject to no external interference, then the
direction of the axis about which it rotates must remain for ever
constant; but as the direction of the axis does not remain constant, it
is necessary to seek for a disturbing force adequate to the production
of the phenomena which are observed. We have invariably found that the
dynamical phenomena of astronomy can be accounted for by the law of
universal gravitation. It is therefore natural to enquire how far
gravitation will render an account of the phenomenon of precession; and
to put the matter in its simplest form, let us consider the effect which
a distant attracting body can have upon the rotation of the earth.

To answer this question, it becomes necessary to define precisely what
we mean by the earth; and as for most purposes of astronomy we regard
the earth as a spherical globe, we shall commence with this assumption.
It seems also certain that the interior of the earth is, on the whole,
heavier than the outer portions. It is therefore reasonable to assume
that the density increases as we descend; nor is there any sufficient
ground for thinking that the earth is much heavier in one part than at
any other part equally remote from the centre. It is therefore usual in
such calculations to assume that the earth is formed of concentric
spherical shells, each one of which is of uniform density; while the
density decreases from each shell to the one exterior thereto.

A globe of this constitution being submitted to the attraction of some
external body, let us examine the effects which that external body can
produce. Suppose, for instance, the sun attracts a globe of this
character, what movements will be the result? The first and most obvious
result is that which we have already so frequently discussed, and which
is expressed by Kepler's laws: the attraction will compel the earth to
revolve around the sun in an elliptic path, of which the sun is in the
focus. With this movement we are, however, not at this moment concerned.
We must enquire how far the sun's attraction can modify the earth's
rotation around its axis. It can be demonstrated that the attraction of
the sun would be powerless to derange the rotation of the earth so
constituted. This is a result which can be formally proved by
mathematical calculation. It is, however, sufficiently obvious that the
force of attraction of any distant point on a symmetrical globe must
pass through the centre of that globe: and as the sun is only an
enormous aggregate of attracting points, it can only produce a
corresponding multitude of attractive forces; each of these forces
passes through the centre of the earth, and consequently the resultant
force which expresses the joint result of all the individual forces must
also be directed through the centre of the earth. A force of this
character, whatever other potent influence it may have, will be
powerless to affect the rotation of the earth. If the earth be rotating
on an axis, the direction of that axis would be invariably preserved; so
that as the earth revolves around the sun, it would still continue to
rotate around an axis which always remained parallel to itself. Nor
would the attraction of the earth by any other body prove more
efficacious than that of the sun. If the earth really were the
symmetrical globe we have supposed, then the attraction of the sun and
moon, and even the influence of all the planets as well, would never be
competent to make the earth's axis of rotation swerve for a single
second from its original direction.

We have thus narrowed very closely the search for the cause of the
"precession." If the earth were a perfect sphere, precession would be
inexplicable. We are therefore forced to seek for an explanation of
precession in the fact that the earth is not a perfect sphere. This we
have already demonstrated to be the case. We have shown that the
equatorial axis of the earth is longer than the polar axis, so that
there is a protuberant zone girdling the equator. The attraction of
external bodies is able to grasp this protuberance, and thereby force
the earth's axis of rotation to change its direction.

There are only two bodies in the universe which sensibly contribute to
the precessional movement of the earth's axis: these bodies are the sun
and the moon. The shares in which the labour is borne by the sun and the
moon are not what might have been expected from a hasty view of the
subject. This is a point on which it will be desirable to dwell, as it
illustrates a point in the theory of gravitation which is of very
considerable importance.

The law of gravitation asserts that the intensity of the attraction
which a body can exercise is directly proportional to the mass of that
body, and inversely proportional to the square of its distance from the
attracted point. We can thus compare the attraction exerted upon the
earth by the sun and by the moon. The mass of the sun exceeds the mass
of the moon in the proportion of about 26,000,000 to 1. On the other
hand, the moon is at a distance which, on an average, is about one-386th
part of that of the sun. It is thus an easy calculation to show that the
efficiency of the sun's attraction on the earth is about 175 times as
great as the attraction of the moon. Hence it is, of course, that the
earth obeys the supremely important attraction of the sun, and pursues
an elliptic path around the sun, bearing the moon as an appendage.

But when we come to that particular effect of attraction which is
competent to produce precession, we find that the law by which the
efficiency of the attracting body is computed assumes a different form.
The measure of efficiency is, in this case, to be found by taking the
mass of the body and dividing it by the _cube_ of the distance. The
complete demonstration of this statement must be sought in the formulæ
of mathematics, and cannot be introduced into these pages; we may,
however, adduce one consideration which will enable the reader in some
degree to understand the principle, though without pretending to be a
demonstration of its accuracy. It will be obvious that the nearer the
disturbing body approaches to the earth the greater is the _leverage_
(if we may use the expression) which is afforded by the protuberance at
the equator. The efficiency of a given force will, therefore, on this
account alone, increase in the inverse proportion of the distance. The
actual intensity of the force itself augments in the inverse square of
the distance, and hence the capacity of the attracting body for
producing precession will, for a double reason, increase when the
distance decreases. Suppose, for example, that the disturbing body is
brought to half its original distance from the disturbed body, the
leverage is by this means doubled, while the actual intensity of the
force is at the same time quadrupled according to the law of
gravitation. It will follow that the effect produced in the latter case
must be eight times as great as in the former case. And this is merely
equivalent to the statement that the precession-producing capacity of a
body varies inversely as the cube of the distance.

It is this consideration which gives to the moon an importance as a
precession-producing agent to which its mere attractive capacity would
not have entitled it. Even though the mass of the sun be 26,000,000
times as great as the mass of the moon, yet when this number is divided
by the cube of the relative value of the distances of the bodies (386),
it is seen that the efficiency of the moon is more than twice as great
as that of the sun. In other words, we may say that one-third of the
movement of precession is due to the sun, and two-thirds to the moon.

For the study of the joint precessional effect due to the sun and the
moon acting simultaneously, it will be advantageous to consider the
effect produced by the two bodies separately; and as the case of the sun
is the simpler of the two, we shall take it first. As the earth travels
in its annual path around the sun, the axis of the earth is directed to
a point in the heavens which is 23-1/2° from the pole of the ecliptic.
The precessional effect of the sun is to cause this point--the pole of
the earth--to revolve, always preserving the same angular distance from
the pole of the ecliptic; and thus we have a motion of the type
represented in the diagram. As the ecliptic occupies a position which
for our present purpose we may regard as fixed in space, it follows that
the pole of the ecliptic is a fixed point on the surface of the heavens;
so that the path of the pole of the earth must be a small circle in the
heavens, fixed in its position relatively to the surrounding stars. In
this we find a motion strictly analogous to that of the peg-top. It is
the gravitation of the earth acting upon the peg-top which forces it
into the conical motion. The immediate effect of the gravitation is so
modified by the rapid rotation of the top, that, in obedience to a
profound dynamical principle, the axis of the top revolves in a cone
rather than fall down, as it would do were the top not spinning. In a
similar manner the immediate effect of the sun's attraction on the
protuberance at the equator would be to bring the pole of the earth's
axis towards the pole of the ecliptic, but the rapid rotation of the
earth modifies this into the conical movement of precession.

The circumstances with regard to the moon are much more complicated.
The moon describes a certain orbit around the earth; that orbit lies in
a certain plane, and that plane has, of course, a certain pole on the
celestial sphere. The precessional effect of the moon would accordingly
tend to make the pole of the earth's axis describe a circle around that
point in the heavens which is the pole of the moon's orbit. This point
is about 5° from the pole of the ecliptic. The pole of the earth is
therefore solicited by two different movements--one a revolution around
the pole of the ecliptic, the other a revolution about another point 5°
distant, which is the pole of the moon's orbit. It would thus seem that
the earth's pole should make a certain composite movement due to the two
separate movements. This is really the case, but there is a point to be
very carefully attended to, which at first seems almost paradoxical. We
have shown how the potency of the moon as a precessional agent exceeds
that of the sun, and therefore it might be thought that the composite
movement of the earth's pole would conform more nearly to a rotation
around the pole of the plane of the moon's orbit than to a rotation
around the pole of the ecliptic; but this is not the case. The
precessional movement is represented by a revolution around the pole of
the ecliptic, as is shown in the figure. Here lies the germ of one of
those exquisite astronomical discoveries which delight us by
illustrating some of the most subtle phenomena of nature.

The plane in which the moon revolves does not occupy a constant
position. We are not here specially concerned with the causes of this
change in the plane of the moon's orbit, but the character of the
movement must be enunciated. The inclination of this plane to the
ecliptic is about 5°, and this inclination does not vary (except within
very narrow limits); but the line of intersection of the two planes does
vary, and, in fact, varies so quickly that it completes a revolution in
about 18-2/3 years. This movement of the plane of the moon's orbit
necessitates a corresponding change in the position of its pole. We thus
see that the pole of the moon's orbit must be actually revolving around
the pole of the ecliptic, always remaining at the same distance of 5°,
and completing its revolution in 18-2/3 years. It will, therefore, be
obvious that there is a profound difference between the precessional
effect of the sun and of the moon in their action on the earth. The sun
invites the earth's pole to describe a circle around a fixed centre; the
moon invites the earth's pole to describe a circle around a centre which
is itself in constant motion. It fortunately happens that the
circumstances of the case are such as to reduce considerably the
complexity of the problem. The movement of the moon's plane, only
occupying about 18-2/3 years, is a very rapid motion compared with the
whole precessional movement, which occupies about 26,000 years. It
follows that by the time the earth's axis has completed one circuit of
its majestic cone, the pole of the moon's plane will have gone round
about 1,400 times. Now, as this pole really only describes a
comparatively small cone of 5° in radius, we may for a first
approximation take the average position which it occupies; but this
average position is, of course, the centre of the circle which it
describes--that is, the pole of the ecliptic.

We thus see that the average precessional effect of the moon simply
conspires with that of the sun to produce a revolution around the pole
of the ecliptic. The grosser phenomena of the movements of the earth's
axis are to be explained by the uniform revolution of the pole in a
circular path; but if we make a minute examination of the track of the
earth's axis, we shall find that though it, on the whole, conforms with
the circle, yet that it really traces out a sinuous line, sometimes on
the inside and sometimes on the outside of the circle. This delicate
movement arises from the continuous change in the place of the pole of
the moon's orbit. The period of these undulations is 18-2/3 years,
agreeing exactly with the period of the revolution of the moon's nodes.
The amount by which the pole departs from the circle on either side is
only about 9·2 seconds--a quantity rather less than the
twenty-thousandth part of the radius of the sphere. This phenomenon,
known as "nutation," was discovered by the beautiful telescopic
researches of Bradley, in 1747. Whether we look at the theoretical
interest of the subject or at the refinement of the observations
involved, this achievement of the "Vir incomparabilis," as Bradley has
been called by Bessel, is one of the masterpieces of astronomical
genius.

The phenomena of precession and nutation depend on movements of the
earth itself, and not on movements of the axis of rotation within the
earth. Therefore the distance of any particular spot on the earth from
the north or south pole is not disturbed by either of these phenomena.
The latitude of a place is the distance of the place from the earth's
equator, and this quantity remains unaltered in the course of the long
precession cycle of 26,000 years. But it has been discovered within the
last few years that latitudes are subject to a small periodic change of
a few tenths of a second of arc. This was first pointed out about 1880
by Dr. Küstner, of Berlin, and by a masterly analysis of all available
observations, made in the course of many years past at various
observatories, Dr. Chandler, of Boston, has shown that the latitude of
every point on the earth is subject to a double oscillation, the period
of one being 427 days and the other about a year, the mean amplitude of
each being O"·14. In other words, the spot in the arctic regions,
directly in the prolongation of the earth's axis of rotation, is not
absolutely fixed; the end of the imaginary axis moves about in a
complicated manner, but always keeping within a few yards of its average
position. This remarkable discovery is not only of value as introducing
a new refinement in many astronomical researches depending on an
accurate knowledge of the latitude, but theoretical investigations show
that the periods of this variation are incompatible with the assumption
that the earth is an absolutely rigid body. Though this assumption has
in other ways been found to be untenable, the confirmation of this view
by the discovery of Dr. Chandler is of great importance.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE ABERRATION OF LIGHT.


     The Real and Apparent Movements of the Stars--How they can be
     Discriminated--Aberration produces Effects dependent on the
     Position of the Stars--The Pole of the Ecliptic--Aberration makes
     Stars seem to Move in a Circle, an Ellipse, or a Straight Line
     according to Position--All the Ellipses have Equal Major Axes--How
     is this Movement to be Explained?--How to be Distinguished from
     Annual Parallax--The Apex of the Earth's Way--How this is to be
     Explained by the Velocity of Light--How the Scale of the Solar
     System can be Measured by the Aberration of Light.

We have in this chapter to narrate a discovery of a recondite character,
which illustrates in a forcible manner some of the fundamental truths of
Astronomy. Our discussion of it will naturally be divided into two
parts. In the first part we must describe the nature of the phenomenon,
and then we must give the extremely elegant explanation afforded by the
properties of light. The telescopic discovery of aberration, as well as
its explanation, are both due to the illustrious Bradley.

The expression _fixed_ star, so often used in astronomy, is to be
received in a very qualified sense. The stars are, no doubt, well fixed
in their places, so far as coarse observation is concerned. The
lineaments of the constellations remain unchanged for centuries, and, in
contrast with the ceaseless movements of the planets, the stars are not
inappropriately called fixed. We have, however, had more than one
occasion to show throughout the course of this work that the expression
"fixed star" is not an accurate one when minute quantities are held in
estimation. With the exact measures of modern instruments, many of these
quantities are so perceptible that they have to be always reckoned with
in astronomical enquiry. We can divide the movements of the stars into
two great classes: the real movements and the apparent movements. The
proper motion of the stars and the movements of revolution of the binary
stars constitute the real movements of these bodies. These movements are
special to each star, so that two stars, although close together in the
heavens, may differ in the widest degree as to the real movements which
they possess. It may, indeed, sometimes happen that stars in a certain
region are animated with a common movement. In this phenomenon we have
traces of a real movement shared by a number of stars in a certain
group. With this exception, however, the real movements of the stars
seem to be governed by no systematic law, and the rapidly moving stars
are scattered here and there indiscriminately over the heavens.

The apparent movements of the stars have a different character, inasmuch
as we find the movement of each star determined by the place which it
occupies in the heavens. It is by this means that we discriminate the
real movements of the star from its apparent movements, and examine the
character of both.

In the present chapter we are concerned with the apparent movements
only, and of these there are three, due respectively to precession, to
nutation, and to aberration. Each of these apparent movements obeys laws
peculiar to itself, and thus it becomes possible to analyse the total
apparent motion, and to discriminate the proportions in which the
precession, the nutation, and the aberration have severally contributed.
We are thus enabled to isolate the effect of aberration as completely as
if it were the sole agent of apparent displacement, so that, by an
alliance between mathematical calculation and astronomical observation,
we can study the effects of aberration as clearly as if the stars were
affected by no other motions.

Concentrating our attention solely on the phenomena of aberration we
shall describe its particular effect upon stars in different regions of
the sky, and thus ascertain the laws according to which the effects of
aberration are exhibited. When this step has been taken, we shall be in
a position to give the beautiful explanation of those laws dependent
upon the velocity of light.

At one particular region of the heavens the effect of aberration has a
degree of simplicity which is not manifested anywhere else. This region
lies in the constellation Draco, at the pole of the ecliptic. At this
pole, or in its immediate neighbourhood, each star, in virtue of
aberration, describes a circle in the heavens. This circle is very
minute; it would take something like 2,000 of these circles together to
form an area equal to the area of the moon. Expressed in the usual
astronomical language, we should say that the diameter of this small
circle is about 40·9 seconds of arc. This is a quantity which, though
small to the unaided eye, is really of great relative magnitude in the
present state of telescopic research. It is not only large enough to be
perceived, but it can be measured, with an accuracy which actually does
not admit of a doubt, to the hundredth part of the whole. It is also
observed that each star describes its little circle in precisely the
same period of time; and that period is one year, or, in other words,
the time of the revolution of the earth around the sun. It is found that
for all stars in this region, be they large stars or small, single or
double, white or coloured, the circles appropriate to each have all the
same size, and are all described in the same time. Even from this alone
it would be manifest that the cause of the phenomenon cannot lie in the
star itself. This unanimity in stars of every magnitude and distance
requires some simpler explanation.

Further examination of stars in different regions sheds new light on the
subject. As we proceed from the pole of the ecliptic, we still find that
each star exhibits an annual movement of the same character as the stars
just considered. In one respect, however, there is a difference. The
apparent path of the star is no longer a circle; it has become an
ellipse. It is, however, soon perceived that the shape and the position
of this ellipse are governed by the simple law that the further the star
is from the pole of the ecliptic the greater is the eccentricity of the
ellipse. The apparent path of the stars at the same distance from the
pole have equal eccentricity, and of the axes of the ellipse the shorter
is always directed to the pole, the longer being, of course,
perpendicular to it. It is, however, found that no matter how great the
eccentricity may become, the major axis always retains its original
length. It is always equal to about 40·9 seconds--that is, to the
diameter of the circle of aberration at the pole itself. As we proceed
further and further from the pole of the ecliptic, we find that each
star describes a path more and more eccentric, until at length, when we
examine a star on the ecliptic, the ellipse has become so attenuated
that it has flattened into a line. Each star which happens to lie on the
ecliptic oscillates to and fro along the ecliptic through an amplitude
of 40·9 seconds. Half a year accomplishes the journey one way, and the
other half of the year restores the star to its original position. When
we pass to stars on the southern side of the ecliptic, we see the same
series of changes proceed in an inverse order. The ellipse, from being
actually linear, gradually grows in width, though still preserving the
same length of major axis, until at length the stars near the southern
pole of the ecliptic are each found to describe a circle equal to the
paths pursued by the stars at the north pole of the ecliptic.

The circumstance that the major axes of all those ellipses are of equal
length suggests a still further simplification. Let us suppose that
every star, either at the pole of the ecliptic or elsewhere, pursues an
absolutely circular path, and that all these circles agree not only in
magnitude, but also in being all parallel to the plane of the ecliptic:
it is easy to see that this simple supposition will account for the
observed facts. The stars at the pole of the ecliptic will, of course,
show their circles turned fairly towards us, and we shall see that they
pursue circular paths. The circular paths of the stars remote from the
pole of the ecliptic will, however, be only seen somewhat edgewise, and
thus the apparent paths will be elliptical, as we actually find them. We
can even calculate the degree of ellipticity which this surmise would
require, and we find that it coincides with the observed ellipticity.
Finally, when we observe stars actually moving in the ecliptic, the
circles they follow would be seen edgewise, and thus the stars would
have merely the linear movement which they are seen to possess. All the
observed phenomena are thus found to be completely consistent with the
supposition that every star of all the millions in the heavens describes
once each year a circular path; and that, whether the star be far or
near, this circle has always the same apparent diameter, and lies in a
plane always parallel to the plane of the ecliptic.

We have now wrought the facts of observation into a form which enables
us to examine into the cause of a movement so systematic. Why is it that
each star should seem to describe a small circular path? Why should that
path be parallel to the ecliptic? Why should it be completed exactly in
a twelvemonth? We are at once referred to the motion of the earth around
the sun. That movement takes place in the ecliptic. It is completed in a
year. The coincidences are so obvious that we feel almost necessarily
compelled to connect in some way this apparent movement of the stars
with the annual movement of the earth around the sun. If there were no
such connection, it would be in the highest degree improbable that the
planes of the circles should be all parallel to the ecliptic, or that
the time of revolution of each star in its circle should equal that of
the revolution of the earth around the sun. As both these conditions are
fulfilled, the probability of the connection rises to a value almost
infinite.

The important question has then arisen as to why the movement of the
earth around the sun should be associated in so remarkable a manner with
this universal star movement. There is here one obvious point to be
noticed and to be dismissed. We have in a previous chapter discussed the
important question of the annual parallax of stars, and we have shown
how, in virtue of annual parallax, each star describes an ellipse. It
can further be demonstrated that these ellipses are really circles
parallel to the ecliptic; so that we might hastily assume that annual
parallax was the cause of the phenomenon discovered by Bradley. A single
circumstance will, however, dispose of this suggestion. The circle
described by a star in virtue of annual parallax has a magnitude
dependent on the distance of the star, so that the circles described by
various stars are of various dimensions, corresponding to the varied
distances of different stars. The phenomena of aberration, however,
distinctly assert that the circular path of each star is of the same
size, quite independently of what its distance may be, and hence annual
parallax will not afford an adequate explanation. It should also be
noticed that the movements of a star produced by annual parallax are
much smaller than those due to aberration. There is not any known star
whose circular path due to annual parallax has a diameter one-twentieth
part of that of the circle due to aberration; indeed, in the great
majority of cases the parallax of the star is an absolutely insensible
quantity.

