SIDE-LIGHTS ON ASTRONOMY

AND KINDRED FIELDS OF POPULAR SCIENCE

ESSAYS AND ADDRESSES

BY

SIMON NEWCOMB

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

SIMON NEWCOMB

PHOTOGRAPH OF THE CORONA OF THE SUN, TAKEN IN TRIPOLI DURING TOTAL ECLIPSE OF AUGUST 30, 1905.

A TYPICAL STAR CLUSTER-CENTAURI

THE GLASS DISK

THE OPTICIAN'S TOOL

THE OPTICIAN'S TOOL

GRINDING A LARGE LENS

IMAGE OF CANDLE-FLAME IN OBJECT-GLASS

TESTING ADJUSTMENT OF OBJECT-GLASS

A VERY PRIMITIVE MOUNTING FOR A TELESCOPE

THE HUYGHENIAN EYE-PIECE

SECTION OF THE PRIMITIVE MOUNTING

SPECTRAL IMAGES OF STARS, THE UPPER LINE SHOWING HOW THEY APPEAR WITH THE EYE-PIECE PUSHED IN, THE LOWER WITH THE EYE-PIECE DRAWN OUT

THE GREAT REFRACTOR OF THE NATIONAL OBSERVATORY AT WASHINGTON

THE "BROKEN-BACKED COMET-SEEKER"

NEBULA IN ORION

DIP OF THE MAGNETIC NEEDLE IN VARIOUS LATITUDES

STAR SPECTRA

PROFESSOR LANGLEY'S AIR-SHIP

PREFACE

In preparing and issuing this collection of essays and addresses, the author has yielded to what he could not but regard as the too flattering judgment of the publishers. Having done this, it became incumbent to do what he could to justify their good opinion by revising the material and bringing it up to date. Interest rather than unity of thought has determined the selection.

A prominent theme in the collection is that of the structure, extent, and duration of the universe. Here some repetition of ideas was found unavoidable, in a case where what is substantially a single theme has been treated in the various forms which it assumed in the light of constantly growing knowledge. If the critical reader finds this a defect, the author can plead in extenuation only the difficulty of avoiding it under the circumstances. Although mainly astronomical, a number of discussions relating to general scientific subjects have been included.

Acknowledgment is due to the proprietors of the various periodicals from the pages of which most of the essays have been taken. Besides Harper's Magazine and the North American Review, these include McClure's Magazine, from which were taken the articles "The Unsolved Problems of Astronomy" and "How the Planets are Weighed." "The Structure of the Universe" appeared in the International Monthly, now the International Quarterly; "The Outlook for the Flying-Machine" is mainly from The New York Independent, but in part from McClure's Magazine; "The World's Debt to Astronomy" is from The Chautauquan; and "An Astronomical Friendship" from the Atlantic Monthly.

SIMON NEWCOMB. WASHINGTON, JUNE, 1906.

I

THE UNSOLVED PROBLEMS OF ASTRONOMY

The reader already knows what the solar system is: an immense central body, the sun, with a number of planets revolving round it at various distances. On one of these planets we dwell. Vast, indeed, are the distances of the planets when measured by our terrestrial standards. A cannon-ball fired from the earth to celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and continuing its course ever since with a velocity of eighteen hundred feet per second, would not yet be half-way to the orbit of Neptune, the outer planet. And yet the thousands of stars which stud the heavens are at distances so much greater than that of Neptune that our solar system is like a little colony, separated from the rest of the universe by an ocean of void space almost immeasurable in extent. The orbit of the earth round the sun is of such size that a railway train running sixty miles an hour, with never a stop, would take about three hundred and fifty years to cross it. Represent this orbit by a lady's finger-ring. Then the nearest fixed star will be about a mile and a half away; the next more than two miles; a few more from three to twenty miles; the great body at scores or hundreds of miles. Imagine the stars thus scattered from the Atlantic to the Mississippi, and keep this little finger-ring in mind as the orbit of the earth, and one may have some idea of the extent of the universe.

One of the most beautiful stars in the heavens, and one that can be seen most of the year, is a Lyrae, or Alpha of the Lyre, known also as Vega. In a spring evening it may be seen in the northeast, in the later summer near the zenith, in the autumn in the northwest. On the scale we have laid down with the earth's orbit as a finger-ring, its distance would be some eight or ten miles. The small stars around it in the same constellation are probably ten, twenty, or fifty times as far.

Now, the greatest fact which modern science has brought to light is that our whole solar system, including the sun, with all its planets, is on a journey towards the constellation Lyra. During our whole lives, in all probability during the whole of human history, we have been flying unceasingly towards this beautiful constellation with a speed to which no motion on earth can compare. The speed has recently been determined with a fair degree of certainty, though not with entire exactness; it is about ten miles a second, and therefore not far from three hundred millions of miles a year. But whatever it may be, it is unceasing and unchanging; for us mortals eternal. We are nearer the constellation by five or six hundred miles every minute we live; we are nearer to it now than we were ten years ago by thousands of millions of miles, and every future generation of our race will be nearer than its predecessor by thousands of millions of miles.

When, where, and how, if ever, did this journey begin—when, where, and how, if ever, will it end? This is the greatest of the unsolved problems of astronomy. An astronomer who should watch the heavens for ten thousand years might gather some faint suggestion of an answer, or he might not. All we can do is to seek for some hints by study and comparison with other stars.

The stars are suns. To put it in another way, the sun is one of the stars, and rather a small one at that. If the sun is moving in the way I have described, may not the stars also be in motion, each on a journey of its own through the wilderness of space? To this question astronomy gives an affirmative answer. Most of the stars nearest to us are found to be in motion, some faster than the sun, some more slowly, and the same is doubtless true of all; only the century of accurate observations at our disposal does not show the motion of the distant ones. A given motion seems slower the more distant the moving body; we have to watch a steamship on the horizon some little time to see that she moves at all. Thus it is that the unsolved problem of the motion of our sun is only one branch of a yet more stupendous one: What mean the motions of the stars—how did they begin, and how, if ever, will they end? So far as we can yet see, each star is going straight ahead on its own journey, without regard to its neighbors, if other stars can be so called. Is each describing some vast orbit which, though looking like a straight line during the short period of our observation, will really be seen to curve after ten thousand or a hundred thousand years, or will it go straight on forever? If the laws of motion are true for all space and all time, as we are forced to believe, then each moving star will go on in an unbending line forever unless hindered by the attraction of other stars. If they go on thus, they must, after countless years, scatter in all directions, so that the inhabitants of each shall see only a black, starless sky.

Mathematical science can throw only a few glimmers of light on the questions thus suggested. From what little we know of the masses, distances, and numbers of the stars we see a possibility that the more slow-moving ones may, in long ages, be stopped in their onward courses or brought into orbits of some sort by the attraction of their millions of fellows. But it is hard to admit even this possibility in the case of the swift-moving ones. Attraction, varying as the inverse square of the distance, diminishes so rapidly as the distance increases that, at the distances which separate the stars, it is small indeed. We could not, with the most delicate balance that science has yet invented, even show the attraction of the greatest known star. So far as we know, the two swiftest-moving stars are, first, Arcturus, and, second, one known in astronomy as 1830 Groombridge, the latter so called because it was first observed by the astronomer Groombridge, and is numbered 1830 in his catalogue of stars. If our determinations of the distances of these bodies are to be relied on, the velocity of their motion cannot be much less than two hundred miles a second. They would make the circuit of the earth every two or three minutes. A body massive enough to control this motion would throw a large part of the universe into disorder. Thus the problem where these stars came from and where they are going is for us insoluble, and is all the more so from the fact that the swiftly moving stars are moving in different directions and seem to have no connection with each other or with any known star.

It must not be supposed that these enormous velocities seem so to us. Not one of them, even the greatest, would be visible to the naked eye until after years of watching. On our finger-ring scale, 1830 Groombridge would be some ten miles and Arcturus thirty or forty miles away. Either of them would be moving only two or three feet in a year. To the oldest Assyrian priests Lyra looked much as it does to us to-day. Among the bright and well-known stars Arcturus has the most rapid apparent motion, yet Job himself would not to-day see that its position had changed, unless he had noted it with more exactness than any astronomer of his time.

Another unsolved problem among the greatest which present themselves to the astronomer is that of the size of the universe of stars. We know that several thousand of these bodies are visible to the naked eye; moderate telescopes show us millions; our giant telescopes of the present time, when used as cameras to photograph the heavens, show a number past count, perhaps one hundred millions. Are all these stars only those few which happen to be near us in a universe extending out without end, or do they form a collection of stars outside of which is empty infinite space? In other words, has the universe a boundary? Taken in its widest scope this question must always remain unanswered by us mortals because, even if we should discover a boundary within which all the stars and clusters we ever can know are contained, and outside of which is empty space, still we could never prove that this space is empty out to an infinite distance. Far outside of what we call the universe might still exist other universes which we can never see.

It is a great encouragement to the astronomer that, although he cannot yet set any exact boundary to this universe of ours, he is gathering faint indications that it has a boundary, which his successors not many generations hence may locate so that the astronomer shall include creation itself within his mental grasp. It can be shown mathematically that an infinitely extended system of stars would fill the heavens with a blaze of light like that of the noonday sun. As no such effect is produced, it may be concluded that the universe has a boundary. But this does not enable us to locate the boundary, nor to say how many stars may lie outside the farthest stretches of telescopic vision. Yet by patient research we are slowly throwing light on these points and reaching inferences which, not many years ago, would have seemed forever beyond our powers.

Every one now knows that the Milky Way, that girdle of light which spans the evening sky, is formed of clouds of stars too minute to be seen by the unaided vision. It seems to form the base on which the universe is built and to bind all the stars into a system. It comprises by far the larger number of stars that the telescope has shown to exist. Those we see with the naked eye are almost equally scattered over the sky. But the number which the telescope shows us become more and more condensed in the Milky Way as telescope power is increased. The number of new stars brought out with our greatest power is vastly greater in the Milky Way than in the rest of the sky, so that the former contains a great majority of the stars. What is yet more curious, spectroscopic research has shown that a particular kind of stars, those formed of heated gas, are yet more condensed in the central circle of this band; if they were visible to the naked eye, we should see them encircling the heavens as a narrow girdle forming perhaps the base of our whole system of stars. This arrangement of the gaseous or vaporous stars is one of the most singular facts that modern research has brought to light. It seems to show that these particular stars form a system of their own; but how such a thing can be we are still unable to see.