There is, however, a still graver and quite insuperable distinction
between the parallactic path and the aberrational path. Let us, for
simplicity, think of a star situated near the pole of the ecliptic, and
thus appearing to revolve annually in a circle, whether we regard either
the phenomenon of parallax or of aberration. As the earth revolves, so
does the star appear to revolve; and thus to each place of the earth in
its orbit corresponds a certain place of the star in its circle. If the
movement arise from annual parallax, it is easy to see where the place
of the star will be for any position of the earth. It is, however, found
that in the movement discovered by Bradley the star never has the
position which parallax assigns to it, but is, in fact, a quarter of the
circumference of its little circle distant therefrom.

A simple rule will find the position of the star due to aberration. Draw
from the centre of the ellipse a radius parallel to the direction in
which the earth is moving at the moment in question, then the extremity
of this radius gives the point on its ellipse where the star is to be
found. Tested at all seasons, and with all stars, this law is found to
be always verified, and by its means we are conducted to the true
explanation of the phenomenon.

We can enunciate the effects of aberration in a somewhat different
manner, which will show even more forcibly how the phenomenon is
connected with the motion of the earth in its orbit. As the earth
pursues its annual course around the sun, its movement at any moment may
be regarded as directed towards a certain point of the ecliptic. From
day to day, and even from hour to hour, the point gradually moves along
the ecliptic, so as to complete the circuit in a year. At each moment,
however, there is always a certain point in the heavens towards which
the earth's motion is directed. It is, in fact, the point on the
celestial sphere towards which the earth would travel continuously if,
at the moment, the attraction of the sun could be annihilated. It is
found that this point is intimately connected with the phenomenon of
aberration. In fact, the aberration is really equivalent to drawing each
star from its mean place towards the Apex of the Earth's Way, as the
point is sometimes termed. It can also be shown by observation that the
amount of aberration depends upon the distance from the apex. A star
which happened to lie on the ecliptic will not be at all deranged by
aberration from its mean place when it happens that the apex coincides
with the star. All the stars 10° from the apex will be displaced each by
the same amount, and all directly in towards the apex. A star 20° from
the apex will undergo a larger degree of displacement, though still in
the same direction, exactly towards the apex; and all stars at the same
distance will be displaced by the same amount. Proceeding thus from the
apex, we come to stars at a distance of 90° therefrom. Here the amount
of displacement will be a maximum. Each one will be about twenty seconds
from its average place; but in every case the imperative law will be
obeyed, that the displacement of the star from its mean place lies
towards the apex of the earth's way. We have thus given two distinct
descriptions of the phenomenon of aberration. In the first we find it
convenient to speak of a star as describing a minute circular path; in
the other we have regarded aberration as merely amounting to a
derangement of the star from its mean place in accordance with specified
laws. These descriptions are not inconsistent: they are, in fact,
geometrically equivalent; but the latter is rather the more perfect,
inasmuch as it assigns completely the direction and extent of the
derangement caused by aberration in any particular star at any
particular moment.

The question has now been narrowed to a very definite form. What is it
which makes each star seem to close in towards the point towards which
the earth is travelling? The answer will be found when we make a minute
enquiry into the circumstances in which we view a star in the telescope.

The beam of rays from a star falls on the object-glass of a telescope;
those rays are parallel, and after they pass through the object-glass
they converge to a focus near the eye end of the instrument. Let us
first suppose that the telescope is at rest; then if the telescope be
pointed directly towards the star, the rays will converge to a point at
the centre of the field of view where a pair of cross wires are placed,
whose intersection defines the axis of the telescope. The case will,
however, be altered if the telescope be moved after the light has passed
through the objective; the rays of light in the interior of the tube
will pursue a direct path, as before, and will proceed to a focus at the
same precise point as before. As, however, the telescope has moved, it
will, of course, have carried with it the pair of cross wires; they will
no longer be at the same point as at first, and consequently the image
of the star will not now coincide with their intersection.

The movement of the telescope arises from its connection with the earth:
for as the earth hurries along at a speed of eighteen miles a second,
the telescope is necessarily displaced with this velocity. It might at
first be thought, that in the incredibly small fraction of time
necessary for light to pass from the object-glass to the eye-piece, the
change in the position of the telescope must be too minute to be
appreciable. Let us suppose, for instance, that the star is situated
near the pole of the ecliptic, then the telescope will be conveyed by
the earth's motion in a direction perpendicular to its length. If the
tube of the instrument be about twenty feet long, it can be readily
demonstrated that during the time the light travels down the tube the
movement of the earth will convey the telescope through a distance of
about one-fortieth of an inch.[42] This is a quantity very distinctly
measurable with the magnifying power of the eye-piece, and hence this
derangement of the star's place is very appreciable. It therefore
follows that if we wish the star to be shown at the centre of the
instrument, the telescope is not to be pointed directly at the star, as
it would have to be were the earth at rest, but the telescope must be
pointed a little in advance of the star's true position; and as we
determine the apparent place of the star by the direction in which the
telescope is pointed, it follows that the apparent place of the star is
altered by the motion of the earth.

Every circumstance of the change in the star's place admits of complete
explanation in this manner. Take, for instance, the small circular path
which each star appears to describe. We shall, for simplicity, refer
only to a star at the pole of the ecliptic. Suppose that the telescope
is pointed truly to the place of the star, then, as we have shown, the
image of the star will be at a distance of one-fortieth of an inch from
the cross wires. This distance will remain constant, but each night the
direction of the star from the cross wires will change, so that in the
course of the year it completes a circle, and returns to its original
position. We shall not pursue the calculations relative to other stars;
suffice it here to say that the movement of the earth has been found
adequate to account for the phenomena, and thus the doctrine of the
aberration of light is demonstrated.

It remains to allude to one point of the utmost interest and importance.
We have seen that the magnitude of the aberration can be measured by
astronomical observation. The amount of this aberration depends upon the
velocity of light, and on the velocity with which the earth's motion is
performed. We can measure the velocity of light by independent
measurements, in the manner already explained in Chapter XII. We are
thus enabled to calculate what the velocity of the earth must be, for
there is only one particular velocity for the earth which, when combined
with the measured velocity of light, will give the measured value of
aberration. The velocity of the earth being thus ascertained, and the
length of the year being known, it is easy to find the circumference of
the earth's path, and therefore its radius; that is, the distance from
the earth to the sun.

Here is indeed a singular result, and one which shows how profoundly the
various phenomena of science are interwoven. We make experiments in our
laboratory, and find the velocity of light. We observe the fixed stars,
and measure the aberration. We combine these results, and deduce
therefrom the distance from the earth to the sun! Although this method
of finding the sun's distance is one of very great elegance, and admits
of a certain amount of precision, yet it cannot be relied upon as a
perfectly unimpeachable method of deducing the great constant. A perfect
method must be based on the operations of mere surveying, and ought not
to involve recondite physical considerations. We cannot, however, fail
to regard the discovery of aberration by Bradley as a most pleasing and
beautiful achievement, for it not only greatly improves the calculations
of practical astronomy, but links together several physical phenomena of
the greatest interest.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE ASTRONOMICAL SIGNIFICANCE OF HEAT.


     Heat and Astronomy--Distribution of Heat--The Presence of Heat in
     the Earth--Heat in other Celestial Bodies--Varieties of
     Temperature--The Law of Cooling--The Heat of the Sun--Can its
     Temperature be Measured?--Radiation connected with the Sun's
     Bulk--Can the Sun be Exhausting his Resources?--No marked Change
     has occurred--Geological Evidence as to the Changes of the Sun's
     Heat Doubtful--The Cooling of the Sun--The Sun cannot be merely an
     Incandescent Solid Cooling--Combustion will not Explain the
     Matter--Some Heat is obtained from Meteoric Matter, but this is not
     Adequate to the Maintenance of the Sun's Heat--The Contraction of a
     Heated Globe of Gas--An Apparent Paradox--The Doctrine of
     Energy--The Nebular Theory--Evidence in Support of this
     Theory--Sidereal Evidence of the Nebular Theory--Herschel's View of
     Sidereal Aggregation--The Nebulæ do not Exhibit Changes within the
     Limits of our Observation.

That a portion of a work on astronomy should bear the title placed at
the head of this chapter will perhaps strike some of our readers as
unusual, if not actually inappropriate. Is not heat, it may be said, a
question merely of experimental physics? and how can it be legitimately
introduced into a treatise upon the heavenly bodies and their movements?
Whatever weight such objections might have once had need not now be
considered. The recent researches on heat have shown not only that heat
has important bearings on astronomy, but that it has really been one of
the chief agents by which the universe has been moulded into its actual
form. At the present time no work on astronomy could be complete without
some account of the remarkable connection between the laws of heat and
the astronomical consequences which follow from those laws.

In discussing the planetary motions and the laws of Kepler, or in
discussing the movements of the moon, the proper motions of the stars,
or the revolutions of the binary stars, we proceed on the supposition
that the bodies we are dealing with are rigid particles, and the
question as to whether these particles are hot or cold does not seem to
have any especial bearing. No doubt the ordinary periodic phenomena of
our system, such as the revolution of the planets in conformity with
Kepler's laws, will be observed for countless ages, whether the planets
be hot or cold, or whatever may be the heat of the sun. It must,
however, be admitted that the laws of heat introduce certain
modifications into the statement of these laws. The effects of heat may
not be immediately perceptible, but they exist--they are constantly
acting; and in the progress of time they are adequate to effecting the
mightiest changes throughout the universe.

Let us briefly recapitulate the circumstances of our system which give
to heat its potency. Look first at our earth, which at present seems--on
its surface, at all events--to be a body devoid of internal heat; a
closer examination will dispel this idea. Have we not the phenomena of
volcanoes, of geysers, and of hot springs, which show that in the
interior of the earth heat must exist in far greater intensity than we
find on the surface? These phenomena are found in widely different
regions of the earth. Their origin is, no doubt, involved in a good deal
of obscurity, but yet no one can deny that they indicate vast reservoirs
of heat. It would indeed seem that heat is to be found everywhere in the
deep inner regions of the earth. If we take a thermometer down a deep
mine, we find it records a temperature higher than at the surface. The
deeper we descend the higher is the temperature; and if the same rate of
progress should be maintained through those depths of the earth which we
are not able to penetrate, it can be demonstrated that at twenty or
thirty miles below the surface the temperature must be as great as that
of red-hot iron.

We find in the other celestial bodies abundant evidence of the present
or the past existence of heat. Our moon, as we have already mentioned,
affords a very striking instance of a body which must once have been
very highly heated. The extraordinary volcanoes on its surface place
this beyond any doubt. It is equally true that those volcanoes have
been silent for ages, so that, whatever may be the interior condition of
the moon, the surface has now cooled down. Extending our view further,
we see in the great planets Jupiter and Saturn evidence that they are
still endowed with a temperature far in excess of that which the earth
has retained; while, when we look at our sun, we see a body in a state
of brilliant incandescence, and glowing with a fervour to which we
cannot approximate in our mightiest furnaces. The various fixed stars
are bodies which glow with heat, like our sun; while we have in the
nebulæ objects the existence of which is hardly intelligible to us,
unless we admit that they are possessed of heat.

From this rapid survey of the different bodies in our universe one
conclusion is obvious. We may have great doubts as to the actual
temperature of any individual body of the system; but it cannot be
doubted that there is a wide range of temperature among the different
bodies. Some are hotter than others. The stars and suns are perhaps the
hottest of all; but it is not improbable that they may be immeasurably
outnumbered by the cold and dark bodies of the universe, which are to us
invisible, and only manifest their existence in an indirect and casual
manner.

The law of cooling tells us that every body radiates heat, and that the
quantity of heat which it radiates increases when the temperature of the
body increases relatively to the surrounding medium. This law appears to
be universal. It is obeyed on the earth, and it would seem that it must
be equally obeyed by every other body in space. We thus see that each of
the planets and each of the stars is continuously pouring forth in all
directions a never-ceasing stream of heat. This radiation of heat is
productive of very momentous consequences. Let us study them, for
instance, in the case of the sun.

Our great luminary emits an incessant flood of radiant heat in all
directions. A minute fraction of that heat is intercepted by our earth,
and is, directly or indirectly, the source of all life, and of nearly
all movement, on our earth. To pour forth heat as the sun does, it is
necessary that his temperature be enormously high. And there are some
facts which permit us to form an estimate of what that temperature must
actually be.

It is difficult to form any numerical statement of the actual
temperature of the sun. The intensity of that temperature vastly
transcends the greatest artificial heat, and any attempt to clothe such
estimates in figures is necessarily very precarious. But assuming the
greatest artificial temperature to be about 4,000° Fahr., we shall
probably be well within the truth if we state the effective temperature
of the sun to be about 14,000° Fahr. This is the result of a recent
investigation by Messrs. Wilson and Gray, which seems to be entitled to
considerable weight.

The copious outflow of heat from the sun corresponds with its enormous
temperature. We can express the amount of heat in various ways, but it
must be remembered that considerable uncertainty still attaches to such
measurements. The old method of measuring heat by the quantity of ice
melted may be used as an illustration. It is computed that a shell of
ice 43-1/2 feet thick surrounding the whole sun would in one minute be
melted by the sun's heat underneath. A somewhat more elegant
illustration was also given by Sir John Herschel, who showed that if a
cylindrical glacier 45 miles in diameter were to be continually flowing
into the sun with the velocity of light, the end of that glacier would
be melted as quickly as it advanced. From each square foot in the
surface of the sun emerges a quantity of heat as great as could be
produced by the daily combustion of sixteen tons of coal. This is,
indeed, an amount of heat which, properly transformed into work, would
keep an engine of many hundreds of horse-power running from one year's
end to the other. The heat radiated from a few acres on the sun would be
adequate to drive all the steam engines in the world. When we reflect on
the vast intensity of the radiation from each square foot of the sun's
surface, and when we combine with this the stupendous dimensions of the
sun, imagination fails to realise how vast must be the actual
expenditure of heat.

In presence of the prodigal expenditure of the sun's heat, we are
tempted to ask a question which has the most vital interest for the
earth and its inhabitants. We live from hour to hour by the sun's
splendid generosity; and, therefore, it is important for us to know what
security we possess for the continuance of his favours. When we witness
the terrific disbursement of the sun's heat each hour, we are compelled
to ask whether our great luminary may not be exhausting its resources;
and if so, what are the prospects of the future? This question we can
partly answer. The whole subject is indeed of surpassing interest, and
redolent with the spirit of modern scientific thought.

Our first attempt to examine this question must lie in an appeal to the
facts which are attainable. We want to know whether the sun is showing
any symptoms of decay. Are the days as warm and as bright now as they
were last year, ten years ago, one hundred years ago? We can find no
evidence of any change since the beginning of authentic records. If the
sun's heat had perceptibly changed within the last two thousand years,
we should expect to find corresponding changes in the distribution of
plants and of animals; but no such changes have been detected. There is
no reason to think that the climate of ancient Greece or of ancient Rome
was appreciably different from the climates of the Greece and the Rome
that we know at this day. The vine and the olive grow now where they
grew two thousand years ago.

We must not, however, lay too much stress on this argument; for the
effects of slight changes in the sun's heat may have been neutralised by
corresponding adaptations in the pliable organisms of cultivated plants.
All we can certainly conclude is that no marked change has taken place
in the heat of the sun during historical time. But when we come to look
back into much earlier ages, we find copious evidence that the earth has
undergone great changes in climate. Geological records can on this
question hardly be misinterpreted. Yet it is curious to note that these
changes are hardly such as could arise from the gradual exhaustion of
the sun's radiation. No doubt, in very early times we have evidence
that the earth's climate must have been much warmer than at present. We
had the great carboniferous period, when the temperature must almost
have been tropical in Arctic latitudes. Yet it is hardly possible to
cite this as evidence that the sun was then much more powerful; for we
are immediately reminded of the glacial period, when our temperate zones
were overlaid by sheets of solid ice, as Northern Greenland is at
present. If we suppose the sun to have been hotter than it is at present
to account for the vegetation which produced coal, then we ought to
assume the sun to be colder than it is now to account for the glacial
period. It is not reasonable to attribute such phenomena to fluctuations
in the radiation from the sun. The glacial periods prove that we cannot
appeal to geology in aid of the doctrine that a secular cooling of the
sun is now in progress. The geological variations of climate may have
been caused by changes in the earth itself, or by changes in its actual
orbit; but however they have been caused, they hardly tell us much with
regard to the past history of our sun.

The heat of the sun has lasted countless ages; yet we cannot credit the
sun with the power of actually creating heat. We must apply to the
tremendous mass of the sun the same laws which we have found by our
experiments on the earth. We must ask, whence comes the heat sufficient
to supply this lavish outgoing? Let us briefly recount the various
suppositions that have been made.

Place two red-hot spheres of iron side by side, a large one and a small
one. They have been taken from the same fire; they were both equally
hot; they are both cooling, but the small sphere cools more rapidly. It
speedily becomes dark, while the large sphere is still glowing, and
would continue to do so for some minutes. The larger the sphere, the
longer it will take to cool; and hence it has been supposed that a
mighty sphere of the prodigious dimensions of our sun would, if once
heated, cool gradually, but the duration of the cooling would be so long
that for thousands and for millions of years it could continue to be a
source of light and heat to the revolving system of planets. This
suggestion will not bear the test of arithmetic. If the sun had no
source of heat beyond that indicated by its high temperature, we can
show that radiation would cool the sun a few degrees every year. Two
thousand years would then witness a very great decrease in the sun's
heat. We are certain that no such decrease can have taken place. The
source of the sun's radiation cannot be found in the mere cooling of an
incandescent mass.

Can the fires in the sun be maintained by combustion, analogous to that
which goes on in our furnaces? Here we would seem to have a source of
gigantic heat; but arithmetic also disposes of this supposition. We know
that if the sun were made of even solid coal itself, and if that coal
were burning in pure oxygen, the heat that could be produced would only
suffice for 6,000 years. If the sun which shone upon the builders of the
great Pyramid had been solid coal from surface to centre, it must by
this time have been in great part burned away in the attempt to maintain
its present rate of expenditure. We are thus forced to look to other
sources for the supply of the sun's heat, since neither the heat of
incandescence nor the heat of combustion will suffice.

There is probably--indeed, we may say certainly--one external source
from which the heat of the sun is recruited. It will be necessary for us
to consider this source with some care, though I think we shall find it
to be merely an auxiliary of comparatively trifling moment. According to
this view, the solar heat receives occasional accessions from the fall
upon the sun's surface of masses of meteoric matter. There can be hardly
a doubt that such masses do fall upon the sun; there is certainly no
doubt that if they do, the sun must gain some heat thereby. We have
experience on the earth of a very interesting kind, which illustrates
the development of heat by meteoric matter. There lies a world of
philosophy in a shooting star. Some of these myriad objects rush into
our atmosphere and are lost; others, no doubt, rush into the sun with
the same result. We also admit that the descent of a shooting star into
the atmosphere of the sun must be attended with a flash of light and of
heat. The heat acquired by the earth from the flashing of the shooting
stars through our air is quite insensible. It has been supposed,
however, that the heat accruing to the sun from the same cause may be
quite sensible--nay, it has been even supposed that the sun may be
re-invigorated from this source.

Here, again, we must apply the cold principles of weights and measures
to estimate the plausibility of this suggestion. We first calculate the
actual weight of meteoric indraught to the sun which would be adequate
to sustain the fires of the sun at their present vigour. The mass of
matter that would be required is so enormous that we cannot usefully
express it by imperial weights; we must deal with masses of imposing
magnitude. It fortunately happens that the weight of our moon is a
convenient unit. Conceive that our moon--a huge globe, 2,000 miles in
diameter--were crushed into a myriad of fragments, and that these
fragments were allowed to rain in on the sun; there can be no doubt that
this tremendous meteoric shower would contribute to the sun rather more
heat than would be required to supply his radiation for a whole year. If
we take our earth itself, conceive it comminuted into dust, and allow
that dust to fall on the sun as a mighty shower, each fragment would
instantly give out a quantity of heat, and the whole would add to the
sun a supply of heat adequate to sustain the present rate of radiation
for nearly one hundred years. The mighty mass of Jupiter treated in the
same way would generate a meteoric display greater in the ratio in which
the mass of Jupiter exceeds the mass of earth. Were Jupiter to fall into
the sun, enough heat would be thereby produced to scorch the whole solar
system; while all the planets together would be capable of producing
heat which, if properly economised, would supply the radiation of the
sun for 45,000 years.

It must be remembered that though the moon could supply one year's heat,
and Jupiter 30,000 years' heat, yet the practical question is not
whether the solar system could supply the sun's heat, but whether it
does. Is it likely that meteors equal in mass to the moon fall into the
sun every year? This is the real question, and I think we are bound to
reply to it in the negative. It can be shown that the quantity of
meteors which could be caught by the sun in any one year can be only an
excessively minute fraction of the total amount. If, therefore, a
moon-weight of meteors were caught every year, there must be an
incredible mass of meteoric matter roaming at large through the system.
There must be so many meteors that the earth would be incessantly pelted
with them, and heated to such a degree as to be rendered uninhabitable.
There are also other reasons which preclude the supposition that a
stupendous quantity of meteoric matter exists in the vicinity of the
sun. Such matter would produce an appreciable effect on the movement of
the planet Mercury. There are, no doubt, some irregularities in the
movements of Mercury not yet fully explained, but these irregularities
are very much less than would be the case if meteoric matter existed in
quantity adequate to the sustentation of the sun. Astronomers, then,
believe that though meteors may provide a rate in aid of the sun's
current expenditure, yet that the greater portion of that expenditure
must be defrayed from other resources.

It is one of the achievements of modern science to have effected the
solution of the problem--to have shown how it is that, notwithstanding
the stupendous radiation, the sun still maintains its temperature. The
question is not free from difficulty in its exposition, but the matter
is one of such very great importance that we are compelled to make the
attempt.

Let us imagine a vast globe of heated gas in space. This is not an
entirely gratuitous supposition, inasmuch as there are globes apparently
of this character; they have been already alluded to as planetary
nebulæ. This globe will radiate heat, and we shall suppose that it emits
more heat than it receives from the radiation of other bodies. The globe
will accordingly lose heat, or what is equivalent thereto, but it will
be incorrect to assume that the globe will necessarily fall in
temperature. That the contrary is, indeed, the case is a result almost
paradoxical at the first glance; but yet it can be shown to be a
necessary consequence of the laws of heat and of gases.

Let us fix our attention on a portion of the gas lying on the surface
of the globe. This is, of course, attracted by all the rest of the
globe, and thus tends in towards the centre of the globe. If equilibrium
subsists, this tendency must be neutralised by the pressure of the gas
beneath; so that the greater the gravitation, the greater is the
pressure. When the globe of gas loses heat by radiation, let us suppose
that it grows colder--that its temperature accordingly falls; then,
since the pressure of a gas decreases when the temperature falls, the
pressure beneath the superficial layer of the gas will decrease, while
the gravitation is unaltered. The consequence will inevitably be that
the gravitation will now conquer the pressure, and the globe of gas will
accordingly contract. There is, however, another way in which we can
look at the matter. We know that heat is equivalent to energy, so that
when the globe radiates forth heat, it must expend energy. A part of the
energy of the globe will be due to its temperature; but another, and in
some respects a more important, part is that due to the separation of
its particles. If we allow the particles to come closer together we
shall diminish the energy due to separation, and the energy thus set
free can take the form of heat. But this drawing in of the particles
necessarily involves a shrinking of the globe.

And now for the remarkable consequence, which seems to have a very
important application in astronomy. As the globe contracts, a part of
its energy of separation is changed into heat; that heat is partly
radiated away, but not so rapidly as it is produced by the contraction.
The consequence is, that although the globe is really losing heat and
really contracting, yet that its temperature is actually rising.[43] A
simple case will suffice to demonstrate this result, paradoxical as it
may at first seem. Let us suppose that by contraction of the sphere it
had diminished to one-half its diameter; and let us fix our attention on
a cubic inch of the gaseous matter in any point of the mass. After the
contraction has taken place each edge of the cube would be reduced to
half an inch, and the volume would therefore be reduced to one-eighth
part of its original amount. The law of gases tells us that if the
temperature be unaltered the pressure varies inversely as the volume,
and consequently the internal pressure in the cube would in that case be
increased eightfold. As, however, in the case before us, the distance
between every two particles is reduced to one-half, it will follow that
the gravitation between every two particles is increased fourfold, and
as the area is also reduced to one-fourth, it will follow that the
pressure inside the reduced cube is increased sixteenfold; but we have
already seen that with a constant temperature it only increases
eightfold, and hence the temperature cannot be constant, but must rise
with the contraction.

We thus have the somewhat astonishing result that a gaseous globe in
space radiating heat, and thereby growing smaller, is all the time
actually increasing in temperature. But, it may be said, surely this
cannot go on for ever. Are we to suppose that the gaseous mass will go
on contracting and contracting with a temperature ever fiercer and
fiercer, and actually radiating out more and more heat the more it
loses? Where lies the limit to such a prospect? As the body contracts,
its density must increase, until it either becomes a liquid, or a solid,
or, at any rate, until it ceases to obey the laws of a purely gaseous
body which we have supposed. Once these laws cease to be observed the
argument disappears; the loss of heat may then really be attended with a
loss of temperature, until in the course of time the body has sunk to
the temperature of space itself.

It is not assumed that this reasoning can be applied in all its
completeness to the present state of the sun. The sun's density is now
so great that the laws of gases cannot be there strictly followed. There
is, however, good reason to believe that the sun was once more gaseous
than at present; possibly at one time he may have been quite gaseous
enough to admit of this reasoning in all its fulness. At present the sun
appears to be in some intermediate stage of its progress from the
gaseous condition to the solid condition. We cannot, therefore, say
that the temperature of the sun is now increasing in correspondence with
the process of contraction. This may be true or it may not be true; we
have no means of deciding the point. We may, however, feel certain that
the sun is still sufficiently gaseous to experience in some degree the
rise of temperature associated with the contraction. That rise in
temperature may be partly or wholly obscured by the fall in temperature
which would be the more obvious consequence of the radiation of heat
from the partially solid body. It will, however, be manifest that the
cooling of the sun may be enormously protracted if the fall of
temperature from the one cause be nearly compensated by the rise of
temperature from the other. It can hardly be doubted that in this we
find the real explanation of the fact that we have no historical
evidence of any appreciable alteration in the radiation of heat from the
sun.

This question is one of such interest that it may be worth while to look
at it from a slightly different point of view. The sun contains a
certain store of energy, part of which is continually disappearing in
the form of radiant heat. The energy remaining in the sun is partly
transformed in character; some of it is transformed into heat, which
goes wholly or partly to supply the loss by radiation. The total energy
of the sun must, however, be decreasing; and hence it would seem the sun
must at some time or other have its energy exhausted, and cease to be a
source of light and of heat. It is true that the rate at which the sun
contracts is very slow. We are, indeed, not able to measure with
certainty the decrease in the sun's bulk. It is a quantity so minute,
that the contraction since the birth of accurate astronomy is not large
enough to be perceptible in our telescopes. It is, however, possible to
compute what the contraction of the sun's bulk must be, on the
supposition that the energy lost by that contraction just suffices to
supply the daily radiation of heat. The change is very small when we
consider the present size of the sun. At the present time the sun's
diameter is about 860,000 miles. If each year this diameter decreases by
about 300 feet, sufficient energy will be yielded to account for the
entire radiation. This gradual decrease is always in progress.

These considerations are of considerable interest when we apply them
retrospectively. If it be true that the sun is at this moment shrinking,
then in past times his globe must have been greater than it is at
present. Assuming the figures already given, it follows that one hundred
years ago the diameter of the sun must have been nearly six miles
greater than it is now; one thousand years ago the diameter was
fifty-seven miles greater; ten thousand years ago the diameter of the
sun was five hundred and seventy miles greater than it is to-day. When
man first trod this earth it would seem that the sun must have been many
hundreds, perhaps many thousands, of miles greater than it is at this
time.

We must not, however, over-estimate the significance of this statement.
The diameter of the sun is so great, that a diminution of 10,000 miles
would be but little more than the hundredth part of its diameter. If it
were suddenly to shrink to the extent of 10,000 miles, the change would
not be appreciable to ordinary observation, though a much smaller change
would not elude delicate astronomical measurement. It does not
necessarily follow that the climates on our earth in these early times
must have been very different from those which we find at this day, for
the question of climate depends upon other matters besides sunbeams.

Yet we need not abruptly stop our retrospect at any epoch, however
remote. We may go back earlier and earlier, through the long ages which
geologists claim for the deposition of the stratified rocks; and back
again still further, to those very earliest epochs when life began to
dawn on the earth. Still we can find no reason to suppose that the law
of the sun's decreasing heat is not maintained; and thus we would seem
bound by our present knowledge to suppose that the sun grows larger and
larger the further our retrospect extends. We cannot assume that the
rate of that growth is always the same. No such assumption is required;
it is sufficient for our purpose that we find the sun growing larger
and larger the further we peer back into the remote abyss of time past.
If the present order of things in our universe has lasted long enough,
then it would seem that there was a time when the sun must have been
twice as large as it is at present; it must once have been ten times as
large. How long ago that was no one can venture to say. But we cannot
stop at the stage when the sun was even ten times as large as it is at
present; the arguments will still apply in earlier ages. We see the sun
swelling and swelling, with a corresponding decrease in its density,
until at length we find, instead of our sun as we know it, a mighty
nebula filling a gigantic region of space.

Such is, in fact, the doctrine of the origin of our system which has
been advanced in that celebrated speculation known as the nebular theory
of Laplace. Nor can it be ever more than a speculation; it cannot be
established by observation, nor can it be proved by calculation. It is
merely a conjecture, more or less plausible, but perhaps in some degree
necessarily true, if our present laws of heat, as we understand them,
admit of the extreme application here required, and if also the present
order of things has reigned for sufficient time without the intervention
of any influence at present unknown to us. This nebular theory is not
confined to the history of our sun. Precisely similar reasoning may be
extended to the individual planets: the farther we look back, the hotter
and the hotter does the whole system become. It has been thought that if
we could look far enough back, we should see the earth too hot for life;
back further still, we should find the earth and all the planets
red-hot; and back further still, to an exceedingly remote epoch, when
the planets would be heated just as much as our sun is now. In a still
earlier stage the whole solar system is thought to have been one vast
mass of glowing gas, from which the present forms of the sun, with the
planets and their satellites, have been gradually evolved. We cannot be
sure that the course of events has been what is here indicated; but
there are sufficient grounds for thinking that this doctrine
substantially represents what has actually occurred.

Many of the features in the solar system harmonise with the supposition
that the origin of the system has been that suggested by the nebular
theory. We have already had occasion in an earlier chapter to allude to
the fact that all the planets perform their revolutions around the sun
in the same direction. It is also to be observed that the rotation of
the planets on their axes, as well as the movements of the satellites
around their primaries, all follow the same law, with two slight
exceptions in the case of the Uranian and Neptunian systems. A
coincidence so remarkable naturally suggests the necessity for some
physical explanation. Such an explanation is offered by the nebular
theory. Suppose that countless ages ago a mighty nebula was slowly
rotating and slowly contracting. In the process of contraction, portions
of the condensed matter of the nebula would be left behind. These
portions would still revolve around the central mass, and each portion
would rotate on its axis in the same direction. As the process of
contraction proceeded, it would follow from dynamical principles that
the velocity of rotation would increase; and thus at length these
portions would consolidate into planets, while the central mass would
gradually contract to form the sun. By a similar process on a smaller
scale the systems of satellites were evolved from the contracting
primary. These satellites would also revolve in the same direction, and
thus the characteristic features of the solar system could be accounted
for.

The nebular origin of the solar system receives considerable countenance
from the study of the sidereal heavens. We have already dwelt upon the
resemblance between the sun and the stars. If, then, our sun has passed
through such changes as the nebular theory requires, may we not
anticipate that similar phenomena should be met with in other stars? If
this be so, it is reasonable to suppose that the evolution of some of
the stars may not have progressed so far as has that of the sun, and
thus we may be able actually to witness stars in the earlier phases of
their development. Let us see how far the telescope responds to these
anticipations.

The field of view of a large telescope usually discloses a number of
stars scattered over a black background of sky; but the blackness of
the background is not uniform: the practised eye of the skilled observer
will detect in some parts of the heavens a faint luminosity. This will
sometimes be visible over the whole extent of the field, or it may even
occupy several fields. Years may pass on, and still there is no
perceptible change. There can be no illusion, and the conclusion is
irresistible that the object is a stupendous mass of faintly luminous
glowing gas or vapour. This is the simplest type of nebula; it is
characterised by extreme faintness, and seems composed of matter of the
utmost tenuity. On the other hand we are occasionally presented with the
beautiful and striking phenomenon of a definite and brilliant star
surrounded by a luminous atmosphere. Between these two extreme types of
a faint diffused mass on the one hand, and a bright star with a nebula
surrounding it on the other, a graduated series of various other nebulæ
can be arranged. We thus have a series of links passing by imperceptible
gradations from the most faintly diffused nebulæ on the one side, into
stars on the other.

The nebulæ seemed to Herschel to be vast masses of phosphorescent
vapour. This vapour gradually cools down, and ultimately condenses into
a star, or a cluster of stars. When the varied forms of nebulæ were
classified, it almost seemed as if the different links in the process
could be actually witnessed. In the vast faint nebulæ the process of
condensation had just begun; in the smaller and brighter nebulæ the
condensation had advanced farther; while in others, the star, or stars,
arising from the condensation had already become visible.

But, it may be asked, how did Herschel know this? what is his evidence?
Let us answer this question by an illustration. Go into a forest, and
look at a noble old oak which has weathered the storm for centuries;
have we any doubt that the oak-tree was once a young small plant, and
that it grew stage by stage until it reached maturity? Yet no one has
ever followed an oak-tree through its various stages; the brief span of
human life has not been long enough to do so. The reason why we believe
the oak-tree to have passed through all these stages is, because we are
familiar with oak-trees of every gradation in size, from the seedling
up to the noble veteran. Having seen this gradation in a vast multitude
of trees, we are convinced that each individual passes through all these
stages.

It was by a similar train of reasoning that Herschel was led to adopt
the view of the origin of the stars which we have endeavoured to
describe. The astronomer's life is not long enough, the life of the
human race might not be long enough, to watch the process by which a
nebula condenses down so as to form a solid body. But by looking at one
nebula after another, the astronomer thinks he is able to detect the
various stages which connect the nebula in its original form with the
final form. He is thus led to believe that each of the nebulæ passes, in
the course of ages, through these stages. And thus Herschel adopted the
opinion that stars--some, many, or all--have each originated from what
was once a glowing nebula.

Such a speculation may captivate the imagination, but it must be
carefully distinguished from the truths of astronomy, properly so
called. Remote posterity may perhaps obtain evidence on the subject
which to us is inaccessible: our knowledge of nebulæ is too recent.
There has not yet been time enough to detect any appreciable changes:
for the study of nebulæ can only be said to date from Messier's
Catalogue in 1771.

Since Herschel's time, no doubt, many careful drawings and observations
of the nebulæ have been obtained; but still the interval has been much
too short, and the earlier observations are too imperfect, to enable any
changes in the nebulæ to be investigated with sufficient accuracy. If
the human race lasts for very many centuries, and if our present
observations are preserved during that time for comparison, then
Herschel's theory may perhaps be satisfactorily tested.

A hundred years have passed since Laplace, with some diffidence, set
forth his hypothesis as to the mode of formation of the solar system. On
the whole it must be said that this "nebular hypothesis" has stood the
test of advancing science well, though some slight modifications have
become necessary in the light of more recent discoveries. Laplace (and
Herschel also) seems to have considered a primitive nebula to consist of
a "fiery mist" or glowing gas at a very high temperature. But this is by
no means necessary, as we have seen that the gradual contraction of the
vast mass supplies energy which may be converted into heat, and the
spectroscopic evidence seems also to point to the existence of a
moderate temperature in the gaseous nebulæ, which must be considered to
be representatives of the hypothetical primitive chaos out of which our
sun and planets have been evolved. Another point which has been
reconsidered is the formation of the various planets. It was formerly
thought that the rotation of the original mass had by degrees caused a
number of rings of different dimensions to be separated from the central
part, the material of which rings in time collected into single planets.
The ring of Saturn was held to be a proof of this process, since we here
have a ring, the condensation of which into one or more satellites has
somehow been arrested. But while it is not impossible that matter in the
shape of rings may have been left behind during the contraction of the
nebulous mass (indeed, the minor planets between Mars and Jupiter have
perhaps originated in this way), it seems likely that the larger planets
were formed from the agglomeration of matter at a point on the equator
of the rotating nebula.

The actual steps of the process by which the primeval nebula became
transformed into the solar system seem to lie beyond reach of discovery.




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE TIDES.[44]


     Mathematical Astronomy--Lagrange's Theories: how far they are
     really True--The Solar System not Made of Rigid Bodies--Kepler's
     Laws True to Observation, but not Absolutely True when the Bodies
     are not Rigid--The Errors of Observation--The Tides--How the Tides
     were Observed--Discovery of the Connection between the Tides and
     the Moon--Solar and Lunar Tides--Work done by the Tides--Whence do
     the Tides obtain the Power to do the Work?--Tides are Increasing
     the Length of the Day--Limit to the Shortness of the Day--Early
     History of the Earth-Moon System--Unstable Equilibrium--Ratio of
     the Month to the Day--The Future Course of the System--Equality of
     the Month and the Day--The Future Critical Epoch--The Constant Face
     of the Moon accounted for--The other Side of the Moon--The
     Satellites of Mars--Their Remarkable Motions--Have the Tides
     Possessed Influence in Moulding the Solar System generally?--Moment
     of Momentum--Tides have had little or no Appreciable Effect on the
     Orbit of Jupiter--Conclusion.

That the great discoveries of Lagrange on the stability of the planetary
system are correct is in one sense strictly true. No one has ever
ventured to impugn the mathematics of Lagrange. Given the planetary
system in the form which Lagrange assumed and the stability of that
system is assured for all time. There is, however, one assumption which
Lagrange makes, and on which his whole theory was founded: his
assumption is that the planets are _rigid_ bodies.

No doubt our earth seems a rigid body. What can be more solid and
unyielding than the mass of rocks and metals which form the earth, so
far as it is accessible to us? In the wide realms of space the earth is
but as a particle; it surely was a natural and a legitimate assumption
to suppose that that particle was a rigid body. If the earth were
absolutely rigid--if every particle of the earth were absolutely at a
fixed distance from every other particle--if under no stress of forces,
and in no conceivable circumstance, the earth experienced even the
minutest change of form--if the same could be said of the sun and of all
the other planets--then Lagrange's prediction of the eternal duration of
our system must be fulfilled.

But what are the facts of the case? Is the earth really rigid? We know
from experiment that a rigid body in the mathematical sense of the word
does not exist. Rocks are not rigid; steel is not rigid; even a diamond
is not perfectly rigid. The whole earth is far from being rigid even on
the surface, while part of the interior is still, perhaps, more or less
fluid. The earth cannot be called a perfectly rigid body; still less can
the larger bodies of our system be called rigid. Jupiter and Saturn are
perhaps hardly even what could be called solid bodies. The solar system
of Lagrange consisted of a rigid sun and a number of minute rigid
planets; the actual solar system consists of a sun which is in no sense
rigid, and planets which are only partially so.

The question then arises as to whether the discoveries of the great
mathematicians of the last century will apply, not only to the ideal
solar system which they conceived, but to the actual solar system in
which our lot has been cast. There can be no doubt that these
discoveries are approximately true: they are, indeed, so near the
absolute truth, that observation has not yet satisfactorily shown any
departure from them.