The question of the form and extent of the Milky Way thus becomes the central one of stellar astronomy. Sir William Herschel began by trying to sound its depths; at one time he thought he had succeeded; but before he died he saw that they were unfathomable with his most powerful telescopes. Even today he would be a bold astronomer who would profess to say with certainty whether the smallest stars we can photograph are at the boundary of the system. Before we decide this point we must have some idea of the form and distance of the cloudlike masses of stars which form our great celestial girdle. A most curious fact is that our solar system seems to be in the centre of this galactic universe, because the Milky Way divides the heavens into two equal parts, and seems equally broad at all points. Were we looking at such a girdle as this from one side or the other, this appearance would not be presented. But let us not be too bold. Perhaps we are the victims of some fallacy, as Ptolemy was when he proved, by what looked like sound reasoning, based on undeniable facts, that this earth of ours stood at rest in the centre of the heavens!

A related problem, and one which may be of supreme importance to the future of our race, is, What is the source of the heat radiated by the sun and stars? We know that life on the earth is dependent on the heat which the sun sends it. If we were deprived of this heat we should in a few days be enveloped in a frost which would destroy nearly all vegetation, and in a few months neither man nor animal would be alive, unless crouching over fires soon to expire for want of fuel. We also know that, at a time which is geologically recent, the whole of New England was covered with a sheet of ice, hundreds or even thousands of feet thick, above which no mountain but Washington raised its head. It is quite possible that a small diminution in the supply of heat sent us by the sun would gradually reproduce the great glacier, and once more make the Eastern States like the pole. But the fact is that observations of temperature in various countries for the last two or three hundred years do not show any change in climate which can be attributed to a variation in the amount of heat received from the sun.

The acceptance of this theory of the heat of those heavenly bodies which shine by their own light—sun, stars, and nebulae—still leaves open a problem that looks insoluble with our present knowledge. What becomes of the great flood of heat and light which the sun and stars radiate into empty space with a velocity of one hundred and eighty thousand miles a second? Only a very small fraction of it can be received by the planets or by other stars, because these are mere points compared with their distance from us. Taking the teaching of our science just as it stands, we should say that all this heat continues to move on through infinite space forever. In a few thousand years it reaches the probable confines of our great universe. But we know of no reason why it should stop here. During the hundreds of millions of years since all our stars began to shine, has the first ray of light and heat kept on through space at the rate of one hundred and eighty thousand miles a second, and will it continue to go on for ages to come? If so, think of its distance now, and think of its still going on, to be forever wasted! Rather say that the problem, What becomes of it? is as yet unsolved.

Thus far I have described the greatest of problems; those which we may suppose to concern the inhabitants of millions of worlds revolving round the stars as much as they concern us. Let us now come down from the starry heights to this little colony where we live, the solar system. Here we have the great advantage of being better able to see what is going on, owing to the comparative nearness of the planets. When we learn that these bodies are like our earth in form, size, and motions, the first question we ask is, Could we fly from planet to planet and light on the surface of each, what sort of scenery would meet our eyes? Mountain, forest, and field, a dreary waste, or a seething caldron larger than our earth? If solid land there is, would we find on it the homes of intelligent beings, the lairs of wild beasts, or no living thing at all? Could we breathe the air, would we choke for breath or be poisoned by the fumes of some noxious gas?

To most of these questions science cannot as yet give a positive answer, except in the case of the moon. Our satellite is so near us that we can see it has no atmosphere and no water, and therefore cannot be the abode of life like ours. The contrast of its eternal deadness with the active life around us is great indeed. Here we have weather of so many kinds that we never tire of talking about it. But on the moon there is no weather at all. On our globe so many things are constantly happening that our thousands of daily journals cannot begin to record them. But on the dreary, rocky wastes of the moon nothing ever happens. So far as we can determine, every stone that lies loose on its surface has lain there through untold ages, unchanged and unmoved.

We cannot speak so confidently of the planets. The most powerful telescopes yet made, the most powerful we can ever hope to make, would scarcely shows us mountains, or lakes, rivers, or fields at a distance of fifty millions of miles. Much less would they show us any works of man. Pointed at the two nearest planets, Venus and Mars, they whet our curiosity more than they gratify it. Especially is this the case with Venus. Ever since the telescope was invented observers have tried to find the time of rotation of this planet on its axis. Some have reached one conclusion, some another, while the wisest have only doubted. The great Herschel claimed that the planet was so enveloped in vapor or clouds that no permanent features could be seen on its surface. The best equipped recent observers think they see faint, shadowy patches, which remain the same from day to day, and which show that the planet always presents the same face to the sun, as the moon does to the earth. Others do not accept this conclusion as proved, believing that these patches may be nothing more than variations of light, shade, and color caused by the reflection of the sun's light at various angles from different parts of the planet.

There is also some mystery about the atmosphere of this planet. When Venus passes nearly between us and the sun, her dark hemisphere is turned towards us, her bright one being always towards the sun. But she is not exactly on a line with the sun except on the very rare occasions of a transit across the sun's disk. Hence, on ordinary occasions, when she seems very near on a line with the sun, we see a very small part of the illuminated hemisphere, which now presents the form of a very thin crescent like the new moon. And this crescent is supposed to be a little broader than it would be if only half the planet were illuminated, and to encircle rather more than half the planet. Now, this is just the effect that would be produced by an atmosphere refracting the sun's light around the edge of the illuminated hemisphere.

The difficulty of observations of this kind is such that the conclusion may be open to doubt. What is seen during transits of Venus over the sun's disk leads to more certain, but yet very puzzling, conclusions. The writer will describe what he saw at the Cape of Good Hope during the transit of December 5, 1882. As the dark planet impinged on the bright sun, it of course cut out a round notch from the edge of the sun. At first, when this notch was small, nothing could be seen of the outline of that part of the planet which was outside the sun. But when half the planet was on the sun, the outline of the part still off the sun was marked by a slender arc of light. A curious fact was that this arc did not at first span the whole outline of the planet, but only showed at one or two points. In a few moments another part of the outline appeared, and then another, until, at last, the arc of light extended around the complete outline. All this seems to show that while the planet has an atmosphere, it is not transparent like ours, but is so filled with mist and clouds that the sun is seen through it only as if shining in a fog.

Not many years ago the planet Mars, which is the next one outside of us, was supposed to have a surface like that of our earth. Some parts were of a dark greenish gray hue; these were supposed to be seas and oceans. Other parts had a bright, warm tint; these were supposed to be the continents. During the last twenty years much has been learned as to how this planet looks, and the details of its surface have been mapped by several observers, using the best telescopes under the most favorable conditions of air and climate. And yet it must be confessed that the result of this labor is not altogether satisfactory. It seems certain that the so-called seas are really land and not water. When it comes to comparing Mars with the earth, we cannot be certain of more than a single point of resemblance. This is that during the Martian winter a white cap, as of snow, is formed over the pole, which partially melts away during the summer. The conclusion that there are oceans whose evaporation forms clouds which give rise to this snow seems plausible. But the telescope shows no clouds, and nothing to make it certain that there is an atmosphere to sustain them. There is no certainty that the white deposit is what we call snow; perhaps it is not formed of water at all. The most careful studies of the surface of this planet, under the best conditions, are those made at the Lowell Observatory at Flagstaff, Arizona. Especially wonderful is the system of so-called canals, first seen by Schiaparelli, but mapped in great detail at Flagstaff. But the nature and meaning of these mysterious lines are still to be discovered. The result is that the question of the real nature of the surface of Mars and of what we should see around us could we land upon it and travel over it are still among the unsolved problems of astronomy.

If this is the case with the nearest planets that we can study, how is it with more distant ones? Jupiter is the only one of these of the condition of whose surface we can claim to have definite knowledge. But even this knowledge is meagre. The substance of what we know is that its surface is surrounded by layers of what look like dense clouds, through which nothing can certainly be seen.

I have already spoken of the heat of the sun and its probable origin. But the question of its heat, though the most important, is not the only one that the sun offers us. What is the sun? When we say that it is a very hot globe, more than a million times as large as the earth, and hotter than any furnace that man can make, so that literally "the elements melt with fervent heat" even at its surface, while inside they are all vaporized, we have told the most that we know as to what the sun really is. Of course we know a great deal about the spots, the rotation of the sun on its axis, the materials of which it is composed, and how its surroundings look during a total eclipse. But all this does not answer our question. There are several mysteries which ingenious men have tried to explain, but they cannot prove their explanations to be correct. One is the cause and nature of the spots. Another is that the shining surface of the sun, the "photosphere," as it is technically called, seems so calm and quiet while forces are acting within it of a magnitude quite beyond our conception. Flames in which our earth and everything on it would be engulfed like a boy's marble in a blacksmith's forge are continually shooting up to a height of tens of thousands of miles. One would suppose that internal forces capable of doing this would break the surface up into billows of fire a thousand miles high; but we see nothing of the kind. The surface of the sun seems almost as placid as a lake.

Yet another mystery is the corona of the sun. This is something we should never have known to exist if the sun were not sometimes totally eclipsed by the dark body of the moon. On these rare occasions the sun is seen to be surrounded by a halo of soft, white light, sending out rays in various directions to great distances. This halo is called the corona, and has been most industriously studied and photographed during nearly every total eclipse for thirty years. Thus we have learned much about how it looks and what its shape is. It has a fibrous, woolly structure, a little like the loose end of a much-worn hempen rope. A certain resemblance has been seen between the form of these seeming fibres and that of the lines in which iron filings arrange themselves when sprinkled on paper over a magnet. It has hence been inferred that the sun has magnetic properties, a conclusion which, in a general way, is supported by many other facts. Yet the corona itself remains no less an unexplained phenomenon.