But in the present state of science we can no longer overlook the
important questions which arise when we deal with bodies not rigid in
the mathematical sense of the word. Let us, for instance, take the
simplest of the laws to which we have referred, the great law of Kepler,
which asserts that a planet will revolve for ever in an elliptic path of
which the sun is one focus. This is seen to be verified by actual
observation; indeed, it was established by observation before any
theoretical explanation of that movement was propounded. If, however, we
state the matter with a little more precision, we shall find that what
Newton really demonstrated was, that if two _rigid_ particles attract
each other by a law of force which varies with the inverse square of the
distance between the particles, then each of the particles will describe
an ellipse with the common centre of gravity in the focus. The earth is,
to some extent, rigid, and hence it was natural to suppose that the
relative behaviour of the earth and the sun would, to a corresponding
extent, observe the simple elliptic law of Kepler; as a matter of fact,
they do observe it with such fidelity that, if we make allowance for
other causes of disturbance, we cannot, even by most careful
observation, detect the slightest variation in the motion of the earth
arising from its want of rigidity.

There is, however, a subtlety in the investigations of mathematics
which, in this instance at all events, transcends the most delicate
observations which our instruments enable us to make. The principles of
mathematics tell us that though Kepler's laws may be true for bodies
which are absolutely and mathematically rigid, yet that if the sun or
the planets be either wholly, or even in their minutest part, devoid of
perfect rigidity, then Kepler's laws can be no longer true. Do we not
seem here to be in the presence of a contradiction? Observation tells us
that Kepler's laws are true in the planetary system; theory tells us
that these laws cannot be true in the planetary system, because the
bodies in that system are not perfectly rigid. How is this discrepancy
to be removed? Or is there really a discrepancy at all? There is not.
When we say that Kepler's laws have been proved to be true by
observation, we must reflect on the nature of the proofs which are
attainable. We observe the places of the planets with the instruments in
our observatories; these places are measured by the help of our clocks
and of the graduated circles on the instruments. These observations are
no doubt wonderfully accurate; but they do not, they cannot, possess
absolute accuracy in the mathematical sense of the word. We can, for
instance, determine the place of a planet with such precision that it
is certainly not one second of arc wrong; and one second is an extremely
small quantity. A foot-rule placed at a distance of about forty miles
subtends an angle of a second, and it is surely a delicate achievement
to measure the place of a planet, and feel confident that no error
greater than this can have intruded into our result.

When we compare the results of observation with the calculations
conducted on the assumption of the truth of Kepler's laws, and when we
pronounce on the agreement of the observations with the calculations,
there is always a reference, more or less explicit, to the inevitable
errors of the observations. If the calculations and observations agree
so closely that the differences between the two are minute enough to
have arisen in the errors inseparable from the observations, then we are
satisfied with the accordance; for, in fact, no closer agreement is
attainable, or even conceivable. The influence which the want of
rigidity exercises on the fulfilment of the laws of Kepler can be
estimated by calculation; it is found, as might be expected, to be
extremely small--so small, in fact, as to be contained within that
slender margin of error by which observations are liable to be affected.
We are thus not able to discriminate by actual measurement the effects
due to the absence of rigidity; they are inextricably hid among the
small errors of observation.

The argument on which we are to base our researches is really founded on
a very familiar phenomenon. There is no one who has ever visited the
sea-side who is not familiar with that rise and fall of the sea which we
call the tide. Twice every twenty-four hours the sea advances on the
beach to produce high tide; twice every day the sea again retreats to
produce low tide. These tides are not merely confined to the coasts;
they penetrate for miles up the courses of rivers; they periodically
inundate great estuaries. In a maritime country the tides are of the
most profound practical importance; they also possess a significance of
a far less obvious character, which it is our object now to investigate.

These daily pulses of the ocean have long ceased to be a mystery. It
was in the earliest times perceived that there was a connection between
the tides and the moon. Ancient writers, such as Pliny and Aristotle,
have referred to the alliance between the times of high water and the
age of the moon. I think we sometimes do not give the ancient
astronomers as much credit as their shrewdness really entitles them to.
We have all read--we have all been taught--that the moon and the tides
are connected together; but how many of us are in a position to say that
we have actually noticed that connection by direct personal observation?
The first man who studied this matter with sufficient attention to
convince himself and to convince others of its reality must have been a
great philosopher. We know not his name, we know not his nation, we know
not the age in which he lived; but our admiration of his discovery must
be increased by the reflection that he had not the theory of gravitation
to guide him. A philosopher of the present day who had never seen the
sea could still predict the necessity of tides as a consequence of the
law of universal gravitation; but the primitive astronomer, who knew not
of the invisible bond by which all bodies in the universe are drawn
together, made a splendid--indeed, a typical--inductive discovery, when
he ascertained the relation between the moon and the tides.

We can surmise that this discovery, in all probability, first arose from
the observations of experienced navigators. In all matters of entering
port or of leaving port, the state of the tide is of the utmost concern
to the sailor. Even in the open sea he has sometimes to shape his course
in accordance with the currents produced by the tides; or, in guiding
his course by taking soundings, he has always to bear in mind that the
depth varies with the tide. All matters relating to the tide would thus
come under his daily observation. His daily work, the success of his
occupation, the security of his life, depend often on the tides; and
hence he would be solicitous to learn from his observation all that
would be useful to him in the future. To the coasting sailor the
question of the day is the time of high water. That time varies from
day to day; it is an hour or more later to-morrow than to-day, and there
is no very simple rule which can be enunciated. The sailor would
therefore welcome gladly any rule which would guide him in a matter of
such importance. We can make a conjecture as to the manner in which such
a rule was first discovered. Let us suppose that a sailor at Calais, for
example, is making for harbour. He has a beautiful night--the moon is
full; it guides him on his way; he gets safely into harbour; and the
next morning he finds the tide high between 11 and 12.[45] He often
repeats the same voyage, but he finds sometimes a low and inconvenient
tide in the morning. At length, however, it occurs to him that _when he
has a moonlight night_ he has a high tide at 11. This occurs once or
twice: he thinks it but a chance coincidence. It occurs again and again.
At length he finds it always occurs. He tells the rule to other sailors;
they try it too. It is invariably found that when the moon is full, the
high tide always recurs at the same hour at the same place. The
connection between the moon and the tide is thus established, and the
intelligent sailor will naturally compare other phases of the moon with
the times of high water. He finds, for example, that the moon at the
first quarter always gives high water at the same hour of the day; and
finally, he obtains a practical rule, by which, from the state of the
moon, he can at once tell the time when the tide will be high at the
port where his occupation lies. A diligent observer will trace a still
further connection between the moon and the tides; he will observe that
some high tides rise higher than others, that some low tides fall lower
than others. This is a matter of much practical importance. When a
dangerous bar has to be crossed, the sailor will feel much additional
security in knowing that he is carried over it on the top of a spring
tide; or if he has to contend against tidal currents, which in some
places have enormous force, he will naturally prefer for his voyage the
neap tides, in which the strength of these currents is less than usual.
The spring tides and the neap tides will become familiar to him, and he
will perceive that the spring tides occur when the moon is full or
new--or, at all events, that the spring tides are within a certain
constant number of days of the full or new moon. It was, no doubt, by
reasoning such as this, that in primitive times the connection between
the moon and the tides came to be perceived.

It was not, however, until the great discovery of Newton had disclosed
the law of universal gravitation that it became possible to give a
physical explanation of the tides. It was then seen how the moon
attracts the whole earth and every particle of the earth. It was seen
how the fluid particles which form the oceans on the earth were enabled
to obey the attraction in a way that the solid parts could not. When the
moon is overhead it tends to draw the water up, as it were, into a heap
underneath, and thus to give rise to the high tide. The water on the
opposite side of the earth is also affected in a way that might not be
at first anticipated. The moon attracts the solid body of the earth with
greater intensity than it attracts the water at the other side which
lies more distant from it. The earth is thus drawn away from the water,
and there is therefore a tendency to a high tide as well on the side of
the earth away from the moon as on that towards the moon. The low tides
occupy the intermediate positions.

The sun also excites tides on the earth; but owing to the great distance
of the sun, the difference between its attraction on the sea and on the
solid interior of the earth is not so appreciable. The solar tides are
thus smaller than the lunar tides. When the two conspire, they cause a
spring tide; when the solar and lunar tides are opposed, we have the
neap tide.

There are, however, a multitude of circumstances to be taken into
account when we attempt to apply this general reasoning to the
conditions of a particular case. Owing to local peculiarities the tides
vary enormously at the different parts of the coast. In a confined area
like the Mediterranean Sea, the tides have only a comparatively small
range, varying at different places from one foot to a few feet. In
mid-ocean also the tidal rise and fall is not large, amounting, for
instance, to a range of three feet at St. Helena. Near the great
continental masses the tides become very much modified by the coasts. We
find at London a tide of eighteen or nineteen feet; but the most
remarkable tides in the British Islands are those in the Bristol
Channel, where, at Chepstow or Cardiff, there is a rise and fall during
spring tides to the height of thirty-seven or thirty-eight feet, and at
neap tides to a height of twenty-eight or twenty-nine. These tides are
surpassed in magnitude at other parts of the world. The greatest of all
tides are those in the Bay of Fundy, at some parts of which the rise and
fall at spring tides is not less than fifty feet.

The rising and falling of the tide is necessarily attended with the
formation of currents. Such currents are, indeed, well known, and in
some of our great rivers they are of the utmost consequence. These
currents of water can, like water-streams of any other kind, be made to
do useful work. We can, for instance, impound the rising water in a
reservoir, and as the tide falls we can compel the enclosed water to
work a water-wheel before it returns to the sea. We have, indeed, here a
source of actual power; but it is only in very unusual circumstances
that it is found to be economical to use the tides for this purpose. The
question can be submitted to calculation, and the area of the reservoir
can be computed which would retain sufficient water to work a
water-wheel of given horse-power. It can be shown that the area of the
reservoir necessary to impound water enough to produce 100 horse-power
would be 40 acres. The whole question is then reduced to the simple one
of expense: would the construction and the maintenance of this reservoir
be more or less costly than the erection and the maintenance of a
steam-engine of equivalent power? In most cases it would seem that the
latter would be by far the cheaper; at all events, we do not practically
find tidal engines in use, so that the power of the tides is now running
to waste. The economical aspects of the case may, however, be very
profoundly altered at some remote epoch, when our stores of fuel, now
so lavishly expended, give appreciable signs of approaching exhaustion.

The tides are, however, _doing work_ of one kind or another. A tide in a
river estuary will sometimes scour away a bank and carry its materials
elsewhere. We have here work done and energy consumed, just as much as
if the same task had been accomplished by engineers directing the
powerful arms of navvies. We know that work cannot be done without the
consumption of energy in some of its forms; whence, then, comes the
energy which supplies the power of the tides? At a first glance the
answer to this question seems a very obvious one. Have we not said that
the tides are caused by the moon? and must not the energy, therefore, be
derived from the moon? This seems plain enough, but, unfortunately, it
is not true. It is one of those cases by no means infrequent in
Dynamics, where the truth is widely different from that which seems to
be the case. An illustration will perhaps make the matter clearer. When
a rifle is fired, it is the finger of the rifleman that pulls the
trigger; but are we, then, to say that the energy by which the bullet
has been driven off has been supplied by the rifleman? Certainly not;
the energy is, of course, due to the gunpowder, and all the rifleman did
was to provide the means by which the energy stored up in the powder
could be liberated. To a certain extent we may compare this with the
tidal problem; the tides raised by the moon are the originating cause
whereby a certain store of energy is drawn upon and applied to do such
work as the tides are competent to perform. This store of energy,
strange to say, does not lie in the moon; it is in the earth itself.
Indeed, it is extremely remarkable that the moon actually gains energy
from the tides by itself absorbing some of the store which exists in the
earth. This is not put forward as an obvious result; it depends upon a
refined dynamical theorem.

We must clearly understand the nature of this mighty store of energy
from which the tides draw their power, and on which the moon is
permitted to make large and incessant drafts. Let us see in what sense
the earth is said to possess a store of energy. We know that the earth
rotates on its axis once every day. It is this rotation which is the
source of the energy. Let us compare the rotation of the earth with the
rotation of the fly-wheel belonging to a steam-engine. The rotation of
the fly-wheel is really a reservoir, into which the engine pours energy
at each stroke of the piston. The various machines in the mill worked by
the engine merely draw upon the store of energy accumulated in the
fly-wheel. The earth may be likened to a gigantic fly-wheel detached
from the engine, though still connected with the machines in the mill.
From its stupendous dimensions and from its rapid velocity, that great
fly-wheel possesses an enormous store of energy, which must be expended
before the fly-wheel comes to rest. Hence it is that, though the tides
are caused by the moon, yet the energy they require is obtained by
simply appropriating some of the vast supply available from the rotation
of the earth.

There is, however, a distinction of a very fundamental character between
the earth and the fly-wheel of an engine. As the energy is withdrawn
from the fly-wheel and consumed by the various machines in the mill, it
is continually replaced by fresh energy, which flows in from the
exertions of the steam-engine, and thus the velocity of the fly-wheel is
maintained. But the earth is a fly-wheel without the engine. When the
tides draw upon the store of energy and expend it in doing work, that
energy is not replaced. The consequence is irresistible: the energy in
the rotation of the earth must be decreasing. This leads to a
consequence of the utmost significance. If the engine be cut off from
the fly-wheel, then, as everyone knows, the massive fly-wheel may still
give a few rotations, but it will speedily come to rest. A similar
inference must be made with regard to the earth; but its store of energy
is so enormous, in comparison with the demands which are made upon it,
that the earth is able to hold out. Ages of countless duration must
elapse before the energy of the earth's rotation can be completely
exhausted by such drafts as the tides are capable of making.
Nevertheless, it is necessarily true that the energy is decreasing; and
if it be decreasing, then the speed of the earth's rotation must be
surely, if slowly, abating. Now we have arrived at a consequence of the
tides which admits of being stated in the simplest language. If the
speed of rotation be abating, then the length of the day must be
increasing; and hence we are conducted to the following most important
statement: that the _tides are increasing the length of the day_.

To-day is longer than yesterday--to-morrow will be longer than to-day.
The difference is so small that even in the course of ages it can hardly
be said to have been distinctly established by observation. We do not
pretend to say how many centuries have elapsed since the day was even
one second shorter than it is at present; but centuries are not the
units which we employ in tidal evolution. A million years ago it is
quite probable that the divergence of the length of the day from its
present value may have been very considerable. Let us take a glance back
into the profound depths of times past, and see what the tides have to
tell us. If the present order of things has lasted, the day must have
been shorter and shorter the farther we look back into the dim past. The
day is now twenty-four hours; it was once twenty hours, once ten hours;
it was once six hours. How much farther can we go? Once the six hours is
past, we begin to approach a limit which must at some point bound our
retrospect. The shorter the day the more is the earth bulged at the
equator; the more the earth is bulged at the equator the greater is the
strain put upon the materials of the earth by the centrifugal force of
its rotation. If the earth were to go too fast it would be unable to
cohere together; it would separate into pieces, just as a grindstone
driven too rapidly is rent asunder with violence. Here, therefore, we
discern in the remote past a barrier which stops the present argument.
There is a certain critical velocity which is the greatest that the
earth could bear without risk of rupture, but the exact amount of that
velocity is a question not very easy to answer. It depends upon the
nature of the materials of the earth; it depends upon the temperature;
it depends upon the effect of pressure, and on other details not
accurately known to us. An estimate of the critical velocity has,
however, been made, and it has been shown mathematically that the
shortest period of rotation which the earth could have, without flying
into pieces, is about three or four hours. The doctrine of tidal
evolution has thus conducted us to the conclusion that, at some
inconceivably remote epoch, the earth was spinning round its axis in a
period approximating to three or four hours.

We thus learn that we are indebted to the moon for the gradual
elongation of the day from its primitive value up to twenty-four hours.
In obedience to one of the most profound laws of nature, the earth has
reacted on the moon, and the reaction of the earth has taken a tangible
form. It has simply consisted in gradually driving the moon away from
the earth. You may observe that this driving away of the moon resembles
a piece of retaliation on the part of the earth. The consequence of the
retreat of the moon is sufficiently remarkable. The path in which the
moon is revolving has at the present time a radius of 240,000 miles.
This radius must be constantly growing larger, in consequence of the
tides. Provided with this fact, let us now glance back into the past
history of the moon. As the moon's distance is increasing when we look
forwards, so we find it decreasing when we look backwards. The moon must
have been nearer the earth yesterday than it is to-day; the difference
is no doubt inappreciable in years, in centuries, or in thousands of
years; but when we come to millions of years, the moon must have been
significantly closer than it is at present, until at length we find that
its distance, instead of 240,000 miles, has dwindled down to 40,000, to
20,000, to 10,000 miles. Nor need we stop--nor can we stop--until we
find the moon actually close to the earth's surface. If the present laws
of nature have operated long enough, and if there has been no external
interference, then it cannot be doubted that the moon and the earth were
once in immediate proximity. We can, indeed, calculate the period in
which the moon must have been revolving round the earth. The nearer the
moon is to the earth the quicker it must revolve; and at the critical
epoch when the satellite was in immediate proximity to our earth it
must have completed each revolution in about three or four hours.

This has led to one of the most daring speculations which has ever been
made in astronomy. We cannot refrain from enunciating it; but it must be
remembered that it is only a speculation, and to be received with
corresponding reserve. The speculation is intended to answer the
question, What brought the moon into that position, close to the surface
of the earth? We will only say that there is the gravest reason to
believe that the moon was, at some very early period, fractured off from
the earth when the earth was in a soft or plastic condition.

At the beginning of the history we found the earth and the moon close
together. We found that the rate of rotation of the earth was only a few
hours, instead of twenty-four hours. We found that the moon completed
its journey round the primitive earth in exactly the same time as the
primitive earth rotated on its axis, so that the two bodies were then
constantly face to face. Such a state of things formed what a
mathematician would describe as a case of unstable dynamical
equilibrium. It could not last. It may be compared to the case of a
needle balanced on its point; the needle must fall to one side or the
other. In the same way, the moon could not continue to preserve this
position. There were two courses open: the moon must either have fallen
back on the earth, and been reabsorbed into the mass of the earth, or it
must have commenced its outward journey. Which of these courses was the
moon to adopt? We have no means, perhaps, of knowing exactly what it was
which determined the moon to one course rather than to another, but as
to the course which was actually taken there can be no doubt. The fact
that the moon exists shows that it did not return to the earth, but
commenced its outward journey. As the moon recedes from the earth it
must, in conformity with Kepler's laws, require a longer time to
complete its revolution. It has thus happened that, from the original
period of only a few hours, the duration has increased until it has
reached the present number of 656 hours. The rotation of the earth has,
of course, also been modified, in accordance with the retreat of the
moon. Once the moon had commenced to recede, the earth was released from
the obligation which required it constantly to direct the same face to
the moon. When the moon had receded to a certain distance, the earth
would complete the rotation in less time than that required by the moon
for one revolution. Still the moon gets further and further away, and
the duration of the revolution increases to a corresponding extent,
until three, four, or more days (or rotations of the earth) are
identical with the month (or revolution of the moon). Although the
number of days in the month increases, yet we are not to suppose that
the rate of the earth's rotation is increasing; indeed, the contrary is
the fact. The earth's rotation is getting slower, and so is the
revolution of the moon, but the retardation of the moon is greater than
that of the earth. Even though the period of rotation of the earth has
greatly increased from its primitive value, yet the period of the moon
has increased still more, so that it is several times as large as that
of the rotation of the earth. As ages roll on the moon recedes further
and further, its orbit increases, the duration of the revolution
augments, until at length a very noticeable epoch is attained, which is,
in one sense, a culminating point in the career of the moon. At this
epoch the revolution periods of the moon, when measured in rotation
periods of the earth, attain their greatest value. It would seem that
the month was then twenty-nine days. It is not, of course, meant that
the month and the day at that epoch were the month and the day as our
clocks now measure time. Both were shorter then than now. But what we
mean is, that at this epoch the earth rotated twenty-nine times on its
axis while the moon completed one circuit.

This epoch has now been passed. No attempt can be made at present to
evaluate the date of that epoch in our ordinary units of measurement. At
the same time, however, no doubt can be entertained as to the
immeasurable antiquity of the event, in comparison with all historic
records; but whether it is to be reckoned in hundreds of thousands of
years, in millions of years, or in tens of millions of years, must be
left in great degree to conjecture.

This remarkable epoch once passed, we find that the course of events in
the earth-moon system begins to shape itself towards that remarkable
final stage which has points of resemblance to the initial stage. The
moon still continues to revolve in an orbit with a diameter steadily,
though very slowly, growing. The length of the month is accordingly
increasing, and the rotation of the earth being still constantly
retarded, the length of the day is also continually growing. But the
ratio of the length of the month to the length of the day now exhibits a
change. That ratio had gradually increased, from unity at the
commencement, up to the maximum value of somewhere about twenty-nine at
the epoch just referred to. The ratio now begins again to decline, until
we find the earth makes only twenty-eight rotations, instead of
twenty-nine, in one revolution of the moon. The decrease in the ratio
continues until the number twenty-seven expresses the days in the month.
Here, again, we have an epoch which it is impossible for us to pass
without special comment. In all that has hitherto been said we have been
dealing with events in the distant past; and we have at length arrived
at the present state of the earth-moon system. The days at this epoch
are our well-known days, the month is the well-known period of the
revolution of our moon. At the present time the month is about
twenty-seven of our days, and this relation has remained sensibly true
for thousands of years past. It will continue to remain sensibly true
for thousands of years to come, but it will not remain true
indefinitely. It is merely a stage in this grand transformation; it may
possess the attributes of permanence to our ephemeral view, just as the
wings of a gnat seem at rest when illuminated by the electric spark; but
when we contemplate the history with time conceptions sufficiently ample
for astronomy we realise how the present condition of the earth-moon
system can have no greater permanence than any other stage in the
history.

Our narrative must, however, now assume a different form. We have been
speaking of the past; we have been conducted to the present; can we say
anything of the future? Here, again, the tides come to our assistance.
If we have rightly comprehended the truth of dynamics (and who is there
now that can doubt them?), we shall be enabled to make a forecast of the
further changes of the earth-moon system. If there be no interruption
from any external source at present unknown to us, we can predict--in
outline, at all events--the subsequent career of the moon. We can see
how the moon will still follow its outward course. The path in which it
revolves will grow with extreme slowness, but yet it will always grow;
the progress will not be reversed, at all events, before the final stage
of our history has been attained. We shall not now delay to dwell on the
intervening stages; we will rather attempt to sketch the ultimate type
to which our system tends. In the dim future--countless millions of
years to come--this final stage will be approached. The ratio of the
month to the day, whose decline we have already referred to, will
continue to decline. The period of revolution of the moon will grow
longer and longer, but the length of the day will increase much more
rapidly than the increase in the duration of the moon's period. From the
month of twenty-seven days we shall pass to a month of twenty-six days,
and so on, until we shall reach a month of ten days, and, finally, a
month of one day.

Let us clearly understand what we mean by a month of one day. We mean
that the time in which the moon revolves around the earth will be equal
to the time in which the earth rotates around its axis. The length of
this day will, of course, be vastly greater than our day. The only
element of uncertainty in these enquiries arises when we attempt to give
numerical accuracy to the statements. It seems to be as true as the laws
of dynamics that a state of the earth-moon system in which the day and
the month are equal must be ultimately attained; but when we attempt to
state the length of that day we introduce a hazardous element into the
enquiry. In giving any estimate of its length, it must be understood
that the magnitude is stated with great reserve. It may be erroneous to
some extent, though, perhaps, not to any considerable amount. The length
of this great day would seem to be about equal to fifty-seven of our
days. In other words, at some critical time in the excessively distant
future, the earth will take something like 1,400 hours to perform a
rotation, while the moon will complete its journey precisely in the same
time.

We thus see how, in some respects, the first stage of the earth-moon
system and the last stage resemble each other. In each case we have the
day equal to the month. In the first case the day and the month were
only a small fraction of our day; in the last stage the day and the
month are each a large multiple of our day. There is, however, a
profound contrast between the first critical epoch and the last. We have
already mentioned that the first epoch was one of unstability--it could
not last; but this second state is one of dynamical stability. Once that
state has been acquired, it would be permanent, and would endure for
ever if the earth and the moon could be isolated from all external
interference.

There is one special feature which characterises the movement when the
month is equal to the day. A little reflection will show that when this
is the case the earth must constantly direct the same face towards the
moon. If the day be equal to the month, then the earth and moon must
revolve together, as if bound by invisible bands; and whatever
hemisphere of the earth be directed to the moon when this state of
things commences will remain there so long as the day remains equal to
the month.

At this point it is hardly possible to escape being reminded of that
characteristic feature of the moon's motion which has been observed from
all antiquity. We refer, of course, to the fact that the moon at the
present time constantly turns the same face to the earth.

It is incumbent upon astronomers to provide a physical explanation of
this remarkable fact. The moon revolves around our earth once in a
definite number of seconds. If the moon always turns the same face to
the earth, then it is demonstrated that the moon rotates on its axis
once in the same number of seconds also. Now, this would be a
coincidence wildly improbable unless there were some physical cause to
account for it. We have not far to seek for a cause: the tides on the
moon have produced the phenomenon. We now find the moon has a rugged
surface, which testifies to the existence of intense volcanic activity
in former times. Those volcanoes are now silent--the internal fires in
the moon seem to have become exhausted; but there was a time when the
moon must have been a heated and semi-molten mass. There was a time when
the materials of the moon were so hot as to be soft and yielding, and in
that soft and yielding mass the attraction of our earth excited great
tides. We have no historical record of these tides (they were long
anterior to the existence of telescopes, they were probably long
anterior to the existence of the human race), but we know that these
tides once existed by the work they have accomplished, and that work is
seen to-day in the constant face which the moon turns towards the earth.
The gentle rise and fall of the oceans which form our tides present a
picture widely different from the tides by which the moon was once
agitated. The tides on the moon were vastly greater than those of the
earth. They were greater because the weight of the earth is greater than
that of the moon, so that the earth was able to produce much more
powerful tides in the moon than the moon has ever been able to raise on
the earth.

That the moon should bend the same face to the earth depends immediately
upon the condition that the moon shall rotate on its axis in precisely
the same period as that which it requires to revolve around the earth.
The tides are a regulating power of unremitting efficiency to ensure
that this condition shall be observed. If the moon rotated more slowly
than it ought, then the great lava tides would drag the moon round
faster and faster until it attained the desired velocity; and then, but
not till then, they would give the moon peace. Or if the moon were to
rotate faster on its axis than in its orbit, again the tides would come
furiously into play; but this time they would be engaged in retarding
the moon's rotation, until they had reduced the speed of the moon to one
rotation for each revolution.

Can the moon ever escape from the thraldom of the tides? This is not
very easy to answer, but it seems perhaps not impossible that the moon
may, at some future time, be freed from tidal control. It is, indeed,
obvious that the tides, even at present, have not the extremely
stringent control over the moon which they once exercised. We now see no
ocean on the moon, nor do the volcanoes show any trace of molten lava.
There can hardly be tides _on_ the moon, but there may be tides _in_ the
moon. It may be that the interior of the moon is still hot enough to
retain an appreciable degree of fluidity, and if so, the tidal control
would still retain the moon in its grip; but the time will probably
come, if it have not come already, when the moon will be cold to the
centre--cold as the temperature of space. If the materials of the moon
were what a mathematician would call absolutely rigid, there can be no
doubt that the tides could no longer exist, and the moon would be
emancipated from tidal control. It seems impossible to predicate how far
the moon can ever conform to the circumstances of an actual rigid body,
but it may be conceivable that at some future time the tidal control
shall have practically ceased. There would then be no longer any
necessary identity between the period of rotation and that of
revolution. A gleam of hope is thus projected over the astronomy of the
distant future. We know that the time of revolution of the moon is
increasing, and so long as the tidal governor could act, the time of
rotation must increase sympathetically. We have now surmised a state of
things in which the control is absent. There will then be nothing to
prevent the rotation remaining as at present, while the period of
revolution is increasing. The privilege of seeing the other side of the
moon, which has been withheld from all previous astronomers, may thus in
the distant future be granted to their successors.

The tides which the moon raises in the earth act as a brake on the
rotation of the earth. They now constantly tend to bring the period of
rotation of the earth to coincide with the period of revolution of the
moon. As the moon revolves once in twenty-seven days, the earth is at
present going too fast, and consequently the tidal control at the
present moment endeavours to retard the rotation of the earth. The
rotation of the moon long since succumbed to tidal control, but that was
because the moon was comparatively small and the tidal power of the
earth was enormous. But this is the opposite case. The earth is large
and more massive than the moon, the tides raised by the moon are but
small and weak, and the earth has not yet completely succumbed to the
tidal action. But the tides are constant, they never for an instant
relax the effort to control, and they are gradually tending to render
the day and the month coincident, though the progress is a very slow
one.

The theory of the tides leads us to look forward to a remote state of
things, in which the moon revolves around the earth in a period equal to
the day, so that the two bodies shall constantly bend the same face to
each other, provided the tidal control be still able to guide the moon's
rotation. So far as the mutual action of the earth and the moon is
concerned, such an arrangement possesses all the attributes of
permanence. If, however, we venture to project our view to a still more
remote future, we can discern an external cause which must prevent this
mutual accommodation between the earth and the moon from being eternal.
The tides raised by the moon on the earth are so much greater than those
raised by the sun, that we have, in the course of our previous
reasoning, held little account of the sun-raised tides. This is
obviously only an approximate method of dealing with the question. The
influence of the solar tide is appreciable, and its importance
relatively to the lunar tide will gradually increase as the earth and
moon approach the final critical stage. The solar tides will have the
effect of constantly applying a further brake to the rotation of the
earth. It will therefore follow that, after the day and the month have
become equal, a still further retardation awaits the length of the day.
We thus see that in the remote future we shall find the moon revolving
around the earth in a shorter time than that in which the earth rotates
on its axis.

A most instructive corroboration of these views is afforded by the
discovery of the satellites of Mars. The planet Mars is one of the
smaller members of our system. It has a mass which is only the eighth
part of the mass of the earth. A small planet like Mars has much less
energy of rotation to be destroyed than a larger one like the earth. It
may therefore be expected that the small planet will proceed much more
rapidly in its evolution than the large one; we might, therefore,
anticipate that Mars and his satellites have attained a more advanced
stage of their history than is the case with the earth and her
satellite.

When the discovery of the satellites of Mars startled the world, in
1877, there was no feature which created so much amazement as the
periodic time of the interior satellite. We have already pointed out in
Chapter X. how Phobos revolves around Mars in a period of 7 hours 39
minutes. The period of rotation of Mars himself is 24 hours 37 minutes,
and hence we have the fact, unparalleled in the solar system, that the
satellite is actually revolving three times as rapidly as the planet is
rotating. There can hardly be a doubt that the solar tides on Mars have
abated its velocity of rotation in the manner just suggested.

It has always seemed to me that the matter just referred to is one of
the most interesting and instructive in the whole history of astronomy.
We have, first, a very beautiful telescopic discovery of the minute
satellites of Mars, and we have a determination of the anomalous
movement of one of them. We have then found a satisfactory physical
explanation of the cause of this phenomenon, and we have shown it to be
a striking instance of tidal evolution. Finally, we have seen that the
system of Mars and his satellite is really a forecast of the destiny
which, after the lapse of ages, awaits the earth-moon system.

It seems natural to enquire how far the influence of tides can have
contributed towards moulding the planetary orbits. The circumstances are
here very different from those we have encountered in the earth-moon
system. Let us first enunciate the problem in a definite shape. The
solar system consists of the sun in the centre, and of the planets
revolving around the sun. These planets rotate on their axes; and
circulating round some of the planets we have their systems of
satellites. For simplicity, we may suppose all the planets and their
satellites to revolve in the same plane, and the planets to rotate about
axes which are perpendicular to that plane. In the study of the theory
of tidal evolution we must be mainly guided by a profound dynamical
principle known as the conservation of the "moment of momentum." The
proof of this great principle is not here attempted; suffice it to say
that it can be strictly deduced from the laws of motion, and is thus
only second in certainty to the fundamental truths of ordinary geometry
or of algebra. Take, for instance, the giant planet, Jupiter. In one
second he moves around the sun through a certain angle. If we multiply
the mass of Jupiter by that angle, and if we then multiply the product
by the square of the distance from Jupiter to the sun, we obtain a
certain definite amount. A mathematician calls this quantity the
"orbital" moment of momentum of Jupiter.[46] In the same way, if we
multiply the mass of Saturn by the angle through which the planet moves
in one second, and this product by the square of the distance between
the planet and the sun, then we have the orbital moment of momentum of
Saturn. In a similar manner we ascertain the moment of momentum for each
of the other planets due to revolution around the sun. We have also to
define the moment of momentum of the planets around their axes. In one
second Jupiter rotates through a certain angle; we multiply that angle
by the mass of Jupiter, and by the square of a certain line which
depends on his internal constitution: the product forms the "rotational"
moment of momentum. In a similar manner we find the rotational moment of
momentum for each of the other planets. Each satellite revolves through
a certain angle around its primary in one second; we obtain the moment
of momentum of each satellite by multiplying its mass into the angle
described in one second, and then multiplying the product into the
square of the distance of the satellite from its primary. Finally, we
compute the moment of momentum of the sun due to its rotation. This we
obtain by multiplying the angle through which the sun turns in one
second by the whole mass of the sun, and then multiplying the product by
the square of a certain line of prodigious length, which depends upon
the details of the sun's internal structure.

If we have succeeded in explaining what is meant by the moment of
momentum, then the statement of the great law is comparatively simple.
We are, in the first place, to observe that the moment of momentum of
any planet may alter. It would alter if the distance of the planet from
the sun changed, or if the velocity with which the planet rotates upon
its axis changed; so, too, the moment of momentum of the sun may change,
and so may those of the satellites. In the beginning a certain total
quantity of moment of momentum was communicated to our system, and not
one particle of that total can the solar system, as a whole, squander or
alienate. No matter what be the mutual actions of the various bodies of
the system, no matter what perturbations they may undergo--what tides
may be produced, or even what mutual collisions may occur--the great law
of the conservation of moment of momentum must be obeyed. If some bodies
in the solar system be losing moment of momentum, then other bodies in
the system must be gaining, so that the total quantity shall remain
unaltered. This consideration is one of supreme importance in connection
with the tides. The distribution of moment of momentum in the system is
being continually altered by the tides; but, however the tides may ebb
or flow, the total moment of momentum can never alter so long as
influences external to the system are absent.

We must here point out the contrast between the endowment of our system
with energy and with moment of momentum. The mutual actions of our
system, in so far as they produce heat, tend to squander the energy, a
considerable part of which can be thus dissipated and lost; but the
mutual actions have no power of dissipating the moment of momentum.

The total moment of momentum of the solar system being taken to be 100,
this is at present distributed as follows:--

  Orbital moment of momentum of Jupiter  60
  Orbital moment of momentum of Saturn   24
  Orbital moment of momentum of Uranus    6
  Orbital moment of momentum of Neptune   8
  Rotational moment of momentum of Sun    2
                                         --
                                        100

The contributions of the other items are excessively minute. The orbital
moments of momentum of the few interior planets contain but little more
than one thousandth part of the total amount. The rotational
contributions of all the planets and of their satellites is very much
less, being not more than one sixty-thousandth part of the whole. When,
therefore, we are studying the general effects of tides on the planetary
orbits these trifling matters may be overlooked. We shall, however, find
it desirable to narrow the question still more, and concentrate our
attention on one splendid illustration. Let us take the sun and the
planet Jupiter, and, supposing all other bodies of our system to be
absent, let us discuss the influence of tides produced in Jupiter by the
sun, and of tides in the sun by Jupiter.

It might be hastily thought that, just as the moon was born of the
earth, so the planets were born of the sun, and have gradually receded
by tides into their present condition. We have the means of enquiry
into this question by the figures just given, and we shall show that it
is impossible that Jupiter, or any of the other planets, can ever have
been very much closer to the sun than they are at present. In the case
of Jupiter and the sun we have the moment of momentum made up of three
items. By far the largest of these items is due to the orbital
revolution of Jupiter, the next is due to the sun, the third is due to
the rotation of Jupiter on its axis. We may put them in round numbers as
follows:--

  Orbital moment of momentum of Jupiter       600,000
  Rotational moment of momentum of Sun         20,000
  Rotational moment of momentum of Jupiter         12

The sun produces tides in Jupiter, those tides retard the rotation of
Jupiter. They make Jupiter rotate more and more slowly, therefore the
moment of momentum of Jupiter is decreasing, therefore its present value
of 12 must be decreasing. Even the mighty sun himself may be distracted
by tides. Jupiter raises tides in the sun, those tides retard the motion
of the sun, and therefore the moment of momentum of the sun is
decreasing, and it follows from both causes that the item of 600,000
must be increasing; in other words, the orbital motion of Jupiter must
be increasing, or Jupiter must be receding from the sun. To this extent,
therefore, the sun-Jupiter system is analogous to the earth-moon system.
As the tides on the earth are driving away the moon, so the tides in
Jupiter and the sun are gradually driving the two bodies apart. But
there is a profound difference between the two cases. It can be proved
that the tides produced in Jupiter by the sun are more effective than
those produced in the sun by Jupiter. The contribution of the sun may,
therefore, be at present omitted; so that, practically, the
augmentations of the orbital moment of momentum of Jupiter are now
achieved at the expense of that stored up by Jupiter's rotation. But
what is 12 compared with 600,000. Even when the whole of Jupiter's
rotational moment of momentum and that of his satellites has become
absorbed into the orbital motion, there will hardly be an appreciable
difference in the latter. In ancient days we may indeed suppose that
Jupiter being hotter was larger than at present, and that he had
considerably more rotational moment of momentum. But it is hardly
credible that Jupiter can ever have had one hundred times the moment of
momentum that he has at present. Yet even if 1,200 units of rotational
momentum had been transferred to the orbital motion it would only
correspond with the most trivial difference in the distance of Jupiter
from the sun. We are hence assured that the tides have not appreciably
altered the dimensions of the orbit of Jupiter, or of the other great
planets.

The time will, however, come when the rotation of Jupiter on his axis
will be gradually abated by the influence of the tides. It will then be
found that the moment of momentum of the sun's rotation will be
gradually expended in increasing the orbits of the planets, but as this
reserve only holds about two per cent. of the whole amount in our system
it cannot produce any considerable effect.

The theory of tidal evolution, which in the hands of Professor Darwin
has taught us so much with regard to the past history of the systems of
satellites in the solar system, will doubtless also, as pointed out by
Dr. See, be found to account for the highly eccentric orbits of double
star systems. In the earth-moon system we have two bodies exceedingly
different in bulk, the mass of the earth being about eighty times as
great as that of the moon. But in the case of most double stars we have
to do with two bodies not very different as regards mass. It can be
demonstrated that the orbit must have been originally of slight
eccentricity, but that tidal friction is capable not only of extending,
but also of elongating it. The accelerating force is vastly greater at
periastron (when the two bodies are nearest each other) than at apastron
(when their distance is greatest). At periastron the disturbing force
will, therefore, increase the apastron distance by an enormous amount,
while at apastron it increases the periastron distance by a very small
amount. Thus, while the ellipse is being gradually expanded, the orbit
grows more and more eccentric, until the axial rotations have been
sufficiently reduced by the transfer of axial to orbital moment of
momentum.

And now we must draw this chapter to a close, though there are many
other subjects that might be included. The theory of tidal evolution is,
indeed, one of quite exceptional interest. The earlier mathematicians
expended their labour on the determination of the dynamics of a system
which consisted of rigid bodies. We are indebted to contemporary
mathematicians for opening up celestial mechanics upon the more real
supposition that the bodies are not rigid; in other words, that they are
subject to tides. The mathematical difficulties are enormously enhanced,
but the problem is more true to nature, and has already led to some of
the most remarkable astronomical discoveries made in modern times.

      *      *      *      *      *

Our Story of the Heavens has now been told. We commenced this work with
some account of the mechanical and optical aids to astronomy; we have
ended it with a brief description of an intellectual method of research
which reveals some of the celestial phenomena that occurred ages before
the human race existed. We have spoken of those objects which are
comparatively near to us, and then, step by step, we have advanced to
the distant nebulæ and clusters which seem to lie on the confines of the
visible universe. Yet how little can we see with even our greatest
telescopes, when compared with the whole extent of infinite space! No
matter how vast may be the depth which our instruments have sounded,
there is yet a beyond of infinite extent. Imagine a mighty globe
described in space, a globe of such stupendous dimensions that it shall
include the sun and his system, all the stars and nebulæ, and even all
the objects which our finite capacities can imagine. Yet, what ratio
must the volume of this great globe bear to the whole extent of infinite
space? The ratio is infinitely less than that which the water in a
single drop of dew bears to the water in the whole Atlantic Ocean.