[Illustration with caption: PHOTOGRAPH OF THE CORONA OF THE SUN, TAKEN IN TRIPOLI DURING TOTAL ECLIPSE OF AUGUST 30, 1905]

A phenomenon almost as mysterious as the solar corona is the "zodiacal light," which any one can see rising from the western horizon just after the end of twilight on a clear winter or spring evening. The most plausible explanation is that it is due to a cloud of small meteoric bodies revolving round the sun. We should hardly doubt this explanation were it not that this light has a yet more mysterious appendage, commonly called the Gegenschein, or counter-glow. This is a patch of light in the sky in a direction exactly opposite that of the sun. It is so faint that it can be seen only by a practised eye under the most favorable conditions. But it is always there. The latest suggestion is that it is a tail of the earth, of the same kind as the tail of a comet!

We know that the motions of the heavenly bodies are predicted with extraordinary exactness by the theory of gravitation. When one finds that the exact path of the moon's shadow on the earth during a total eclipse of the sun can be mapped out many years in advance, and that the planets follow the predictions of the astronomer so closely that, if you could see the predicted planet as a separate object, it would look, even in a good telescope, as if it exactly fitted over the real planet, one thinks that here at least is a branch of astronomy which is simply perfect. And yet the worlds themselves show slight deviations in their movements which the astronomer cannot always explain, and which may be due to some hidden cause that, when brought to light, shall lead to conclusions of the greatest importance to our race.

One of these deviations is in the rotation of the earth. Sometimes, for several years at a time, it seems to revolve a little faster, and then again a little slower. The changes are very slight; they can be detected only by the most laborious and refined methods; yet they must have a cause, and we should like to know what that cause is.

The moon shows a similar irregularity of motion. For half a century, perhaps through a whole century, she will go around the earth a little ahead of her regular rate, and then for another half-century or more she will fall behind. The changes are very small; they would never have been seen with the unaided eye, yet they exist. What is their cause? Mathematicians have vainly spent years of study in trying to answer this question.

The orbit of Mercury is found by observations to have a slight motion which mathematicians have vainly tried to explain. For some time it was supposed to be caused by the attraction of an unknown planet between Mercury and the sun, and some were so sure of the existence of this planet that they gave it a name, calling it Vulcan. But of late years it has become reasonably certain that no planet large enough to produce the effect observed can be there. So thoroughly has every possible explanation been sifted out and found wanting, that some astronomers are now inquiring whether the law of gravitation itself may not be a little different from what has always been supposed. A very slight deviation, indeed, would account for the facts, but cautious astronomers want other proofs before regarding the deviation of gravitation as an established fact.

Intelligent men have sometimes inquired how, after devoting so much work to the study of the heavens, anything can remain for astronomers to find out. It is a curious fact that, although they were never learning so fast as at the present day, yet there seems to be more to learn now than there ever was before. Great and numerous as are the unsolved problems of our science, knowledge is now advancing into regions which, a few years ago, seemed inaccessible. Where it will stop none can say.

II

THE NEW PROBLEMS OF THE UNIVERSE

The achievements of the nineteenth century are still a theme of congratulation on the part of all who compare the present state of the world with that of one hundred years ago. And yet, if we should fancy the most sagacious prophet, endowed with a brilliant imagination, to have set forth in the year 1806 the problems that the century might solve and the things which it might do, we should be surprised to see how few of his predictions had come to pass. He might have fancied aerial navigation and a number of other triumphs of the same class, but he would hardly have had either steam navigation or the telegraph in his picture. In 1856 an article appeared in Harper's Magazine depicting some anticipated features of life in A.D. 3000. We have since made great advances, but they bear little resemblance to what the writer imagined. He did not dream of the telephone, but did describe much that has not yet come to pass and probably never will.

The fact is that, much as the nineteenth century has done, its last work was to amuse itself by setting forth more problems for this century to solve than it has ever itself succeeded in mastering. We should not be far wrong in saying that to-day there are more riddles in the universe than there were before men knew that it contained anything more than the objects they could see.

So far as mere material progress is concerned, it may be doubtful whether anything so epoch-making as the steam-engine or the telegraph is held in store for us by the future. But in the field of purely scientific discovery we are finding a crowd of things of which our philosophy did not dream even ten years ago.

The greatest riddles which the nineteenth century has bequeathed to us relate to subjects so widely separated as the structure of the universe and the structure of atoms of matter. We see more and more of these structures, and we see more and more of unity everywhere, and yet new facts difficult of explanation are being added more rapidly than old facts are being explained.

We all know that the nineteenth century was marked by a separation of the sciences into a vast number of specialties, to the subdivisions of which one could see no end. But the great work of the twentieth century will be to combine many of these specialties. The physical philosopher of the present time is directing his thought to the demonstration of the unity of creation. Astronomical and physical researches are now being united in a way which is bringing the infinitely great and the infinitely small into one field of knowledge. Ten years ago the atoms of matter, of which it takes millions of millions to make a drop of water, were the minutest objects with which science could imagine itself to be concerned, Now a body of experimentalists, prominent among whom stand Professors J. J. Thompson, Becquerel, and Roentgen, have demonstrated the existence of objects so minute that they find their way among and between the atoms of matter as rain-drops do among the buildings of a city. More wonderful yet, it seems likely, although it has not been demonstrated, that these little things, called "corpuscles," play an important part in what is going on among the stars. Whether this be true or not, it is certain that there do exist in the universe emanations of some sort, producing visible effects, the investigation of which the nineteenth century has had to bequeath to the twentieth.

For the purpose of the navigator, the direction of the magnetic needle is invariable in any one place, for months and even years; but when exact scientific observations on it are made, it is found subject to numerous slight changes. The most regular of these consists in a daily change of its direction. It moves one way from morning until noon, and then, late in the afternoon and during the night, turns back again to its original pointing. The laws of this change have been carefully studied from observations, which show that it is least at the equator and larger as we go north into middle latitudes; but no explanation of it resting on an indisputable basis has ever been offered.

Besides these regular changes, there are others of a very irregular character. Every now and then the changes in the direction of the magnet are wider and more rapid than those which occur regularly every day. The needle may move back and forth in a way so fitful as to show the action of some unusual exciting cause. Such movements of the needle are commonly seen when there is a brilliant aurora. This connection shows that a magnetic storm and an aurora must be due to the same or some connected causes.

Those of us who are acquainted with astronomical matters know that the number of spots on the sun goes through a regular cycle of change, having a period of eleven years and one or two months. Now, the curious fact is, when the number and violence of magnetic storms are recorded and compared, it is found that they correspond to the spots on the sun, and go through the same period of eleven years. The conclusion seems almost inevitable: magnetic storms are due to some emanation sent out by the sun, which arises from the same cause that produces the spots. This emanation does not go on incessantly, but only in an occasional way, as storms follow each other on the earth. What is it? Every attempt to detect it has been in vain. Professor Hale, at the Yerkes Observatory, has had in operation from time to time, for several years, his ingenious spectroheliograph, which photographs the sun by a single ray of the spectrum. This instrument shows that violent actions are going on in the sun, which ordinary observation would never lead us to suspect. But it has failed to show with certainty any peculiar emanation at the time of a magnetic storm or anything connected with such a storm.

A mystery which seems yet more impenetrable is associated with the so-called new stars which blaze forth from time to time. These offer to our sight the most astounding phenomena ever presented to the physical philosopher. One hundred years ago such objects offered no mystery. There was no reason to suppose that the Creator of the universe had ceased His functions; and, continuing them, it was perfectly natural that He should be making continual additions to the universe of stars. But the idea that these objects are really new creations, made out of nothing, is contrary to all our modern ideas and not in accord with the observed facts. Granting the possibility of a really new star—if such an object were created, it would be destined to take its place among the other stars as a permanent member of the universe. Instead of this, such objects invariably fade away after a few months, and are changed into something very like an ordinary nebula. A question of transcendent interest is that of the cause of these outbursts. It cannot be said that science has, up to the present time, been able to offer any suggestion not open to question. The most definite one is the collision theory, according to which the outburst is due to the clashing together of two stars, one or both of which might previously have been dark, like a planet. The stars which may be actually photographed probably exceed one hundred millions in number, and those which give too little light to affect the photographic plate may be vastly more numerous than those which do. Dark stars revolve around bright ones in an infinite variety of ways, and complex systems of bodies, the members of which powerfully attract each other, are the rule throughout the universe. Moreover, we can set no limit to the possible number of dark or invisible stars that may be flying through the celestial spaces. While, therefore, we cannot regard the theory of collision as established, it seems to be the only one yet put forth which can lay any claim to a scientific basis. What gives most color to it is the extreme suddenness with which the new stars, so far as has yet been observed, invariably blaze forth. In almost every case it has been only two or three days from the time that the existence of such an object became known until it had attained nearly its full brightness. In fact, it would seem that in the case of the star in Perseus, as in most other cases, the greater part of the outburst took place within the space of twenty-four hours. This suddenness and rapidity is exactly what would be the result of a collision.

The most inexplicable feature of all is the rapid formation of a nebula around this star. In the first photographs of the latter, the appearance presented is simply that of an ordinary star. But, in the course of three or four months, the delicate photographs taken at the Lick Observatory showed that a nebulous light surrounded the star, and was continually growing larger and larger. At first sight, there would seem to be nothing extraordinary in this fact. Great masses of intensely hot vapor, shining by their own light, would naturally be thrown out from the star. Or, if the star had originally been surrounded by a very rare nebulous fog or vapor, the latter would be seen by the brilliant light emitted by the star. On this was based an explanation offered by Kapteyn, which at first seemed very plausible. It was that the sudden wave of light thrown out by the star when it burst forth caused the illumination of the surrounding vapor, which, though really at rest, would seem to expand with the velocity of light, as the illumination reached more and more distant regions of the nebula. This result may be made the subject of exact calculation. The velocity of light is such as would make a circuit of the earth more than seven times in a second. It would, therefore, go out from the star at the rate of a million of miles in between five and six seconds. In the lapse of one of our days, the light would have filled a sphere around the star having a diameter more than one hundred and fifty times the distance of the sun from the earth, and more than five times the dimensions of the whole solar system. Continuing its course and enlarging its sphere day after day, the sight presented to us would have been that of a gradually expanding nebulous mass—a globe of faint light continually increasing in size with the velocity of light.

The first sentiment the reader will feel on this subject is doubtless one of surprise that the distance of the star should be so great as this explanation would imply. Six months after the explosion, the globe of light, as actually photographed, was of a size which would have been visible to the naked eye only as a very minute object in the sky. Is it possible that this minute object could have been thousands of times the dimensions of our solar system?

To see how the question stands from this point of view, we must have some idea of the possible distance of the new star. To gain this idea, we must find some way of estimating distances in the universe. For a reason which will soon be apparent, we begin with the greatest structure which nature offers to the view of man. We all know that the Milky Way is formed of countless stars, too minute to be individually visible to the naked eye. The more powerful the telescope through which we sweep the heavens, the greater the number of the stars that can be seen in it. With the powerful instruments which are now in use for photographing the sky, the number of stars brought to light must rise into the hundreds of millions, and the greater part of these belong to the Milky Way. The smaller the stars we count, the greater their comparative number in the region of the Milky Way. Of the stars visible through the telescope, more than one-half are found in the Milky Way, which may be regarded as a girdle spanning the entire visible universe.

Of the diameter of this girdle we can say, almost with certainty, that it must be more than a thousand times as great as the distance of the nearest fixed star from us, and is probably two or three times greater. According to the best judgment we can form, our solar system is situate near the central region of the girdle, so that the latter must be distant from us by half its diameter. It follows that if we can imagine a gigantic pair of compasses, of which the points extend from us to Alpha Centauri, the nearest star, we should have to measure out at least five hundred spaces with the compass, and perhaps even one thousand or more, to reach the region of the Milky Way.

With this we have to connect another curious fact. Of eighteen new stars which have been observed to blaze forth during the last four hundred years, all are in the region of the Milky Way. This seems to show that, as a rule, they belong to the Milky Way. Accepting this very plausible conclusion, the new star in Perseus must have been more than five hundred times as far as the nearest fixed star. We know that it takes light four years to reach us from Alpha Centauri. It follows that the new star was at a distance through which light would require more than two thousand years to travel, and quite likely a time two or three times this. It requires only the most elementary ideas of geometry to see that if we suppose a ray of light to shoot from a star at such a distance in a direction perpendicular to the line of sight from us to the star, we can compute how fast the ray would seem to us to travel. Granting the distance to be only two thousand light years, the apparent size of the sphere around the star which the light would fill at the end of one year after the explosion would be that of a coin seen at a distance of two thousand times its radius, or one thousand times its diameter—say, a five-cent piece at the distance of sixty feet. But, as a matter of fact, the nebulous illumination expanded with a velocity from ten to twenty times as great as this.

The idea that the nebulosity around the new star was formed by the illumination caused by the light of the explosion spreading out on all sides therefore fails to satisfy us, not because the expansion of the nebula seemed to be so slow, but because it was many times as swift as the speed of light. Another reason for believing that it was not a mere wave of light is offered by the fact that it did not take place regularly in every direction from the star, but seemed to shoot off at various angles.

Up to the present time, the speed of light has been to science, as well as to the intelligence of our race, almost a symbol of the greatest of possible speeds. The more carefully we reflect on the case, the more clearly we shall see the difficulty in supposing any agency to travel at the rate of the seeming emanations from the new star in Perseus.

As the emanation is seen spreading day after day, the reader may inquire whether this is not an appearance due to some other cause than the mere motion of light. May not an explosion taking place in the centre of a star produce an effect which shall travel yet faster than light? We can only reply that no such agency is known to science.

But is there really anything intrinsically improbable in an agency travelling with a speed many times that of light? In considering that there is, we may fall into an error very much like that into which our predecessors fell in thinking it entirely out of the range of reasonable probability that the stars should be placed at such distances as we now know them to be.

Accepting it as a fact that agencies do exist which travel from sun to planet and from star to star with a speed which beggars all our previous ideas, the first question that arises is that of their nature and mode of action. This question is, up to the present time, one which we do not see any way of completely answering. The first difficulty is that we have no evidence of these agents except that afforded by their action. We see that the sun goes through a regular course of pulsations, each requiring eleven years for completion; and we see that, simultaneously with these, the earth's magnetism goes through a similar course of pulsations. The connection of the two, therefore, seems absolutely proven. But when we ask by what agency it is possible for the sun to affect the magnetism of the earth, and when we trace the passage of some agent between the two bodies, we find nothing to explain the action. To all appearance, the space between the earth and the sun is a perfect void. That electricity cannot of itself pass through a vacuum seems to be a well-established law of physics. It is true that electromagnetic waves, which are supposed to be of the same nature with those of light, and which are used in wireless telegraphy, do pass through a vacuum and may pass from the sun to the earth. But there is no way of explaining how such waves would either produce or affect the magnetism of the earth.

The mysterious emanations from various substances, under certain conditions, may have an intimate relation with yet another of the mysteries of the universe. It is a fundamental law of the universe that when a body emits light or heat, or anything capable of being transformed into light or heat, it can do so only by the expenditure of force, limited in supply. The sun and stars are continually sending out a flood of heat. They are exhausting the internal supply of something which must be limited in extent. Whence comes the supply? How is the heat of the sun kept up? If it were a hot body cooling off, a very few years would suffice for it to cool off so far that its surface would become solid and very soon cold. In recent years, the theory universally accepted has been that the supply of heat is kept up by the continual contraction of the sun, by mutual gravitation of its parts as it cools off. This theory has the advantage of enabling us to calculate, with some approximation to exactness, at what rate the sun must be contracting in order to keep up the supply of heat which it radiates. On this theory, it must, ten millions of years ago, have had twice its present diameter, while less than twenty millions of years ago it could not have existed except as an immense nebula filling the whole solar system. We must bear in mind that this theory is the only one which accounts for the supply of heat, even through human history. If it be true, then the sun, earth, and solar system must be less than twenty million years old.

Here the geologists step in and tell us that this conclusion is wholly inadmissible. The study of the strata of the earth and of many other geological phenomena, they assure us, makes it certain that the earth must have existed much in its present condition for hundreds of millions of years. During all that time there can have been no great diminution in the supply of heat radiated by the sun.

The astronomer, in considering this argument, has to admit that he finds a similar difficulty in connection with the stars and nebulas. It is an impossibility to regard these objects as new; they must be as old as the universe itself. They radiate heat and light year after year. In all probability, they must have been doing so for millions of years. Whence comes the supply? The geologist may well claim that until the astronomer explains this mystery in his own domain, he cannot declare the conclusions of geology as to the age of the earth to be wholly inadmissible.

Now, the scientific experiments of the last two years have brought this mystery of the celestial spaces right down into our earthly laboratories. M. and Madame Curie have discovered the singular metal radium, which seems to send out light, heat, and other rays incessantly, without, so far as has yet been determined, drawing the required energy from any outward source. As we have already pointed out, such an emanation must come from some storehouse of energy. Is the storehouse, then, in the medium itself, or does the latter draw it from surrounding objects? If it does, it must abstract heat from these objects. This question has been settled by Professor Dewar, at the Royal Institution, London, by placing the radium in a medium next to the coldest that art has yet produced—liquid air. The latter is surrounded by the only yet colder medium, liquid hydrogen, so that no heat can reach it. Under these circumstances, the radium still gives out heat, boiling away the liquid air until the latter has entirely disappeared. Instead of the radiation diminishing with time, it rather seems to increase.

Called on to explain all this, science can only say that a molecular change must be going on in the radium, to correspond to the heat it gives out. What that change may be is still a complete mystery. It is a mystery which we find alike in those minute specimens of the rarest of substances under our microscopes, in the sun, and in the vast nebulous masses in the midst of which our whole solar system would be but a speck. The unravelling of this mystery must be the great work of science of the twentieth century. What results shall follow for mankind one cannot say, any more than he could have said two hundred years ago what modern science would bring forth. Perhaps, before future developments, all the boasted achievements of the nineteenth century may take the modest place which we now assign to the science of the eighteenth century—that of the infant which is to grow into a man.

III

THE STRUCTURE OF THE UNIVERSE

The questions of the extent of the universe in space and of its duration in time, especially of its possible infinity in either space or time, are of the highest interest both in philosophy and science. The traditional philosophy had no means of attacking these questions except considerations suggested by pure reason, analogy, and that general fitness of things which was supposed to mark the order of nature. With modern science the questions belong to the realm of fact, and can be decided only by the results of observation and a study of the laws to which these results may lead.

From the philosophic stand-point, a discussion of this subject which is of such weight that in the history of thought it must be assigned a place above all others, is that of Kant in his "Kritik." Here we find two opposing propositions—the thesis that the universe occupies only a finite space and is of finite duration; the antithesis that it is infinite both as regards extent in space and duration in time. Both of these opposing propositions are shown to admit of demonstration with equal force, not directly, but by the methods of reductio ad absurdum. The difficulty, discussed by Kant, was more tersely expressed by Hamilton in pointing out that we could neither conceive of infinite space nor of space as bounded. The methods and conclusions of modern astronomy are, however, in no way at variance with Kant's reasoning, so far as it extends. The fact is that the problem with which the philosopher of Konigsberg vainly grappled is one which our science cannot solve any more than could his logic. We may hope to gain complete information as to everything which lies within the range of the telescope, and to trace to its beginning every process which we can now see going on in space. But before questions of the absolute beginning of things, or of the boundary beyond which nothing exists, our means of inquiry are quite powerless.