APPENDIX.

ASTRONOMICAL QUANTITIES.


THE SUN.

The sun's mean distance from the earth is 92,900,000 miles; his diameter
is 866,000 miles; his mean density, as compared with water, is 1·4; his
ellipticity is insensible; he rotates on his axis in a period between 25
and 26 days.


THE MOON.

The moon's mean distance from the earth is 239,000 miles. The diameter
of the moon is 2,160 miles; and her mean density, as compared with
water, is 3·5. The time of a revolution around the earth is 27·322 days.


THE PLANETS.

___________________________________________________________________________
|       |Distance from the Sun in |          |  Mean  |          |Density |
|       |  Millions of Miles.     | Periodic |Diameter|   Axial  |compared|
|       |-------------------------|   Time   |   in   | Rotation.|  with  |
|       | Mean. | Least.|Greatest.| in Days. | Miles. |          | Water. |
|-------+-------+-------+---------+----------+--------+----------+--------|
|Mercury|   36·0|   28·6|    43·3 |    87·969|  3,030 |   (?)    | 6·85(?)|
|Venus  |   67·2|   66·6|    67·5 |   224·70 |  7,700 |   (?)    | 4·85   |
|Earth  |   92·9|   91·1|    94·6 |   365·26 |  7,918 |23 56 4·09| 5·58   |
|Mars   |  141  |  128  |   155   |   686·98 |  4,230 |24 37 22·7| 4·01   |
|Jupiter|  483  |  459  |   505   | 4,332·6  | 86,500 | 9 55 --  | 1·38   |
|Saturn |  886  |  834  |   936   |10,759    | 71,000 |10 14 --  | 0·72   |
|Uranus |1,782  |1,700  | 1,860   |30,687    | 31,900 | Unknown  | 1·22   |
|Neptune|2,792  |2,760  | 2,810   |60,127    | 34,800 | Unknown  | 1·11   |
---------------------------------------------------------------------------


THE SATELLITES OF MARS.

          Mean Distance from   Periodic Time.
  Name.     Centre of Mars.   hrs. mins. secs.

  Phobos      5,800 miles       7   39    14
  Deimos     14,500 miles      30   17    54


THE SATELLITES OF JUPITER.

             Mean Distance from        Periodic Time.
  Name.      Centre of Jupiter.   days.  hrs.  mins.  secs.

  New Inner
  Satellite
  Barnard        112,500 miles     0     11     57     22
  I.             261,000 miles     1     18     27     34
  II.            415,000 miles     3     13     13     42
  III.           664,000 miles     7      3     42     33
  IV.          1,167,000 miles    16     16     32     11


THE SATELLITES OF SATURN.

             Mean Distance from        Periodic Time.
  Name.       Centre of Saturn.   days.  hrs.  mins.  secs.

  Mimas          115,000 miles     0     22     37      6
  Enceladus      148,000 miles     1      8     53      7
  Tethys         183,000 miles     1     21     18     26
  Dione          235,000 miles     2     17     41      9
  Rhea           329,000 miles     4     12     25     12
  Titan          760,000 miles    15     22     41     27
  Hyperion       921,000 miles    21      6     38     31
  Iapetus      2,215,000 miles    79      7     56     40


THE SATELLITES OF URANUS.

             Mean Distance from        Periodic Time.
  Name.       Centre of Uranus.   days.  hrs.  mins.  secs.

  Ariel        119,000 miles       2     12     29     21
  Umbriel      166,000 miles       4      3     27     37
  Titania      272,000 miles       8     16     56     30
  Oberon       364,000 miles      13     11      7      6


THE SATELLITE OF NEPTUNE.

             Mean Distance from        Periodic Time.
  Name.      Centre of Neptune.   days.  hrs.  mins.  secs.

  Satellite       220,000 miles    5     21      2     44




INDEX.


A

Aberration of light, 503-512;
  and the apparent movements of stars, 504, 507;
  Bradley's discoveries, 503;
  causes, 507-511;
  circles of stars, 505-507;
  dependent upon the velocity of light, 511;
  effect on Draco, 505;
  telescopic investigation, 510

Achromatic combination of glasses, 11

Adams, Professor J.C., and the discovery of Neptune, 324-327, 330-332;
  and the Ellipse of the Leonids, 386

Aërolite, the Chaco, 398;
  the Orgueil, 399

Airy, Sir George, 325

Alban Mount Meteorites, the, 393

Alcor, 438

Aldebaran, 209, 418, 419;
  spectrum of, 480;
  value of velocity of, 484

Algol, 485, 487

Almagest, the, 7

Alphonsus, 92

Alps, the great valley of the (lunar), 88

Altair, 424

Aluminium in the Sun, 50

Ancients, astronomy of the, 2-7

Andrews, Professor, and basaltic formation at Giant's Causeway, 407

Andromeda, 414;
  nebula in, 469, 489

Andromedes, The, shooting star shower, and Biela's comet, 390

Antares, 423

Apennines (lunar), 83

Aphelion, 163

Aquarius, 215, 413

Aquila, or the Eagle, 424

Arago, 326

Archimedes, 88

Arcturus, 358, 480;
  value of velocity of, 484

Argelander's Catalogue of Stars, 431, 476

Argus, 481

Ariel, 309, 559

Aristarchus, 90

Aristillus, 88

Aristotle, lunar crater named after him, 88;
  credulity respecting his writings, 267;
  the Moon and the tides and, 535

Asteroids, 229-244

Astrea, 328

Astronomers of Nineveh, 156

Astronomical quantities, 558

Astronomy, ancient, 2-7;
  Galileo's achievements in, 10;
  the first phenomenon of, 2

_Athenæum_, the, and Sir John Herschel's letter on Adams's share
  in the discovery of Neptune, 330

Atmosphere, height of the Earth's, 100

Attraction, between the Moon and the Earth, 75;
  between the planets, 148;
  between the Sun and the planets, 144, 148;
  of Jupiter, 248, 249;
  producing precession, 498

Auriga, 414, 489

Aurora borealis, 42

Autolycus, 88

Auwers and star distances, 449;
  and the irregularity in movement of Sirius, 427

Axis, Polar, 196, 497;
  precession and nutation of the Earth's, 492-502


B

Backlund, and Encke's comet, 349, 351

Barnard, Professor E.E., and Saturn, 271, 278, 282;
  and Titan, 294;
  and the comet of 1892, 355;
  and the Milky Way, 475

Beehive, the, 422

Belopolsky, M., and Binaries, 487, 488

Benares meteorite, the, 392

Bessel, and Bradley, 501;
  and the distance of 61 Cygni, 446, 448, 449;
  and the distances of stars, 442;
  and the irregular movements of Sirius, 426;
  receives gold medal of Royal Astronomical Society, 442

Betelgeuze, 209, 418, 419, 482;
  value of velocity of, 484

Biela's comet, and Sir John
  Herschel, 357;
  and the Andromedes, 390

Binaries, spectroscopic, 487

Binocular glass, 27

Biot and the L'Aigle meteorites, 392

Bode's law, 230;
  list of double stars, 435

Bond, Professor, and Saturn's satellites, 296;
  and the nebula in Orion, 469;
  and the third ring of Saturn, 280

Boötes, 422

Bradley, and nutation, 501;
  and the aberration of light, 503;
  his observations of Uranus, 312

Bredichin, Professor, and the tails of comets, 365, 366, 367

Breitenbach iron, the, 397

Bristol Channel, tides in the, 538

Brünnow, Dr., observations on the parallax of 61 Cygni, 449

_Burial of Sir John Moore_, 72

Burnham, Mr., and the orbit of Sirius, 427;
  his additions to the known number of double stars, 439

Butler, Bishop, and probability, 460

Butsura meteorite, 397


C

Cadmium in the Sun, 50

Calais, tides at, 536

Calcium in the Sun, 50

Campbell, Mr., and Argus, 481;
  and Mars, 223

Canals on Mars, 220

Cancri 20, 154

Cancri, z, 154

Cancri, th, 154

Canis major, 419

Canopus, 422

Cape Observatory, 27

Capella, 414, 480, 487

Carboniferous period, 518

Cardiff, tides at, 538

Cassini, J.D., and double stars, 434;
  and Saturn's satellites, 294;
  and the rings of Saturn, 278

Cassiopeia, 412

Castor, 420, 487;
  a binary star, 437;
  revolution of, 437

Catalogues of stars, 310, 311;
  Messier's, 529

Catharina, 92

Centauri, a, 422;
  Dr. Gill's observations of, 451;
  Henderson's measurement of distance of, 442, 451

Ceres, 231, 232, 238;
  and meteorites, 404, 405

Chaco meteorite, the, 398

Chacornac, and the lunar crater Schickard, 90

_Challenger_, the cruise of the, and magnetic particles in
  the Atlantic, 408

Challis, Professor, 326;
  his search for Neptune, 327, 328, 331, 332

Chandler, Mr., and Algol, 485

Charles's Wain, 28

Chepstow, tides at, 538

Chéseaux, discoverer of comet of 1744, 367

Chicago, telescope at Yerkes Observatory, 16

Chladni and the meteorite of Siberia, 392

Chromium in the Sun, 50

Chromosphere, the, 54

Chronometers tested by the Moon, 80

Clairaut and the attraction of planets on comets, 342, 343

Clavius, 91;
  and Jupiter's satellites, 267

Clock, astronomical, 23

Clusters, star, 461-464

Cobalt in the Sun, 50

Coggia's comet, 1874, 337

Colour of light and indication of its source, 46

Colours, the seven primary, 45

Columbiad, the, 401

Columbus, 7

Comets, 112, 149, 250, 336;
  and the spectroscope, 355;
  attraction from planets, 342, 360;
  Biela's, 357;
  Biela's and the Andromedes, 390;
  Clairaut's investigations, 342, 343;
  Coggia's, 337;
  Common's (1882), 354;
  connection of, with shooting star showers, 388;
  constitution of, 336;
  containing sodium and iron, 356;
  Donati's (1858), 353, 358, 366;
  eccentricity of, 360;
  Encke's, 344-352;
  existence of carbon in, 356, 367;
  gravitation and, 343, 348;
  Halley's investigations about, 341-344;
  head or nucleus of, 337;
  Lexell's, 370;
  mass of, 359;
  movements of, 336;
  Newton's explanations of, 338;
  non-periodic, 353-356;
  of 1531, 341;
  of 1607, 341;
  of 1681, 338, 339;
  of 1682, 341;
  of 1744 (Chéseaux's), 367;
  of 1818, 345;
  of 1843, 352;
  of 1866, 388;
  of 1874, 337;
  of 1892, 355;
  origin of, 369;
  parabolic orbits of, 338-340, 360;
  periodic return of, 338-341;
  shape of, 336;
  size of, 337;
  tailless, 370;
  tails of, 337, 361;
  Bredichin's researches, 365;
  Chéseaux's, 367;
  composition of, 365, 369;
  condensation of, 369;
  electricity and, 368;
  gradual growth of, 363;
  law of direction of, 362;
  repelled by the Sun, 364;
  repulsive force of, 364, 368;
  various types of, 365;
  Tebbutt's (1881), 353;
  tenuity of, 357

Common, Dr., constructor of reflectors, 21;
  and the comet of 1882, 354;
  and the nebula in Orion, 469

Cook, Captain, and the transit of Venus, 184

Copeland, Dr., and Schmidt's star, 489;
  and the lunar crater, Tycho, 92;
  and the spectra of nebula, 473;
  and the transit of Venus, 189

Copernicus and Mercury, 156;
  confirmation of his theory by the discovery of Jupiter's satellites, 267;
  his theory of astronomy, 7;
  lunar crater called after him, 89

Copper in the Sun, 50

Cor scorpionis, 423

Corona Borealis, 423, 488

Corona of Sun, during an eclipse, 62-64, 151

Coronium, 64

Cotopaxi and meteorites, 401

Crab, the, 422

Crabtree, and the transit of Venus, 180

Crape ring of Saturn, 281

Craters in the Moon, 83-85, 87-98

Critical velocity, 103, 104, 237

Crown, the, 423

Cryptograph of Huyghens, the, 277

Cygni, b, 439

Cygni 61, annual parallax of, 450;
  Bessel's measurement of distance of, 442, 446, 447;
  Brünnow's observations of, 449;
  distance from the Sun of, 452;
  disturbing influence of, 452;
  double, 446;
  Professor A. Hall's measurement of, 449;
  Professor Pritchard's photographic researches concerning, 449;
  proper motion of, 446;
  Struve's observations of, 448, 449;
  velocity of, 452

Cygnus, 424

Cyrillus, 92

Cysat, and the Belt of Orion, 467


D

D line in solar spectrum, 48

Darwin, Professor G.H., and tidal evolution, 531

Dawes, Professor, and Saturn's third ring, 281

Day, length of, and the Moon, 542;
  and the tides, 541

Deimos, 226, 558

Denebola, 423

Diffraction, 56

Dione, 559

Dispersion of colours, 47

Distances, astronomical, 558, 559

Doerfel, and comets, 339

Dog star (_see_ Sirius)

Dog, the Little, 420

Donati's comet, 353, 358;
  tails, 366

Double stars, 434-440

D Q, 236

Draco, nebula in, 470

Dragon, the, 415

Draper, Professor, and the nebula in Orion, 469

Dunsink Observatory, 12, 184, 447, 449

Dynamical stability, 547;
  theory of Newton, 214

Dynamics and the Earth-Moon system, 546

Dynamics, Galileo the founder of, 10


E

Eagle, the, 424

Earth, The, ancient ideas respecting, 3;
  annual movement of, and the apparent movement of the stars, 507, 512;
  attraction of Jupiter, 319;
  attraction of on Encke's comet, 350;
  attraction of, on the Leonids, 386;
  attraction of Saturn, 319;
  attraction of the Moon, 75, 497;
  attraction of the Sun, 496;
  axial rotation of, 558;
  carboniferous period on, 518;
  change of climate on, 518;
  composition of, 496;
  contact of atmosphere of, with meteors, 377-379;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 558;
  distance of, from Mars, 213;
  distance of, from the Moon, 73, 558;
  distance of, from the Sun, 31, 114, 184, 240, 265, 351, 512, 558;
  energy from rotation of, 540;
  formerly a molten globe, 200, 201;
  geological records and, 517;
  glacial period on, 518;
  gravitation and, 204, 206, 207, 497;
  heat in the interior of, 94, 197, 198, 251, 514;
  how it is measured, 193-196;
  its mass increasing owing to the fall of meteoric matter, 408;
  its oceans once vapour, 251;
  once in immediate proximity to the Moon, 542;
  orbit of, 114;
  orbit of, its elliptic form, 139;
  path of deranged by Venus and Mars, 319;
  periodic time of, 558;
  plane of orbit of, 309;
  polar axis of, 196, 492-502;
  position of, relatively to the Sun and the Moon, 76, 77;
  precession and nutation of axis of, 492-502;
  radius of, 193, 512;
  rotation of, 75, 196, 200, 494, 496;
  shape of, 192, 195, 197, 201, 207;
  size of, compared with Jupiter, 119,
    and with other planets, 119;
  size and weight of, compared with those of the Sun, 30,
    and Moon, 74, 75;
  velocity of, 115, 139, 146, 512,
  and periodic time, 143;
  volcanic outbreaks on, 197,
    and the origin of meteorites, 405;
  weight of, 202, 248,
    as compared with Saturn, 271, 272

Earthquakes, astronomical instruments disturbed by, 24

Eccentricity of planetary ellipses, 136, 211

Eclipse of Jupiter's satellites, 261, 262, 265-267

Ellipse of the Moon, 77-80;
  of the Sun, 53

Eclipses, ancient explanations of, 6;
  calculations of the recurrence of, 79, 80

Ecliptic, the, 5, 233;
  Pole of the, 493, 500, 505

Electric Light, the, 44

Ellipse, the, 136;
  eccentricity of, 137;
  focus of, 137;
  Kepler's discoveries respecting, 136, 138, 142-144, 505;
  the form which the orbit of a planet takes, 136;
  the parallactic, 444;
  variety of form of, 139

Enceladus, 559

Encke, and the distance of the Sun from the Earth, 147, 184;
  his comet, 344-352

Encke's comet, 344-352;
  approach to Jupiter of, 349;
  and Mercury, 349;
  and the Sun, 346;
  diminution in periodic time of, 351;
  distance from Mercury of, 347;
  disturbed by the Earth, 350,
    and by Mercury, 348;
  irregularities of, 347, 351;
  orbit of, 346;
  periodical return of, 351;
  Von Asten's calculations concerning, 349-350

Energy supplying the tides, 539

Ensisheim meteorite, the, 393

Equatorial diameter, 196, 497;
  telescope, 14

Eratosthenes, 89

Eros, 236

Eruptions, 197

Evening star, 109, 169

Eye, structure of the, 10


F

Faculæ of the Sun, 37

Fire ball of 1869, 375

Fire balls, 374

"Fixed" stars, 503

Flamsteed, first Astronomer-Royal, 311;
  his _Historia Coelestis_, 311

Focus of planetary ellipse, 137-139

Fomalhaut, 413

Fraunhofer, 478

Fraunhofer lines, 48

Fundy, Bay of, tides in, 538


G

Galileo, achievements of, 10;
  and Jupiter's satellites, 267;
  and Saturn's rings, 273, 274;
  and the Pleiades, 418

Galle, Dr., and Neptune, 328-330

Gassendi, and the transit of Mercury, 164;
  and the transit of Venus, 178;
  lunar crater named after him, 90

Gauss, and the minor planet Ceres, 232

Gemini, constellation of, 303, 420

Geminids, the, 400

Geologists and the lapse of time, 453

Geometers, Oriental, 5

Geometry, cultivation by the ancients of, 6

George III. and Sir W. Herschel, 299, 306

Giant's Causeway, 407

Gill, Dr. D., 27;
  and Juno, 243;
  and the minor planets, 242;
  and the parallax of a Centauri, 451;
  and the parallax of Mars, 214

Glacial period, 518

Gravitation, law of, 122-149;
  and binary stars, 437;
  and precession, 497;
  and the Earth's axis, 495, 497, 499;
  and the parabolic path of comets, 340;
  and the periodical return of comets, 343;
  and the weight of the Earth, 203, 204;
  illustrated by experiments, 123, 124, 127, 129-132;
  its discovery aided by lunar observations, 108, 125;
  its influence on the satellites, 149;
  its influence on stars, 149;
  its influence on tides, 149;
  Le Verrier's triumphant proof of, 330;
  Newton's discoveries, 125, 126, 147;
  on the Moon, 96;
  universality amongst the heavenly bodies, 128, 373

Great Bear, 27, 28, 241;
  configuration, 410;
  double star in the, 438;
  positions of, 409, 411

Green, Mr., and Mars, 220

Greenwich Observatory, 26, 311

Griffiths, Mr., and Jupiter, 252

Grimaldi, 90

Grubb, Sir Howard, 14

"Guards," the, 412

_Gulliver's Travels_ and the satellites of Mars, 228


H

Hadley's observations of Saturn, 282

Hall, Professor Asaph, and the satellites of Mars, 225

Halley, and the periodicity of comets, 341-343;
  and the transit of Venus, 180

Heat, bearings on astronomy, 513;
  in the interior of the Earth, 197-199, 514;
  of the Sun, 515-526

Heliometer, the, 243

Helium, 55

Henderson, and the distance of a Centauri, 442, 451

Hercules, star cluster in, 269, 462

Herodotus (lunar crater), 90

Herschel, Caroline, 299, 465

Herschel, Sir John, address to British Association, 328;
  address on the presentation of gold medal to Bessel, 443;
  and Biela's comet, 357;
  and nebulæ, 464;
  letter to _Athenoeum_ on Adams's share in the discovery of
    Neptune, 330