Another example of the ancient method is found in the great work of Copernicus. It is remarkable how completely the first expounder of the system of the world was dominated by the philosophy of his time, which he had inherited from his predecessors. This is seen not only in the general course of thought through the opening chapters of his work, but among his introductory propositions. The first of these is that the universe—mundus—as well as the earth, is spherical in form. His arguments for the sphericity of the earth, as derived from observation, are little more than a repetition of those of Ptolemy, and therefore not of special interest. His proposition that the universe is spherical is, however, not based on observation, but on considerations of the perfection of the spherical form, the general tendency of bodies—a drop of water, for example—to assume this form, and the sphericity of the sun and moon. The idea retained its place in his mind, although the fundamental conception of his system did away with the idea of the universe having any well-defined form.

The question as attacked by modern astronomy is this: we see scattered through space in every direction many millions of stars of various orders of brightness and at distances so great as to defy exact measurement, except in the case of a few of the nearest. Has this collection of stars any well-defined boundary, or is what we see merely that part of an infinite mass which chances to lie within the range of our telescopes? If we were transported to the most distant star of which we have knowledge, should we there find ourselves still surrounded by stars on all sides, or would the space beyond be void? Granting that, in any or every direction, there is a limit to the universe, and that the space beyond is therefore void, what is the form of the whole system and the distance of its boundaries? Preliminary in some sort to these questions are the more approachable ones: Of what sort of matter is the universe formed? and into what sort of bodies is this matter collected?

To the ancients the celestial sphere was a reality, instead of a mere effect of perspective, as we regard it. The stars were set on its surface, or at least at no great distance within its crystalline mass. Outside of it imagination placed the empyrean. When and how these conceptions vanished from the mind of man, it would be as hard to say as when and how Santa Claus gets transformed in the mind of the child. They are not treated as realities by any astronomical writer from Ptolemy down; yet, the impressions and forms of thought to which they gave rise are well marked in Copernicus and faintly evident in Kepler. The latter was perhaps the first to suggest that the sun might be one of the stars; yet, from defective knowledge of the relative brightness of the latter, he was led to the conclusion that their distances from each other were less than the distance which separated them from the sun. The latter he supposed to stand in the centre of a vast vacant region within the system of stars.

For us the great collection of millions of stars which are made known to us by the telescope, together with all the invisible bodies which may be contained within the limits of the system, form the universe. Here the term "universe" is perhaps objectionable because there may be other systems than the one with which we are acquainted. The term stellar system is, therefore, a better one by which to designate the collection of stars in question.

It is remarkable that the first known propounder of that theory of the form and arrangement of the system which has been most generally accepted seems to have been a writer otherwise unknown in science—Thomas Wright, of Durham, England. He is said to have published a book on the theory of the universe, about 1750. It does not appear that this work was of a very scientific character, and it was, perhaps, too much in the nature of a speculation to excite notice in scientific circles. One of the curious features of the history is that it was Kant who first cited Wright's theory, pointed out its accordance with the appearance of the Milky Way, and showed its general reasonableness. But, at the time in question, the work of the philosopher of Konigsberg seems to have excited no more notice among his scientific contemporaries than that of Wright.

Kant's fame as a speculative philosopher has so eclipsed his scientific work that the latter has but recently been appraised at its true value. He was the originator of views which, though defective in detail, embodied a remarkable number of the results of recent research on the structure and form of the universe, and the changes taking place in it. The most curious illustration of the way in which he arrived at a correct conclusion by defective reasoning is found in his anticipation of the modern theory of a constant retardation of the velocity with which the earth revolves on its axis. He conceived that this effect must result from the force exerted by the tidal wave, as moving towards the west it strikes the eastern coasts of Asia and America. An opposite conclusion was reached by Laplace, who showed that the effect of this force was neutralized by forces producing the wave and acting in the opposite direction. And yet, nearly a century later, it was shown that while Laplace was quite correct as regards the general principles involved, the friction of the moving water must prevent the complete neutralization of the two opposing forces, and leave a small residual force acting towards the west and retarding the rotation. Kant's conclusion was established, but by an action different from that which he supposed.

The theory of Wright and Kant, which was still further developed by Herschel, was that our stellar system has somewhat the form of a flattened cylinder, or perhaps that which the earth would assume if, in consequence of more rapid rotation, the bulging out at its equator and the flattening at its poles were carried to an extreme limit. This form has been correctly though satirically compared to that of a grindstone. It rests to a certain extent, but not entirely, on the idea that the stars are scattered through space with equal thickness in every direction, and that the appearance of the Milky Way is due to the fact that we, situated in the centre of this flattened system, see more stars in the direction of the circumference of the system than in that of its poles. The argument on which the view in question rests may be made clear in the following way.

Let us chose for our observations that hour of the night at which the Milky Way skirts our horizon. This is nearly the case in the evenings of May and June, though the coincidence with the horizon can never be exact except to observers stationed near the tropics. Using the figure of the grindstone, we at its centre will then have its circumference around our horizon, while the axis will be nearly vertical. The points in which the latter intersects the celestial sphere are called the galactic poles. There will be two of these poles, the one at the hour in question near the zenith, the other in our nadir, and therefore invisible to us, though seen by our antipodes. Our horizon corresponds, as it were, to the central circle of the Milky Way, which now surrounds us on all sides in a horizontal direction, while the galactic poles are 90 degrees distant from every part of it, as every point of the horizon is 90 degrees from the zenith.

Let us next count the number of stars visible in a powerful telescope in the region of the heavens around the galactic pole, now our zenith, and find the average number per square degree. This will be the richness of the region in stars. Then we take regions nearer the horizontal Milky Way—say that contained between 10 degrees and 20 degrees from the zenith—and, by a similar count, find its richness in stars. We do the same for other regions, nearer and nearer to the horizon, till we reach the galaxy itself. The result of all the counts will be that the richness of the sky in stars is least around the galactic pole, and increases in every direction towards the Milky Way.

Without such counts of the stars we might imagine our stellar system to be a globular collection of stars around which the object in question passed as a girdle; and we might take a globe with a chain passing around it as representative of the possible figure of the stellar system. But the actual increase in star-thickness which we have pointed out shows us that this view is incorrect. The nature and validity of the conclusions to be drawn can be best appreciated by a statement of some features of this tendency of the stars to crowd towards the galactic circle.

Most remarkable is the fact that the tendency is seen even among the brighter stars. Without either telescope or technical knowledge, the careful observer of the stars will notice that the most brilliant constellations show this tendency. The glorious Orion, Canis Major containing the brightest star in the heavens, Cassiopeia, Perseus, Cygnus, and Lyra with its bright-blue Vega, not to mention such constellations as the Southern Cross, all lie in or near the Milky Way. Schiaparelli has extended the investigation to all the stars visible to the naked eye. He laid down on planispheres the number of such stars in each region of the heavens of 5 degrees square. Each region was then shaded with a tint that was darker as the region was richer in stars. The very existence of the Milky Way was ignored in this work, though his most darkly shaded regions lie along the course of this belt. By drawing a band around the sky so as to follow or cover his darkest regions, we shall rediscover the course of the Milky Way without any reference to the actual object. It is hardly necessary to add that this result would be reached with yet greater precision if we included the telescopic stars to any degree of magnitude—plotting them on a chart and shading the chart in the same way. What we learn from this is that the stellar system is not an irregular chaos; and that notwithstanding all its minor irregularities, it may be considered as built up with special reference to the Milky Way as a foundation.

Another feature of the tendency in question is that it is more and more marked as we include fainter stars in our count. The galactic region is perhaps twice as rich in stars visible to the naked eye as the rest of the heavens. In telescopic stars to the ninth magnitude it is three or four times as rich. In the stars found on the photographs of the sky made at the Harvard and other observatories, and in the stargauges of the Herschels, it is from five to ten times as rich.

Another feature showing the unity of the system is the symmetry of the heavens on the two sides of the galactic belt Let us return to our supposition of such a position of the celestial sphere, with respect to the horizon, that the latter coincides with the central line of this belt, one galactic pole being near our zenith. The celestial hemisphere which, being above our horizon, is visible to us, is the one to which we have hitherto directed our attention in describing the distribution of the stars. But below our horizon is another hemisphere, that of our antipodes, which is the counterpart of ours. The stars which it contains are in a different part of the universe from those which we see, and, without unity of plan, would not be subject to the same law. But the most accurate counts of stars that have been made fail to show any difference in their general arrangement in the two hemispheres. They are just as thick around the south galactic poles as around the north one. They show the same tendency to crowd towards the Milky Way in the hemisphere invisible to us as in the hemisphere which we see. Slight differences and irregularities, are, indeed, found in the enumeration, but they are no greater than must necessarily arise from the difficulty of stopping our count at a perfectly fixed magnitude. The aim of star-counts is not to estimate the total number of stars, for this is beyond our power, but the number visible with a given telescope. In such work different observers have explored different parts of the sky, and in a count of the same region by two observers we shall find that, although they attempt to stop at the same magnitude, each will include a great number of stars which the other omits. There is, therefore, room for considerable difference in the numbers of stars recorded, without there being any actual inequality between the two hemispheres.

A corresponding similarity is found in the physical constitution of the stars as brought out by the spectroscope. The Milky Way is extremely rich in bluish stars, which make up a considerable majority of the cloudlike masses there seen. But when we recede from the galaxy on one side, we find the blue stars becoming thinner, while those having a yellow tinge become relatively more numerous. This difference of color also is the same on the two sides of the galactic plane. Nor can any systematic difference be detected between the proper motions of the stars in these two hemispheres. If the largest known proper motion is found in the one, the second largest is in the other. Counting all the known stars that have proper motions exceeding a given limit, we find about as many in one hemisphere as in the other. In this respect, also, the universe appears to be alike through its whole extent. It is the uniformity thus prevailing through the visible universe, as far as we can see, in two opposite directions, which inspires us with confidence in the possibility of ultimately reaching some well-founded conclusion as to the extent and structure of the system.

All these facts concur in supporting the view of Wright, Kant, and Herschel as to the form of the universe. The farther out the stars extend in any direction, the more stars we may see in that direction. In the direction of the axis of the cylinder, the distances of the boundary are least, so that we see fewer stars. The farther we direct our attention towards the equatorial regions of the system, the greater the distance from us to the boundary, and hence the more stars we see. The fact that the increase in the number of stars seen towards the equatorial region of the system is greater, the smaller the stars, is the natural consequence of the fact that distant stars come within our view in greater numbers towards the equatorial than towards the polar regions.

Objections have been raised to the Herschelian view on the ground that it assumes an approximately uniform distribution of the stars in space. It has been claimed that the fact of our seeing more stars in one direction than in another may not arise merely from our looking through a deeper stratum, as Herschel supposed, but may as well be due to the stars being more thinly scattered in the direction of the axis of the system than in that of its equatorial region. The great inequalities in the richness of neighboring regions in the Milky Way show that the hypothesis of uniform distribution does not apply to the equatorial region. The claim has therefore been made that there is no proof of the system extending out any farther in the equatorial than in the polar direction.

The consideration of this objection requires a closer inquiry as to what we are to understand by the form of our system. We have already pointed out the impossibility of assigning any boundary beyond which we can say that nothing exists. And even as regards a boundary of our stellar system, it is impossible for us to assign any exact limit beyond which no star is visible to us. The analogy of collections of stars seen in various parts of the heavens leads us to suppose that there may be no well-defined form to our system, but that, as we go out farther and farther, we shall see occasional scattered stars to, possibly, an indefinite distance. The truth probably is that, as in ascending a mountain, we find the trees, which may be very dense at its base, thin out gradually as we approach the summit, where there may be few or none, so we might find the stars to thin out could we fly to the distant regions of space. The practical question is whether, in such a flight, we should find this sooner by going in the direction of the axis of our system than by directing our course towards the Milky Way. If a point is at length reached beyond which there are but few scattered stars, such a point would, for us, mark the boundary of our system. From this point of view the answer does not seem to admit of doubt. If, going in every direction, we mark the point, if any, at which the great mass of the stars are seen behind us, the totality of all these points will lie on a surface of the general form that Herschel supposed.

There is still another direct indication of the finitude of our stellar system upon which we have not touched. If this system extended out without limit in any direction whatever, it is shown by a geometric process which it is not necessary to explain in the present connection, but which is of the character of mathematical demonstration, that the heavens would, in every direction where this was true, blaze with the light of the noonday sun. This would be very different from the blue-black sky which we actually see on a clear night, and which, with a reservation that we shall consider hereafter, shows that, how far so-ever our stellar system may extend, it is not infinite. Beyond this negative conclusion the fact does not teach us much. Vast, indeed, is the distance to which the system might extend without the sky appearing much brighter than it is, and we must have recourse to other considerations in seeking for indications of a boundary, or even of a well-marked thinning out, of stars.

If, as was formerly supposed, the stars did not greatly differ in the amount of light emitted by each, and if their diversity of apparent magnitude were due principally to the greater distance of the fainter stars, then the brightness of a star would enable us to form a more or less approximate idea of its distance. But the accumulated researches of the past seventy years show that the stars differ so enormously in their actual luminosity that the apparent brightness of a star affords us only a very imperfect indication of its distance. While, in the general average, the brighter stars must be nearer to us than the fainter ones, it by no means follows that a very bright star, even of the first magnitude, is among the nearer to our system. Two stars are worthy of especial mention in this connection, Canopus and Rigel. The first is, with the single exception of Sirius, the brightest star in the heavens. The other is a star of the first magnitude in the southwest corner of Orion. The most long-continued and complete measures of parallax yet made are those carried on by Gill, at the Cape of Good Hope, on these two and some other bright stars. The results, published in 1901, show that neither of these bodies has any parallax that can be measured by the most refined instrumental means known to astronomy. In other words, the distance of these stars is immeasurably great. The actual amount of light emitted by each is certainly thousands and probably tens of thousands of times that of the sun.

Notwithstanding the difficulties that surround the subject, we can at least say something of the distance of a considerable number of the stars. Two methods are available for our estimate—measures of parallax and determination of proper motions.

The problem of stellar parallax, simple though it is in its conception, is the most delicate and difficult of all which the practical astronomer has to encounter. An idea of it may be gained by supposing a minute object on a mountain-top, we know not how many miles away, to be visible through a telescope. The observer is allowed to change the position of his instrument by two inches, but no more. He is required to determine the change in the direction of the object produced by this minute displacement with accuracy enough to determine the distance of the mountain. This is quite analogous to the determination of the change in the direction in which we see a star as the earth, moving through its vast circuit, passes from one extremity of its orbit to the other. Representing this motion on such a scale that the distance of our planet from the sun shall be one inch, we find that the nearest star, on the same scale, will be more than four miles away, and scarcely one out of a million will be at a less distance than ten miles. It is only by the most wonderful perfection both in the heliometer, the instrument principally used for these measures, and in methods of observation, that any displacement at all can be seen even among the nearest stars. The parallaxes of perhaps a hundred stars have been determined, with greater or less precision, and a few hundred more may be near enough for measurement. All the others are immeasurably distant; and it is only by statistical methods based on their proper motions and their probable near approach to equality in distribution that any idea can be gained of their distances.

To form a conception of the stellar system, we must have a unit of measure not only exceeding any terrestrial standard, but even any distance in the solar system. For purely astronomical purposes the most convenient unit is the distance corresponding to a parallax of 1", which is a little more than 200,000 times the sun's distance. But for the purposes of all but the professional astronomer the most convenient unit will be the light-year—that is, the distance through which light would travel in one year. This is equal to the product of 186,000 miles, the distance travelled in one second, by 31,558,000, the number of seconds in a year. The reader who chooses to do so may perform the multiplication for himself. The product will amount to about 63,000 times the distance of the sun.

[Illustration with caption: A Typical Star Cluster—Centauri]

The nearest star whose distance we know, Alpha Centauri, is distant from us more than four light-years. In all likelihood this is really the nearest star, and it is not at all probable that any other star lies within six light-years. Moreover, if we were transported to this star the probability seems to be that the sun would now be the nearest star to us. Flying to any other of the stars whose parallax has been measured, we should probably find that the average of the six or eight nearest stars around us ranges somewhere between five and seven light-years. We may, in a certain sense, call eight light-years a star-distance, meaning by this term the average of the nearest distances from one star to the surrounding ones.

To put the result of measures of parallax into another form, let us suppose, described around our sun as a centre, a system of concentric spheres each of whose surfaces is at the distance of six light-years outside the sphere next within it. The inner is at the distance of six light-years around the sun. The surface of the second sphere will be twelve light-years away, that of the third eighteen, etc. The volumes of space within each of these spheres will be as the cubes of the diameters. The most likely conclusion we can draw from measures of parallax is that the first sphere will contain, beside the sun at its centre, only Alpha Centauri. The second, twelve light-years away, will probably contain, besides these two, six other stars, making eight in all. The third may contain twenty-one more, making twenty-seven stars within the third sphere, which is the cube of three. Within the fourth would probably be found sixty-four stars, this being the cube of four, and so on.

Beyond this no measures of parallax yet made will give us much assistance. We can only infer that probably the same law holds for a large number of spheres, though it is quite certain that it does not hold indefinitely. For more light on the subject we must have recourse to the proper motions. The latest words of astronomy on this subject may be briefly summarized. As a rule, no star is at rest. Each is moving through space with a speed which differs greatly with different stars, but is nearly always swift, indeed, when measured by any standard to which we are accustomed. Slow and halting, indeed, is that star which does not make more than a mile a second. With two or three exceptions, where the attraction of a companion comes in, the motion of every star, so far as yet determined, takes place in a straight line. In its outward motion the flying body deviates neither to the right nor left. It is safe to say that, if any deviation is to take place, thousands of years will be required for our terrestrial observers to recognize it.

Rapid as the course of these objects is, the distances which we have described are such that, in the great majority of cases, all the observations yet made on the positions of the stars fail to show any well-established motion. It is only in the case of the nearer of these objects that we can expect any motion to be perceptible during the period, in no case exceeding one hundred and fifty years, through which accurate observations extend. The efforts of all the observatories which engage in such work are, up to the present time, unequal to the task of grappling with the motions of all the stars that can be seen with the instruments, and reaching a decision as to the proper motion in each particular case. As the question now stands, the aim of the astronomer is to determine what stars have proper motions large enough to be well established. To make our statement on this subject clear, it must be understood that by this term the astronomer does not mean the speed of a star in space, but its angular motion as he observes it on the celestial sphere. A star moving forward with a given speed will have a greater proper motion according as it is nearer to us. To avoid all ambiguity, we shall use the term "speed" to express the velocity in miles per second with which such a body moves through space, and the term "proper motion" to express the apparent angular motion which the astronomer measures upon the celestial sphere.

Up to the present time, two stars have been found whose proper motions are so large that, if continued, the bodies would make a complete circuit of the heavens in less than 200,000 years. One of these would require about 160,000; the other about 180,000 years for the circuit. Of other stars having a rapid motion only about one hundred would complete their course in less than a million of years.

Quite recently a system of observations upon stars to the ninth magnitude has been nearly carried through by an international combination of observatories. The most important conclusion from these observations relates to the distribution of the stars with reference to the Milky Way, which we have already described. We have shown that stars of every magnitude, bright and faint, show a tendency to crowd towards this belt. It is, therefore, remarkable that no such tendency is seen in the case of those stars which have proper motions large enough to be accurately determined. So far as yet appears, such stars are equally scattered over the heavens, without reference to the course of the Milky Way. The conclusion is obvious. These stars are all inside the girdle of the Milky Way, and within the sphere which contains them the distribution in space is approximately uniform. At least there is no well-marked condensation in the direction of the galaxy nor any marked thinning out towards its poles. What can we say as to the extent of this sphere?