Herschel, Sir W., and double stars, 435, 436;
  and Saturn, 279;
  and Saturn's satellites, 295;
  and the Empress Catherine, 301;
  and the movement of solar system towards Lyra, 457;
  discovery of satellite of Uranus by, 308, 309;
  discovery of Uranus by, 305, 308;
  early life of, 299;
  friendship with Sir W. Watson of 302;
  he makes his own telescopes, 301;
  "King's Astronomer," 307;
  method of making his telescopes, 302;
  musical talent of, 299;
  organist of Octagon Chapel, Bath, 300;
  pardon for desertion from George III., 299;
  passion for astronomy of, 300, 301;
  relinquishes musical profession, 307;
  sidereal aggregation theory of, 529;
  study of the nebulæ by, 464-465, 529

Herschelian telescope, 19

_Historia Coelestis_, 311

Hoedi, the, 414

Holmes's, Mr., comet (1892), 355

Horrocks, and the transit of Venus, 179

Howard, Mr., and the Benares meteorite, 392

Huggins, Sir W., 479, 483;
  and nebulæ, 472

Huyghens, and Saturn's rings, 275-278;
  discovers first satellite of Saturn, 293

Hyades, the, 419

Hydrogen in Sirius and Vega, 479;
  in the Sun, 50

Hyginus, 93

Hyperion, 559


I

Iapetus, 559

Iberians, the, 3

Inquisition, the, and Galileo, 10

Iris, 242

Iron, dust in the Arctic regions, 408;
  in the Sun, 50;
  of meteorites, the, 396;
  spectrum of, 50


J

Janssen, M., 34, 53;
  and the transit of Venus, 177

Juno, 233, 238

Jupiter, ancient study of, 6;
  and the Leonids, 386;
  attraction of, 248;
  axial rotation of, 558;
  belts of, 252;
  brilliancy of, 257;
  composition of, 250;
  covered with an atmosphere of clouds, 253, 254;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 247, 558;
  distance from the Earth of, 110, 111;
  distance from the Sun of, 246, 558;
  habitability of, 257;
  heat received from the Sun by, 256;
  internal heat of, 252, 256, 515;
  lack of permanent features of, 253;
  lack of solidity of, 248, 253, 254;
  moment of momentum of, 554, 555;
  occultation of, 255;
  orbit of, 114, 115, 246;
  path of, perturbed by the attraction of Saturn, 316;
  periodic time of, 558;
  a planet, or "wanderer," 111;
  red spot in 1878, 253;
  revolution of, 246;
  rotation of, 201, 202;
  satellites of, 247, 249, 257-261, 265, 559;
  satellites of, and gravitation, 266;
  satellites of, and the Copernican theory, 267;
  shadow from satellites of, 257;
  shape of, 201, 202, 247, 252;
  size of, compared with the Earth, 19, 246, 248,
    and other planets, 114;
  and the Sun, 114;
  storms on, 256;
  tides on, 555;
  weight of, 248, 250,
    and Encke's comet, 350


K

Keeler, Professor, and Saturn's ring, 288

Kempf, Dr., and the Sun's velocity, 484

Kepler, and comets, 360;
  and laws of planetary motion, 10;
  and meteors, 386;
  and the orbit of Mars, 209;
  explanation of his laws, 147, 148, 533;
  his discovery of the shape of the planetary orbits, 136, 138;
  his first planetary law, 138;
  lunar crater called after him, 90;
  prediction of the transit of Venus and Mercury, 163, 178;
  second law, 141;
  third law, 142

Kids, the, 414

Kirchhoff, and spectrum analysis, 478

Kirkwood, Professor, and the movements of Saturn's satellites, 296

Klinkerfues, Professor, 390


L

Lagrange, and the theory of planetary perturbation, 320-322;
  his assumption of planetary rigidity, 531

L'Aigle meteorites, the, 392

Lalande, and Neptune, 332, 333

Landscapes, lunar, 98

Lane, Mr. J. Homer, 522

Laplace, and the nebular theory, 526;
  and the satellites of Jupiter, 266;
  and the theory of planetary perturbation, 320

Lassell, Mr., and Saturn's eighth satellite, 296;
  discovers Neptune's satellite, 334

Law of gravitation (_see_ Gravitation)

Laws of Planetary Motion (_see_ Planetary Motion)

Lead in the Sun, 50

Ledger, Mr., and Mercury, 163

Leibnitz, lunar mountains named after him, 93

Lemonnier, and Uranus, 312

Leo, and shooting stars, 380, 420

Leonids, attractions of planets on, 386;
  breadth of stream of, 387;
  change of shape of, 383;
  decrease of, 385;
  enormous number of, 382;
  historical records, 383;
  length of stream of, 387;
  Le Verrier, and the cause of their introduction into the solar
    system, 388;
  meteor shoal of, 382;
  periodic return of, 382;
  their connection with comets and Professor, Schiaparelli, 388

Leonis g, value of velocity of, 484

Leverage by equatorial protuberance, 498

Le Verrier, and Mars, 214;
  and the discovery of Neptune, 324-332;
  and the introduction of the Leonids into the solar system, 388;
  and the weight of Mercury, 349

Lexell's comet, 370

Libration, 84

Lick Observatory, 16

Light, aberration of, 503-512;
  velocity of, 261, 262, 265, 505, 512

Linné, 87, 94

Lion, the, 420, 421

Little Bear, the, 412

Little Dog, the, 420

Livy, and meteorites, 393

Lloyd, Provost, 407

Lockyer, Sir Norman, and Betelgeuze, 482;
  and solar light, 52

London, tides at, 538

Louvain, F. Terby, and Titan, 295

Lowell, Mr., and Mercury, 165

Lunar tides, 548, 549

Lyra, motion of solar system towards, 459

Lyre, the, 424;
  Nebula in, 469

Lyrids, the, 400


M

Mädler, and the lunar craters, 88, 90, 91

Magellanic clouds, 463

Magnesium, colour of flame from, 46;
  in the Sun, 50

Magnetism, connection with Sun spots, 42

Manganese in the Sun, 50

Maraldi, and the rings of Saturn, 279

Mare crisium, 83;
  foecunditatis, 83;
  humorum, 83;
  imbrium, 83, 98;
  nectaris 83;
  nubium, 83;
  serenitatis, 83;
  tranquillitatis, 83;
  vaporum, 83

Mars, ancient study of, 6;
  appearance of, through the telescope, 218;
  atmosphere of, 222;
  axial rotation of, 558;
  canals on, 220;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 558;
  distance, from the Earth of, 213;
  distance from the Sun of, 213, 558;
  gravitation on, 225;
  Le Verrier's discovery of, 214;
  life improbable on, 224;
  marking on, 218;
  movements of, 211-213;
  opposition of, 209-211;
  orbit of, 116, 209, 210, 213;
  orbit of, and the laws of Kepler, 209;
  parallax (1877), and Dr. D. Gill, 214;
  periodic time of, 558;
  a planet or "wanderer," 111;
  "Polar Caps" on, 218, 219;
  proximity to the Earth of, 110;
  rising and setting of, 209;
  rotation of, 218;
  satellites of, 225-228, 558;
  size of compared with other planets, 116, 216;
  tides on, 551;
  water and ice on, 219, 224

Maximilian, Emperor, 393

Mayer, Tobias, and Uranus, 312

Measurement of the Earth, 193-196

Mediterranean, tides in the, 537

Mercury, ancient study of, 6;
  antiquity of its discovery, 155-157;
  atmosphere of, 166;
  attraction on comets of, 347;
  climate of, 163;
  comparative proximity to the Earth of, 111;
  composition of, 160;
  crescent-shaped, 160;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 558;
  distance from the Sun of, 151, 558;
  habitability of, 163;
  movement of, 160, 161;
  its elliptic form, 139, 161;
  orbit of, 114;
  period of revolution of, 161;
  periodic appearances of, 158;
  periodic time of, 558;
  perturbations of, 350;
  a planet or "wanderer," 111;
  revolution of, 165;
  rotation of, and Professor Schiaparelli, 165;
  size of, compared with other planets, 116;
  surface of, 162;
  transit of, 152;
  transit of, and Gassendi's observations, 164;
  transit of, predicted by Kepler, 163;
  velocity of, 162;
  weight of, 166, 349

Meridian circle, 22, 24

Messier's Catalogue of Stars, 529

Meteors (_see_ Stars, shooting)

Meteorites, 391;
  Alban Mount, 393;
  ancient accounts, 392, 393;
  Benares, 392;
  Butsura, 397;
  Chaco, 398;
  characteristics of, 397;
  Chladni's account of discovery in Siberia, 392;
  composition of, 397-399;
  Ensisheim (1492), 393;
  Hindoo account of, 391;
  L'Aigle, 392;
  not connected with comets, 400;
  not connected with star showers, 400;
  Orgueil, 399;
  origin, 400-408;
  Ovifak, 407;
  Rowton, 395-396;
  Wold Cottage, 392

Micrometer, 86

Milky Way, 462-3, 474-6

Mimas, 559

Minor planets, 229-244

Mira Ceti, 430, 482

Mizar, 438, 486

Moment of momentum, the, 552-554

Month of one day, 547

Moon, The, absence of air on, 85, 99;
  absence of heat on, 95;
  agent in causing the tides, 70, 535-537;
  ancient discoveries respecting, 5;
  apparent size of, 73;
  attraction to the Earth of, 75;
  brightness of, as compared with that of the Sun, 71;
  changes during the month of, 71, 74;
  chart of surface of, 81;
  craters on, 83, 84, 87-98, 514;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 558;
  distance from the Earth of, 73, 75, 568;
  eclipses of, 6, 77-80;
  illustration of the law of gravitation, 96, 131, 133;
  landscapes on, 98;
  life impossible on, 99;
  measuring heights of mountains, etc., of, 85, 86;
  micrometer, 86; motion of, 75;
  mountains on, 83, 85, 88, 89, 91, 93;
  phases of, 71, 76;
  plane of orbit of, 310, 500, 501;
  poets and artists and, 72;
  pole, 500;
  possibility of ejecting meteorites, 402;
  possibly fractured off from the earth, 543;
  prehistoric tides on, 548, 549;
  produces precession, 497-499;
  proximity to the Earth of, 73, 75;
  receding from the Earth, 545;
  relative position of with regard to the Earth and the Sun, 76, 77;
  revolution of, round the Earth, 75, 76, 558;
  "seas" on, 82, 83;
  shadows of, 85;
  size of, compared with that of the Earth, 74;
  test for chronometers, a, 80;
  thraldom of terrestrial tides, 549;
  waterless, 100;
  weather not a affected by the phases of, 82;
  weight of, 74

Motion, laws of planetary, 138, 141, 142, 147, 148

Mountains of the Moon, 83, 85, 93


N

Nasmyth, Mr., and the formation of lunar craters, 95

Natural History Museum, meteorites, 394

_Nautical Almanack_, 189

Neap Tides, 538

Nebula, in Andromeda, 469;
  annular, in Lyra, 469;
  in Orion, 269, 461, 466-469;
  colour of, 468;
  magnitude of, 468;
  nature of, 467;
  planetary, in Draco, 470;
  simplest type of a, 528;
  various grades of, 528

Nebulæ, 464-472;
  condensation, 528;
  distances of, 464;
  double, 470;
  Herschel's labours respecting, 464-465, 528, 529;
  number of, 466;
  planetary, 470;
  self-luminous, 464;
  smallest greater than the Sun, 464;
  spiral, 470

Nebular theory, the, 526

Neptune, 112;
  Adams's researches, 324-326, 332;
  Challis's observations of, 326-328;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 333, 558;
  disc of, 332;
  discovery (1846) of, 315;
  distance from the Sun of, 334, 558;
  Lalande's observations of, 332, 333;
  Le Verrier's calculations, 324-332;
  moment of momentum of, 554;
  orbit of, 117;
  periodic time of, 558;
  revolution of, 334;
  rotation of uncertain, 333;
  satellite of, discovered by Mr. Lassell, 559;
  size of, compared with other planets, 119;
  vaporous atmosphere of, 333;
  weight of, 333

Newall, Mr. H.F., and Capella, 487;
  and the values of velocity of stars, 483

Newcomb, Professor, 9, 264, 267, 522

Newton, Professor, and meteoric showers, 377, 384

Newton, Sir Isaac, discovery of gravitation verified Kepler's laws, 144;
  dynamical theory, 214;
  illustrations of his teaching, 144-147;
  law of gravitation and, 125, 126, 537;
  parabolic path of comets and, 338-340;
  reflecting telescope, 19;
  weight of the Earth and, 203

Nickel in the Sun, 50

Nineveh, astronomers of, 156

Nordenskjöld, and the Ovifak meteorite, 407

Nova Cygni, 431;
  brilliancy of, 454;
  decline of, 455;
  distance of, 456;
  parallax of, 455

November meteors, 376, 377, 379

Nutation, and Bradley, 501


O

Oberon, 309, 559

Object-glasses, 11, 12, 14, 16, 19

Observatories, 9-28

Observatory, Cape of Good Hope, 27;
  Dunsink, 12, 184;
  Greenwich, 26, 314;
  Lick, 16;
  Paris, 22;
  Uraniborg, 10;
  Vienna, 14;
  Washington, 226;
  Yerkes, 16

Occultation, 102, 215

Oceanus Procellarum, 83

Opera-glass, 27, 28

Opposition of Mars, 209

Orbital moment of momentum, 552

Orbits of planets, 114, 115, 117;
  dimensions, 139-143;
  elliptical form, 138-140;
  minor planets, 232, 234, 239;
  not exactly circles, 135;
  of satellites of Uranus, 310;
  Sun the common focus, 139

Orgueil meteorite, the, 399

Orion, 4, 418

Orion, belt of, 418, 467;
  brilliancy of, 418;
  nebula in, 269, 461, 466-469

Orionis, a, 418, 482

Orionis, th, a multiple star, 318, 467

Ovifak meteorite, the, 407


P

Palisa and the minor planets, 234

Pallas, 233, 238

Parabolic path of comets, 338-340

Parallactic ellipse, 444

Parallax, 181, 182, 214, 443;
  of stars, 507

Paris telescope, 22, 23

Pegasus, great square of, 413, 414

Peg-top, the, and the rotation of the Earth, 494

Pendulum for determining the force of the Earth's attraction, 205

Penumbra of Sun-spot, 51

Perihelion, 163

Periodic times of planets, 139-143, 558

Periodicity of Sun-spots, 41

Perseids, 400

Perseus, 415, 416, 429;
  sword-handle, 462

Perturbation, planetary, 317-324, 346

Perturbations, theory of, 296

Petavius, 93

Peters, Professor, and charts of minor planets, 234;
  and the derangement of Sirius, 427

Phases of the Moon, 71, 76

Phobos, 226, 551, 558

Photography, and practical astronomy, 25;
  and the distance of 61 Cygni, 449;
  Dr. Roberts and the nebula in Andromeda, 469;
  Mr. Common and the nebula in Orion, 469;
  Sir W. Huggins and the spectra of nebulæ, 473

Photosphere, the, 37, 54

Physical nature of the stars, 477

Piazzi, discoverer of the first known minor planet, 203

Pickering, Professor, 218, 220, 255, 265;
  and Betelgeuze, 482;
  and planetary nebulæ, 474;
  and Saturn's satellites, 296;
  and spectroscopic binaries, 486, 487

Pico, 89

Planetary motion, Kepler's laws of, 138, 141, 142, 147, 148

Planetary nebulæ, 470

Planetary perturbation, 317-324

Planets, ancient ideas respecting, 2, 6;
  approximate number of, 112;
  attract each other, 148, 317;
  attracted by comets,360;
  Bode's law, 230;
  comparative sizes of, 118, 119;
  distance of, from the Earth, 109-111;
  distance of, from the Sun, 558;
  how distinguished from stars, 111;
  irregularity of motions of, 317-324;
  Lagrange's theory of rigidity of, 531;
  light of, derived from the Sun, 113;
  minor, 229-244;
  orbits of the four giant, 117;
  orbits of the four interior, 114;
  orbits have their focus in the centre of the Sun, 139;
  orbits not exactly circles, 135;
  orbits take the form of an ellipse, 136-138;
  origin of, as suggested by the nebular theory, 526;
  periodic times of, 139-143, 558;
  relative distances of, 229;
  uniformity of direction in their revolution, 120, 322;
  velocity of, 139-142, 144, 146, 237

Plato (lunar crater), 89

Pleiades, 241, 416;
  invisible in the summer, 416

Pliny, the tides and the Moon, 535

Plough, the, 28

Pogson, Mr., 390

Pointers in the Great Bear, 28, 411

Polar axis, 196

Polar caps on Mars, 218, 219

Pole, the, distance of from Pole Star lessening, 494;
  elevation of, 195;
  movement of, 492;
  near a Draconis, 494;
  near Vega or a Lyra, 494

Pole Star, 194;
  belongs to the Little Bear, 412;
  distance of, from the pole of the heavens, 412, 492, 494;
  position of, 411;
  slow motion of, 412

Pollux, 420, 480;
  value of velocity of, 484

Pons, and the comet of 1818, 345

Posidonius, 87

Potassium in the Sun, 50

Præsepe, 422

Precession and nutation of the Earth's axis, 492-502

Proctor, and the stars in Argelander's atlas, 476

Prism, the, 45;
  its analysing power, 46

Pritchard, Professor, stellar photographic researches of, 449

Procyon, 420;
  value of velocity of, 484

Prominences on the Sun, 53-59

Ptolemy, his theory of astronomy, 6;
  lunar crater named after him, 92


Q

Quarantids, the, 400


R

Radius of the Earth, 193, 512

Rainbow, the, 45

Ram, the, 420

Reflectors, 19, 21, 25

Refraction by the prism, 45

Refractors, 11, 14, 16

Regulus, 421, 479

Reservoir formed from tidal water, 538

Retina, the, and the telescope, 10, 11

Rhea, 559

Rigel, 418, 420, 480

Rigidity of the planets, 532, 533

Roberts, Dr. Isaac, and the nebula in Andromeda, 469;
  and the nebula in Orion, 469

Roemer, and the velocity of light, 261

Romance, planet of, 151-154

Rosse telescope, the, 19, 20, 468, 470

Rotational moment of momentum, 553

Rowland, Professor, and spectral lines, 491

Rowton Siderite, 395

Royal Astronomical Society and Bessel, 442


S

Sappho, 242

Satellites of Jupiter, 249, 250, 257-261, 266, 559;
  confirmation of the Copernican theory, 267

Satellites of Mars, 209, 225-228, 551, 558

Satellites of Neptune, 334, 559

Satellites of Saturn, 559;
  Bond's discoveries, 296;
  Cassini's discoveries, 294;
  distances, 559;
  Herschel's discoveries, 295;
  Huyghens' discovery, 293;
  Kirkwood's deduction, 296;
  Lassell's deduction, 296;
  movements, 296;
  origin as suggested by the nebular theory, 526

Satellites of Uranus, 308, 309, 310, 559

Saturn, ancient study of, 6;
  attraction on Uranus, 322;
  axial rotation of, 558;
  beauty of, 209;
  comparative proximity to the Earth of, 110;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 271, 558;
  distance of, from the Sun, 268, 271, 558;
  elliptic path of, 271;
  gravitation paramount, 283;
  internal heat of, 272, 515;
  Leonids and, 386;
  low density of, 272;
  moment of momentum of, 554;
  motion of, 271;
  orbit of, 117, 118;
  path of, perturbed by the attraction of Jupiter, 316;
  periodic time of, 558;
  period of revolution of, 269;
  picturesqueness of, 291;
  position of, in the solar system, 269;
  rings of, 269;
  rings, Bonds discovery, 280;
  rings, Cassini's discovery, 278;
  rings, consistency, 286;
  rings, Dawes's discovery, 281;
  rings, Galileo's discovery, 273, 274;
  rings, Hadley's observations, 282;
  rings, Herschel's researches, 279;
  rings, Huyghens' discovery, 275-278;
  rings, Keeler's measurement of the rotation, 288;
  rings, Maraldi's researches, 279;
  rings, rotation of, 285, 288;
  rings, spectrum of, 291;
  rings, Trouvelot's drawing, 278;
  satellites of, 293, 294, 295, 296, 559;
  size of, compared with other planets, 119, 269, 272;
  spectrum of, 291;
  unequal in appearance to Mars and Venus, 269;
  velocity of, 271;
  weight of, compared with the Earth, 272

Savary and binary stars, 436

Schaeberle, Mr., and Mars, 224

Scheiner, and the values of velocity of stars, 483;
  observations on Sun-spots, 36

Schiaparelli, Professor, and Mars, 220;
  and the connection between shooting-star showers and comets, 388;
  and the rotation of Mercury, 165