To answer this question, we have to consider whether there is any average or ordinary speed that a star has in space. A great number of motions in the line of sight—that is to say, in the direction of the line from us to the star—have been measured with great precision by Campbell at the Lick Observatory, and by other astronomers. The statistical investigations of Kaptoyn also throw much light on the subject. The results of these investigators agree well in showing an average speed in space—a straight-ahead motion we may call it—of twenty-one miles per second. Some stars may move more slowly than this to any extent; others more rapidly. In two or three cases the speed exceeds one hundred miles per second, but these are quite exceptional. By taking several thousand stars having a given proper motion, we may form a general idea of their average distance, though a great number of them will exceed this average to a considerable extent. The conclusion drawn in this way would be that the stars having an apparent proper motion of 10" per century or more are mostly contained within, or lie not far outside of a sphere whose surface is at a distance from us of 200 light-years. Granting the volume of space which we have shown that nature seems to allow to each star, this sphere should contain 27,000 stars in all. There are about 10,000 stars known to have so large a proper motion as 10". But there is no actual discordance between these results, because not only are there, in all probability, great numbers of stars of which the proper motion is not yet recognized, but there are within the sphere a great number of stars whose motion is less than the average. On the other hand, it is probable that a considerable number of the 10,000 stars lie at a distance at least one-half greater than that of the radius of the sphere.

On the whole, it seems likely that, out to a distance of 300 or even 400 light-years, there is no marked inequality in star distribution. If we should explore the heavens to this distance, we should neither find the beginning of the Milky Way in one direction nor a very marked thinning out in the other. This conclusion is quite accordant with the probabilities of the case. If all the stars which form the groundwork of the Milky Way should be blotted out, we should probably find 100,000,000, perhaps even more, remaining. Assigning to each star the space already shown to be its quota, we should require a sphere of about 3000 light-years radius to contain such a number of stars. At some such distance as this, we might find a thinning out of the stars in the direction of the galactic poles, or the commencement of the Milky Way in the direction of this stream.

Even if this were not found at the distance which we have supposed, it is quite certain that, at some greater distance, we should at least find that the region of the Milky Way is richer in stars than the region near the galactic poles. There is strong reason, based on the appearance of the stars of the Milky Way, their physical constitution, and their magnitudes as seen in the telescope, to believe that, were we placed on one of these stars, we should find the stars around us to be more thickly strewn than they are around our system. In other words, the quota of space filled by each star is probably less in the region of the Milky Way than it is near the centre where we seem to be situated.

We are, therefore, presented with what seems to be the most extraordinary spectacle that the universe can offer, a ring of stars spanning it, and including within its limits by far the great majority of the stars within our system. We have in this spectacle another example of the unity which seems to pervade the system. We might imagine the latter so arranged as to show diversity to any extent. We might have agglomerations of stars like those of the Milky Way situated in some corner of the system, or at its centre, or scattered through it here and there in every direction. But such is not the case. There are, indeed, a few star-clusters scattered here and there through the system; but they are essentially different from the clusters of the Milky Way, and cannot be regarded as forming an important part of the general plan. In the case of the galaxy we have no such scattering, but find the stars built, as it were, into this enormous ring, having similar characteristics throughout nearly its whole extent, and having within it a nearly uniform scattering of stars, with here and there some collected into clusters. Such, to our limited vision, now appears the universe as a whole.

We have already alluded to the conclusion that an absolutely infinite system of stars would cause the entire heavens to be filled with a blaze of light as bright as the sun. It is also true that the attractive force within such a universe would be infinitely great in some direction or another. But neither of these considerations enables us to set a limit to the extent of our system. In two remarkable papers by Lord Kelvin which have recently appeared, the one being an address before the British Association at its Glasgow meeting, in 1901, are given the results of some numerical computations pertaining to this subject. Granting that the stars are scattered promiscuously through space with some approach to uniformity in thickness, and are of a known degree of brilliancy, it is easy to compute how far out the system must extend in order that, looking up at the sky, we shall see a certain amount of light coming from the invisible stars. Granting that, in the general average, each star is as bright as the sun, and that their thickness is such that within a sphere of 3300 light-years there are 1,000,000,000 stars, if we inquire how far out such a system must be continued in order that the sky shall shine with even four per cent of the light of the sun, we shall find the distance of its boundary so great that millions of millions of years would be required for the light of the outer stars to reach the centre of the system. In view of the fact that this duration in time far exceeds what seems to be the possible life duration of a star, so far as our knowledge of it can extend, the mere fact that the sky does not glow with any such brightness proves little or nothing as to the extent of the system.

We may, however, replace these purely negative considerations by inquiring how much light we actually get from the invisible stars of our system. Here we can make a definite statement. Mark out a small circle in the sky 1 degree in diameter. The quantity of light which we receive on a cloudless and moonless night from the sky within this circle admits of actual determination. From the measures so far available it would seem that, in the general average, this quantity of light is not very different from that of a star of the fifth magnitude. This is something very different from a blaze of light. A star of the fifth magnitude is scarcely more than plainly visible to ordinary vision. The area of the whole sky is, in round numbers, about 50,000 times that of the circle we have described. It follows that the total quantity of light which we receive from all the stars is about equal to that of 50,000 stars of the fifth magnitude—somewhat more than 1000 of the first magnitude. This whole amount of light would have to be multiplied by 90,000,000 to make a light equal to that of the sun. It is, therefore, not at all necessary to consider how far the system must extend in order that the heavens should blaze like the sun. Adopting Lord Kelvin's hypothesis, we shall find that, in order that we may receive from the stars the amount of light we have designated, this system need not extend beyond some 5000 light-years. But this hypothesis probably overestimates the thickness of the stars in space. It does not seem probable that there are as many as 1,000,000,000 stars within the sphere of 3300 light-years. Nor is it at all certain that the light of the average star is equal to that of the sun. It is impossible, in the present state of our knowledge, to assign any definite value to this average. To do so is a problem similar to that of assigning an average weight to each component of the animal creation, from the microscopic insects which destroy our plants up to the elephant. What we can say with a fair approximation to confidence is that, if we could fly out in any direction to a distance of 20,000, perhaps even of 10,000, light-years, we should find that we had left a large fraction of our system behind us. We should see its boundary in the direction in which we had travelled much more certainly than we see it from our stand-point.

We should not dismiss this branch of the subject without saying that considerations are frequently adduced by eminent authorities which tend to impair our confidence in almost any conclusion as to the limits of the stellar system. The main argument is based on the possibility that light is extinguished in its passage through space; that beyond a certain distance we cannot see a star, however bright, because its light is entirely lost before reaching us. That there could be any loss of light in passing through an absolute vacuum of any extent cannot be admitted by the physicist of to-day without impairing what he considers the fundamental principles of the vibration of light. But the possibility that the celestial spaces are pervaded by matter which might obstruct the passage of light is to be considered. We know that minute meteoric particles are flying through our system in such numbers that the earth encounters several millions of them every day, which appear to us in the familiar phenomena of shooting-stars. If such particles are scattered through all space, they must ultimately obstruct the passage of light. We know little of the size of these bodies, but, from the amount of energy contained in their light as they are consumed in the passage through our atmosphere, it does not seem at all likely that they are larger than grains of sand or, perhaps, minute pebbles. They are probably vastly more numerous in the vicinity of the sun than in the interstellar spaces, since they would naturally tend to be collected by the sun's attraction. In fact there are some reasons for believing that most of these bodies are the debris of comets; and the latter are now known to belong to the solar system, and not to the universe at large.

But whatever view we take of these possibilities, they cannot invalidate our conclusion as to the general structure of the stellar system as we know it. Were meteors so numerous as to cut off a large fraction of the light from the more distant stars, we should see no Milky Way, but the apparent thickness of the stars in every direction would be nearly the same. The fact that so many more of these objects are seen around the galactic belt than in the direction of its poles shows that, whatever extinction light may suffer in going through the greatest distances, we see nearly all that comes from stars not more distant than the Milky Way itself.

Intimately connected with the subject we have discussed is the question of the age of our system, if age it can be said to have. In considering this question, the simplest hypothesis to suggest itself is that the universe has existed forever in some such form as we now see it; that it is a self-sustaining system, able to go on forever with only such cycles of transformation as may repeat themselves indefinitely, and may, therefore, have repeated themselves indefinitely in the past. Ordinary observation does not make anything known to us which would seem to invalidate this hypothesis. In looking upon the operations of the universe, we may liken ourselves to a visitor to the earth from another sphere who has to draw conclusions about the life of an individual man from observations extending through a few days. During that time, he would see no reason why the life of the man should have either a beginning or an end. He sees a daily round of change, activity and rest, nutrition and waste; but, at the end of the round, the individual is seemingly restored to his state of the day before. Why may not this round have been going on forever, and continue in the future without end? It would take a profounder course of observation and a longer time to show that, notwithstanding this seeming restoration, an imperceptible residual of vital energy, necessary to the continuance of life, has not been restored, and that the loss of this residuum day by day must finally result in death.

The case is much the same with the great bodies of the universe. Although, to superficial observation, it might seem that they could radiate their light forever, the modern generalizations of physics show that such cannot be the case. The radiation of light necessarily involves a corresponding loss of heat and with it the expenditure of some form of energy. The amount of energy within any body is necessarily limited. The supply must be exhausted unless the energy of the light sent out into infinite space is, in some way, restored to the body which expended it. The possibility of such a restoration completely transcends our science. How can the little vibration which strikes our eye from some distant star, and which has been perhaps thousands of years in reaching us, find its way back to its origin? The light emitted by the sun 10,000 years ago is to-day pursuing its way in a sphere whose surface is 10,000 light-years distant on all sides. Science has nothing even to suggest the possibility of its restoration, and the most delicate observations fail to show any return from the unfathomable abyss.

Up to the time when radium was discovered, the most careful investigations of all conceivable sources of supply had shown only one which could possibly be of long duration. This is the contraction which is produced in the great incandescent bodies of the universe by the loss of the heat which they radiate. As remarked in the preceding essay, the energy generated by the sun's contraction could not have kept up its present supply of heat for much more than twenty or thirty millions of years, while the study of earth and ocean shows evidence of the action of a series of causes which must have been going on for hundreds of millions of years.