Schickard, 90

Schmidt, and Nova Cygni, 454, 489;
  and the crater Linné, 87;
  and the Leibnitz Mountains, 93

Schröter, and the crater Posidonius, 87

Schwabe, and Sun-spots, 40

Seas in the Moon, 82

Secchi, and stellar spectra, 479

Shoal of shooting stars, 377;
  dimensions, 377

Shooting stars (_see_ Stars, shooting)

Sickle, the, 421

Sidereal aggregation theory of Sir W. Herschel, 529

Siderite, Rowton, 395

Sinus Iridum, 83

Sirius, change in position of, 425;
  companion of, 427, 428;
  exceptional lustre of, 110;
  irregularities of movement of, 426;
  larger than the Sun, 110;
  most brilliant star, 419;
  periodical appearances of, 157;
  proper motion of, 425;
  spectrum of, 479;
  velocity of, 426;
  weight of, 427

Smyth, Professor C.P., 493

Sodium, colour of flame from, 49;
  in the Sun, 50

Solar corona, prominences etc. (_see under_ Sun)

Solar system, 107-121;
  Copernican exposition of the, 7;
  influence of gravitation on, 149;
  information respecting, obtained by observing the transit of Venus, 174;
  island in the universe, 121;
  minor planets, 229-244;
  moment of momentum, 554;
  movement of, towards Lyra, 457;
  origin of, as suggested by the nebular theory, 526;
  position of Saturn and Uranus in, 297, 305

South, Sir James, 12

Spectra of stars, 479

Spectro-heliograph, 58

Spectroscope, 43-56;
  detection of iron in the Sun by the, 50

Spectroscopic binaries, 487

Spectrum analysis, 47;
  dark lines, 49, 50;
  gaseous nebulæ, 474;
  line D, 48, 49

Speculum, the Rosse, 20

Spica, 423, 487

Spider-threads for adjusting the micrometer, 86;
  for sighting telescopes, 22

Spots on the Sun, 36-43;
  connection with magnetism, 42;
  cycles, 41;
  duration, 41;
  epochs of maximum, 42;
  motion, 36;
  period of revolution, 40;
  Scheiner's observations, 36;
  zones in which they occur, 39

Star clusters, 461-464;
  in Hercules, 462;
  in Perseus, 462

Stars, apparent movements due to precession, nutation, and aberration, 504;
  approximate number of, 28;
  attraction inappreciable, 316;
  catalogues of, 310, 311, 409, 431;
  charts of, 325, 328;
  circular movement of, 505-507

Stars, distances of, 441;
  Bessel's labours, 442-449;
  Henderson's labours, 442;
  method of measuring, 443-445;
  Struve's work, 442, 448, 449;
  parallactic ellipse, 444-449

Stars, double, 434;
  Bode's list, 435;
  Burnham's additions, 439;
  Cassini, 434;
  Herschel, 435, 436;
  measurement, 435, 436;
  revolution, 436;
  Savary, 436;
  shape of orbit, 436;
  variation in colour, 438

Stars, elliptic movement of, 506;
  gravitation and, 149;
  how distinguished from planets, 111;
  physical nature of, 477;
  probability of their possessing a planetary system, 121;
  real and apparent movements of, 504;
  really suns, 32, 121

Stars, shooting, attractions of the planets, 386;
  connection with comets, 388-390;
  countless in number, 372;
  dimensions of shoal, 377;
  features of, 373;
  length of orbit, 387;
  orbit, 378;
  orbit, gradual change, 386;
  period of revolution, 384;
  periodic return, 378, 379;
  shower of November, 1866, 377, 379-380;
  shower of November, 1866, and Professor Adams, 384, 386;
  shower of November, 1866, radiation of tracks from Leo, 380;
  shower of November, 1872, 389;
  showers, 376;
  showers and Professor Newton, 377;
  track, 377;
  transformed into vapour by friction with the Earth's
    atmosphere, 374, 376;
  velocity, 373, 386

Stars, spectra of, 479;
  teaching of ancients respecting, 3;
  temperature of, 515;
  temporary, 430, 488;
  values of velocity of, 484;
  variable, 429

Stoney, Dr. G.J., 387

Strontium, flame from, 46;
  in the Sun, 50

Struve, Otto, and the distance of Vega, 442, 447;
  and the distance of 61 Cygni, 448, 449

Sun, The, and the velocity of light, 265;
  apparent size of, as seen from the planets, 117, 118;
  as a star, 32;
  axial rotation of, 558;
  compared with the Earth, 29;
  connection of, with the seasons, 4;
  corona of, during eclipse, 62-64;
  density of, 65, 558;
  diameter of, 558;
  distance of, from Mars, 213;
  distance of, from Saturn, 271;
  distance of, from the Earth, 31, 114, 184, 240, 558;
  eclipse of, 6, 53;
  ellipticity of, 558;
  faculæ on surface of, 37;
  focus of planets' orbits, 138;
  gradually parting with its heat, 95;
  granules on surface of, 34;
  heat of, and its sources, 515-526;
  heat of, thrown on Jupiter, 256;
  minor planets and, 240;
  movement of, towards Lyra, 457;
  nebular theory of its heat, 526;
  photographed, 34;
  precession of the Earth's axis, 497;
  prominences of, 53-59;
  relation of, to the Moon, 71;
  rising and setting of, 2;
  rotation of, 40, 201;
  size of, 29;
  spectrum of, 48;
  spots on, 36-43;
  spots, connection with magnetism, 42;
  storms and convulsions on, 42, 43;
  surface of, gaseous matter, 34;
  surface of, mottled, 34;
  teaching of early astronomers concerning, 3-7;
  temperature of, 30, 31, 516;
  texture of, 34;
  tides on, 530;
  velocity of, 484;
  weight of, compared with Jupiter, 250, 350;
  zodiacal light and, 67;
  zones on the surface of, 39

Sunbeam, revelations of a, 44

Swan, the, 424, 439, 445

Sword-handle of Perseus, 462

Syrtis major, 222


T

Taurus, constellation of, 231, 419

Tebbutt's comet, 353

Telescope, construction of the first, 10;
  equatorial (Dunsink), 12-14, 185;
  Greenwich, 26;
  Herschelian, 19;
  Lick, 16, 19;
  Paris, 22, 23;
  reflecting, 19, 21;
  refracting, 11, 14;
  Rosse, 19, 20, 468, 470;
  sighting of a, 23;
  structure of the eye illustrates the principle of the, 10;
  Vienna, 14-16;
  Washington, 226;
  Yerkes, 16

Temporary stars, 430, 488

Tethys, 559

Theophilus, 92

Tides, The, actual energy derived from the Earth, 539;
  affected by the law of gravitation, 149, 535;
  affected by the Moon, 70, 535-537;
  at Bay of Fundy, 538;
  at Cardiff, 538;
  at Chepstow, 538;
  at London, 538;
  at St. Helena, 538;
  excited by the Sun, 537;
  formation of currents, 538;
  in Bristol Channel, 538;
  in Mediterranean, 537;
  in mid-ocean, 538;
  Jupiter and, 552;
  length of the day and, 541;
  lunar, 548, 549;
  moment of momentum and, 552;
  neap, 537;
  rotation of the Earth, and revolution of the Moon, 549;
  satellites of Mars, 551;
  solar, 550;
  spring, 537;
  variations in, 538;
  waste of water power, 538;
  work effected, 539

Tin in the Sun, 50

Titan, 294, 295, 559

Titania, 309, 559

Transit of Mercury, 152, 163, 164

Transit of Venus, 152;
  Captain Cook, 184;
  Copeland's observations of, 189;
  Crabtree's observations of, 180;
  Gassendi's observations of, 178;
  Halley's method, 180, 181;
  Horrocks' observations of, 179, 180;
  importance of, 173;
  Kepler's prediction of, 163;
  observations of, at Dunsink, 184-188

Transit of Vulcan, 152-153

Triesnecker, 84, 93

Trouvelot, Mr. L., and Saturn's rings, 278

Tschermak, and the origin of meteorites, 400, 401

Tycho (lunar crater), 91

Tycho Brahe, and the Observatory of Uraniborg, 9, 10, 430


U

Umbra of Sun-spot, 51

Umbriel, 309, 559

Unstable dynamical equilibrium, 543

Uraniborg, Observatory of, 10

Uranus, 112;
  attraction of Saturn, 322;
  Bradley's observations of, 312;
  composition of, 308;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 308, 558;
  diameter of orbit of, 305;
  disc of, 308;
  discovery of, by Herschel, 305, 308;
  distance from Sun of, 558;
  ellipse of, 313;
  first taken for a comet, 304;
  Flamsteed's observations of, 311, 312;
  formerly regarded as a star, 311, 312;
  investigations to discover a planet outside the orbit, 323-324;
  irregular motion of, 314, 323;
  Lemonnier's observations of, 312;
  Leonids and, 386;
  Mayer's observations of, 312;
  moment of momentum of, 554;
  orbit of, 117, 310;
  periodic time of, 558;
  period of revolution of, 312;
  rotation of, 308;
  satellites of, 559;
  satellites, discovery by Herschel, 308;
  satellites, movement nearly circular, 309;
  satellites, periodical movements, 309;
  satellites, plane of orbits, 309, 310;
  size of compared with the Earth, 308;
  and with other planets, 119;
  subject to another attraction besides the Sun, 314

Ursa major (_see_ Great Bear)


V

Variable Stars, 429

Vega, 414, 423, 424, 479;
  Struve's measurement of, 442

Velocity, of light, 261, 262, 265;
  of light, laws dependent upon, 511;
  of planets, 140-143, 146, 237;
  of stars, values of, 483-4

Venus, ancient study of, 6;
  aspects of, 171;
  atmosphere of, 189;
  brilliancy of, 168;
  density of, 558;
  diameter of, 191, 558;
  distance of, from the Sun, 191, 558;
  habitability of, 173;
  movement of, 168;
  neighbour to the Earth, 109;
  orbit of, 114, 135;
  orbit form of, 139, 191;
  periodic time of, 558;
  a planet or "wanderer," 111;
  rotation of, 191;
  shape of, 169;
  size of, compared with other planets, 116, 169;
  surface of, 171;
  transit of, 152, 176-190;
  transit, importance of, 173;
  transit predicted by Kepler, 163;
  velocity and periodic time of, 142, 143, 191;
  view of the ancients about, 157

Vesta, 233, 238

Victoria, 242

Vienna telescope, 14-16

Virgo, 423

Vogel and Algol, 485;
  and Spica, 486, 487;
  and the spectra of the stars, 479, 483

Volcanic origin of meteorites, 400;
  outbreaks on the Earth, 197

Von Asten and Encke's comet, 349, 350;
  and the distance of the Sun, 351;
  and the weight of Mercury, 166

Vortex rings, 469

Vulcan, 152, 153;
  and the Sun, 3


W

Wargentin, 90

Watson, Professor, and Mercury, 154

Watson, Sir William, friendship with Herschel, 302

Wave-lengths, 60

Weather, not affected by the Moon, 82

Wilson, Mr. W.E., and the nebula in Orion, 469

Witt, Herr G., and Eros, 236

Wold Cottage meteorite, the, 392

Wright, Thomas, and the Milky Way, 474


Y

"Year of Stars," the, 377

Yerkes Observatory, Chicago, 16

Young, Professor, account of a marvellous Sun-prominence, 42;
  and Sun-spots, 38;
  observations on magnetic storms, 39


Z

Zeeman, Dr., and spectral lines, 491

Zinc in the Sun, 50

Zodiac, the, 5

Zodiacal light, 67

Zone of minor planets, 234


PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] It may, however, be remarked that a star is never _seen_ to set, as,
owing to our atmosphere, it ceases to be visible before it reaches the
horizon.

[2] "Popular Astronomy," p. 66.

[3] _Limb_ is the word used by astronomers to denote the _edge_ or
circumference of the apparent disc of a heavenly body.

[4] "The Sun," p. 119.

[5] It has been frequently stated that the outburst in 1859, witnessed
by Carrington and Hodgson, was immediately followed by an unusually
intense magnetic storm, but the records at Kew and Greenwich show that
the magnetic disturbances on that day were of a very trivial character.

[6] Some ungainly critic has observed that the poet himself seems to
have felt a doubt on the matter, because he has supplemented the dubious
moonbeams by the "lantern dimly burning." The more generous, if somewhat
a sanguine remark has been also made, that "the time will come when the
evidence of this poem will prevail over any astronomical calculations."

[7] This sketch has been copied by permission from the very beautiful
view in Messrs. Nasmyth and Carpenter's book, of which it forms Plate
XI. So have also the other illustrations of lunar scenery in Plates
VIII., IX. The photographs were obtained by Mr. Nasmyth from models
carefully constructed from his drawings to illustrate the features on
the moon. During the last twenty years photography has completely
superseded drawing by eye in the delineation of lunar objects. Long
series of magnificent photographs of lunar scenery have been published
by the Paris and Lick Observatories.

[8] At the British Association's meeting at Cardiff in 1892, Prof.
Copeland exhibited a model of the moon, on which the appearance of the
streaks near full moon was perfectly shown by means of small spheres of
transparent glass attached to the surface.

[9] The duration of an occultation, or, in other words, the length of
time during which the moon hides the star, would be slightly shorter
than the computed time, if the moon had an atmosphere capable of
sensibly refracting the light from the star. But, so far, our
observations do not indicate this with certainty.

[10] I owe my knowledge of this subject to Dr. G. Johnstone Stoney,
F.R.S. There has been some controversy as to who originated the
ingenious and instructive doctrine here sketched.

[11] The space described by a falling body is proportional to the
product of the force and the square of the time. The force varies
inversely as the square of the distance from the earth, so that the
space will vary as the square of the time, and inversely as the square
of the distance. If, therefore, the distance be increased sixty-fold,
the time must also be increased sixty-fold, if the space fallen through
is to remain the same.

[12] See Newcomb's "Popular Astronomy," p. 78.

[13] Recent investigation by Newcomb on the motion of Mercury have led
to the result that the hypothesis of a planet or a ring of very small
planets between the orbit of Mercury and the sun cannot account for the
difference between theory and observation in the movements of Mercury.
Harzer has come to the same result, and has shown that the disturbing
element may possibly be the material of the Solar Corona.

[14] "The Sun: its Planets, and their Satellites." London: 1882 (page
147).

[15] James Gregory, in a book on optics written in 1667, had already
suggested the use of the transit of Venus for this purpose.

[16] _See_ "Astronomy and Astrophysics," No. 128.

[17] _See_ "Astronomy and Astrophysics," No. 128.

[18] This is the curved marking which on Plate XVIII. appears in
longitude 290° and north of (that is, below) the equator. Here, as in
all astronomical drawings, north is at the foot and south at the top.
_See_ above, p. 82 (Chapter III.).

[19] Now Director of the Lick Observatory.

[20] The heliometer is a telescope with its object-glass cut in half
along a diameter. One or both of these halves is movable transversely by
a screw. Each half gives a complete image of the object. The measures
are effected by observing how many turns of the screw convey the image
of the star formed by one half of the object-glass to coincide with the
image of the planet formed by the other.

[21] See "Astronomy and Astrophysics," No. 109.

[22] It is only right to add that some observers believe that, in
exceptional circumstances, points of Jupiter have shown some slight
degree of intrinsic light.

[23] Professor Pickering, of Cambridge, Mass., has, however, effected
the important improvement of measuring the decline of light of the
satellite undergoing eclipse by the photometer. Much additional
precision may be anticipated in the results of such observations.

[24] "Newcomb's Popular Astronomy," p. 336.

[25] _See_ Grant, "History of Physical Astronomy," page 255.

[26] Now Director of the Lick Observatory.

[27] We are here neglecting the orbital motion of Saturn, by which the
whole system is moved towards or from the earth, but as this motion is
common to the ball and the ring, it will not disturb the relative
positions of the three spectra.

[28] According to Prof. Barnard's recent measures, the diameter of Titan
is 2,700 miles. This is the satellite discovered by Huyghens; it is the
sixth in order from the planet.

[29] Extract from "Three Cities of Russia," by C. Piazzi Smyth, vol.
ii., p. 164: "In the year 1796. It then chanced that George III., of
Great Britain, was pleased to send as a present to the Empress Catharine
of Russia a ten-foot reflecting telescope constructed by Sir William
Herschel. Her Majesty immediately desired to try its powers, and
Roumovsky was sent for from the Academy to repair to Tsarskoe-Selo,
where the Court was at the time residing. The telescope was accordingly
unpacked, and for eight long consecutive evenings the Empress employed
herself ardently in observing the moon, planets, and stars; and more
than this, in inquiring into the state of astronomy in her dominions.
Then it was that Roumovsky set before the Imperial view the Academy's
idea of removing their observatory, detailing the necessity for, and the
advantages of, such a proceeding. Graciously did the 'Semiramis of the
North,' the 'Polar Star,' enter into all these particulars, and warmly
approve of the project; but death closed her career within a few weeks
after, and prevented her execution of the design."

[30] _See_ Professor Holden's "Sir William Herschel, his Life and
Works."

[31] Arago says that "Lemonnier's records were the image of chaos."
Bouvard showed to Arago one of the observations of Uranus which was
written on a paper bag that in its time had contained hair-powder.

[32] The first comet of 1884 also suddenly increased in brightness,
while a distinct disc, which hitherto had formed the nucleus, became
transformed into a fine point of light.

[33] The three numbers 12, 1, and 1/4 are nearly inversely proportional
to the atomic weights of hydrogen, hydrocarbon gas, and iron vapour, and
it is for this reason that Bredichin suggested the above-mentioned
composition of the various types of tail. Spectroscopic evidence of the
presence of hydrogen is yet wanting.

[34] This illustration, as well as the figure of the path of the
meteors, has been derived from Dr. G.J. Stoney's interesting lecture on
"The Story of the November Meteors," at the Royal Institution, in 1879.

[35] On the 27th November, 1885, a piece of meteoric iron fell at
Mazapil, in Mexico, during the shower of Andromedes, but whether it
formed part of the swarm is not known. It is, however, to be noticed
that meteorites are said to have fallen on several other occasions at
the end of November.

[36] Hooke had noticed, in 1664, that the star Gamma Arietis was double.

[37] Perhaps if we could view the stars without the intervention of the
atmosphere, blue stars would be more common. The absorption of the
atmosphere specially affects the greenish and bluish colours. Professor
Langley gives us good reason for believing that the sun itself would be
blue if it were not for the effect of the air.

[38] The declination of a star is the arc drawn from the star to the
equator at right angles to the latter.

[39] The distance of 61 Cygni has, however, again been investigated by
Professor Asaph Hall, of Washington, who has obtained a result
considerably less than had been previously supposed; on the other hand,
Professor Pritchard's photographic researches are in confirmation of
Struve's and those obtained at Dunsink.

[40] I am indebted for this drawing to the kindness of Messrs. De la
Rue.

[41] _See_ Chapter XIX., on the mass of Sirius and his satellite.

[42] As the earth carries on the telescope at the rate of 18 miles a
second, and as light moves with the velocity of 180,000 miles a second
very nearly, it follows that the velocity of the telescope is about one
ten-thousandth part of that of light. While the light moves down the
tube 20 feet long, the telescope will therefore have moved the
ten-thousandth part of 20 feet--_i.e._, the fortieth of an inch.

[43] _See_ Newcomb's "Popular Astronomy," p. 508, where the discovery of
this law is attributed to Mr. J. Homer Lane, of Washington. The
contraction theory is due to Helmholtz.

[44] The theory of Tidal Evolution sketched in this chapter is mainly
due to the researches of Professor G.H. Darwin, F.R.S.

[45] The hour varies with the locality: it would be 11.49 at Calais; at
Liverpool, 11.23; at Swansea Bay, 5.56, etc.

[46] Having decided upon the units of mass, of angle, and of distance
which we intend to use for measuring these quantities, then any mass, or
angle, or distance is expressed by a certain definite number. Thus if we
take the mass of the earth as the unit of mass, the angle through which
it moves in a second as the unit of angle, and its distance from the sun
as the unit of distance, we shall find that the similar quantities for
Jupiter are expressed by the numbers 316, 0·0843, and 5·2 respectively.
Hence its orbital moment of momentum is 316 × 0·0843 × (5·2)².






End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of the Heavens, by Robert Stawell Ball