The antagonism between the two conclusions is even more marked than would appear from this statement. The period of the sun's heat set by the astronomical physicist is that during which our luminary could possibly have existed in its present form. The period set by the geologist is not merely that of the sun's existence, but that during which the causes effecting geological changes have not undergone any complete revolution. If, at any time, the sun radiated much less than its present amount of heat, no water could have existed on the earth's surface except in the form of ice; there would have been scarcely any evaporation, and the geological changes due to erosion could not have taken place. Moreover, the commencement of the geological operations of which we speak is by no means the commencement of the earth's existence. The theories of both parties agree that, for untold aeons before the geological changes now visible commenced, our planet was a molten mass, perhaps even an incandescent globe like the sun. During all those aeons the sun must have been in existence as a vast nebulous mass, first reaching as far as the earth's orbit, and slowly contracting its dimensions. And these aeons are to be included in any estimate of the age of the sun.

The doctrine of cosmic evolution—the theory which in former times was generally known as the nebular hypothesis—that the heavenly bodies were formed by the slow contraction of heated nebulous masses, is indicated by so many facts that it seems scarcely possible to doubt it except on the theory that the laws of nature were, at some former time, different from those which we now see in operation. Granting the evolutionary hypothesis, every star has its lifetime. We can even lay down the law by which it passes from infancy to old age. All stars do not have the same length of life; the rule is that the larger the star, or the greater the mass of matter which composes it, the longer will it endure. Up to the present time, science can do nothing more than point out these indications of a beginning, and their inevitable consequence, that there is to be an end to the light and heat of every heavenly body. But no cautious thinker can treat such a subject with the ease of ordinary demonstration. The investigator may even be excused if he stands dumb with awe before the creation of his own intellect. Our accurate records of the operations of nature extend through only two or three centuries, and do not reach a satisfactory standard until within a single century. The experience of the individual is limited to a few years, and beyond this period he must depend upon the records of his ancestors. All his knowledge of the laws of nature is derived from this very limited experience. How can he essay to describe what may have been going on hundreds of millions of years in the past? Can he dare to say that nature was the same then as now?

It is a fundamental principle of the theory of evolution, as developed by its greatest recent expounder, that matter itself is eternal, and that all the changes which have taken place in the universe, so far as made up of matter, are in the nature of transformations of this eternal substance. But we doubt whether any physical philosopher of the present day would be satisfied to accept any demonstration of the eternity of matter. All he would admit is that, so far as his observation goes, no change in the quantity of matter can be produced by the action of any known cause. It seems to be equally uncreatable and indestructible. But he would, at the same time, admit that his experience no more sufficed to settle the question than the observation of an animal for a single day would settle the question of the duration of its life, or prove that it had neither beginning nor end. He would probably admit that even matter itself may be a product of evolution. The astronomer finds it difficult to conceive that the great nebulous masses which he sees in the celestial spaces—millions of times larger than the whole solar system, yet so tenuous that they offer not the slightest obstruction to the passage of a ray of light through their whole length—situated in what seems to be a region of eternal cold, below anything that we can produce on the earth's surface, yet radiating light, and with it heat, like an incandescent body—can be made up of the same kind of substance that we have around us on the earth's surface. Who knows but that the radiant property that Becquerel has found in certain forms of matter may be a residuum of some original form of energy which is inherent in great cosmical masses, and has fed our sun during all the ages required by the geologist for the structure of the earth's crusts? It may be that in this phenomenon we have the key to the great riddle of the universe, with which profounder secrets of matter than any we have penetrated will be opened to the eyes of our successors.

IV

THE EXTENT OF THE UNIVERSE

We cannot expect that the wisest men of our remotest posterity, who can base their conclusions upon thousands of years of accurate observation, will reach a decision on this subject without some measure of reserve. Such being the case, it might appear the dictate of wisdom to leave its consideration to some future age, when it may be taken up with better means of information than we now possess. But the question is one which will refuse to be postponed so long as the propensity to think of the possibilities of creation is characteristic of our race. The issue is not whether we shall ignore the question altogether, like Eve in the presence of Raphael; but whether in studying it we shall confine our speculations within the limits set by sound scientific reasoning. Essaying to do this, I invite the reader's attention to what science may suggest, admitting in advance that the sphere of exact knowledge is small compared with the possibilities of creation, and that outside this sphere we can state only more or less probable conclusions.

The reader who desires to approach this subject in the most receptive spirit should begin his study by betaking himself on a clear, moonless evening, when he has no earthly concern to disturb the serenity of his thoughts, to some point where he can lie on his back on bench or roof, and scan the whole vault of heaven at one view. He can do this with the greatest pleasure and profit in late summer or autumn—winter would do equally well were it possible for the mind to rise so far above bodily conditions that the question of temperature should not enter. The thinking man who does this under circumstances most favorable for calm thought will form a new conception of the wonder of the universe. If summer or autumn be chosen, the stupendous arch of the Milky Way will pass near the zenith, and the constellation Lyra, led by its beautiful blue Vega of the first magnitude, may be not very far from that point. South of it will be seen the constellation Aquila, marked by the bright Altair, between two smaller but conspicuous stars. The bright Arcturus will be somewhere in the west, and, if the observation is not made too early in the season, Aldebaran will be seen somewhere in the east. When attention is concentrated on the scene the thousands of stars on each side of the Milky Way will fill the mind with the consciousness of a stupendous and all-embracing frame, beside which all human affairs sink into insignificance. A new idea will be formed of such a well-known fact of astronomy as the motion of the solar system in space, by reflecting that, during all human history, the sun, carrying the earth with it, has been flying towards a region in or just south of the constellation Lyra, with a speed beyond all that art can produce on earth, without producing any change apparent to ordinary vision in the aspect of the constellation. Not only Lyra and Aquila, but every one of the thousand stars which form the framework of the sky, were seen by our earliest ancestors just as we see them now. Bodily rest may be obtained at any time by ceasing from our labors, and weary systems may find nerve rest at any summer resort; but I know of no way in which complete rest can be obtained for the weary soul—in which the mind can be so entirely relieved of the burden of all human anxiety—as by the contemplation of the spectacle presented by the starry heavens under the conditions just described. As we make a feeble attempt to learn what science can tell us about the structure of this starry frame, I hope the reader will allow me to at least fancy him contemplating it in this way.

The first question which may suggest itself to the inquiring reader is: How is it possible by any methods of observation yet known to the astronomer to learn anything about the universe as a whole? We may commence by answering this question in a somewhat comprehensive way. It is possible only because the universe, vast though it is, shows certain characteristics of a unified and bounded whole. It is not a chaos, it is not even a collection of things, each of which came into existence in its own separate way. If it were, there would be nothing in common between two widely separate regions of the universe. But, as a matter of fact, science shows unity in the whole structure, and diversity only in details. The Milky Way itself will be seen by the most ordinary observer to form a single structure. This structure is, in some sort, the foundation on which the universe is built. It is a girdle which seems to span the whole of creation, so far as our telescopes have yet enabled us to determine what creation is; and yet it has elements of similarity in all its parts. What has yet more significance, it is in some respects unlike those parts of the universe which lie without it, and even unlike those which lie in that central region within it where our system is now situated. The minute stars, individually far beyond the limit of visibility to the naked eye, which form its cloudlike agglomerations, are found to be mostly bluer in color, from one extreme to the other, than the general average of the stars which make up the rest of the universe.

In the preceding essay on the structure of the universe, we have pointed out several features of the universe showing the unity of the whole. We shall now bring together these and other features with a view of showing their relation to the question of the extent of the universe.

The Milky Way being in a certain sense the foundation on which the whole system is constructed, we have first to notice the symmetry of the whole. This is seen in the fact that a certain resemblance is found in any two opposite regions of the sky, no matter where we choose them. If we take them in the Milky Way, the stars are more numerous than elsewhere; if we take opposite regions in or near the Milky Way, we shall find more stars in both of them than elsewhere; if we take them in the region anywhere around the poles of the Milky Way, we shall find fewer stars, but they will be equally numerous in each of the two regions. We infer from this that whatever cause determined the number of the stars in space was of the same nature in every two antipodal regions of the heavens.

Another unity marked with yet more precision is seen in the chemical elements of which stars are composed. We know that the sun is composed of the same elements which we find on the earth and into which we resolve compounds in our laboratories. These same elements are found in the most distant stars. It is true that some of these bodies seem to contain elements which we do not find on earth. But as these unknown elements are scattered from one extreme of the universe to the other, they only serve still further to enforce the unity which runs through the whole. The nebulae are composed, in part at least, of forms of matter dissimilar to any with which we are acquainted. But, different though they may be, they are alike in their general character throughout the whole field we are considering. Even in such a feature as the proper motions of the stars, the same unity is seen. The reader doubtless knows that each of these objects is flying through space on its own course with a speed comparable with that of the earth around the sun. These speeds range from the smallest limit up to more than one hundred miles a second. Such diversity might seem to detract from the unity of the whole; but when we seek to learn something definite by taking their average, we find this average to be, so far as can yet be determined, much the same in opposite regions of the universe. Quite recently it has become probable that a certain class of very bright stars known as Orion stars—because there are many of them in the most brilliant of our constellations—which are scattered along the whole course of the Milky Way, have one and all, in the general average, slower motions than other stars. Here again we have a definable characteristic extending through the universe. In drawing attention to these points of similarity throughout the whole universe, it must not be supposed that we base our conclusions directly upon them. The point they bring out is that the universe is in the nature of an organized system; and it is upon the fact of its being such a system that we are able, by other facts, to reach conclusions as to its structure, extent, and other characteristics.

One of the great problems connected with the universe is that of its possible extent. How far away are the stars? One of the unities which we have described leads at once to the conclusion that the stars must be at very different distances from us; probably the more distant ones are a thousand times as far as the nearest; possibly even farther than this. This conclusion may, in the first place, be based on the fact that the stars seem to be scattered equally throughout those regions of the universe which are not connected with the Milky Way. To illustrate the principle, suppose a farmer to sow a wheat-field of entirely unknown extent with ten bushels of wheat. We visit the field and wish to have some idea of its acreage. We may do this if we know how many grains of wheat there are in the ten bushels. Then we examine a space two or three feet square in any part of the field and count the number of grains in that space. If the wheat is equally scattered over the whole field, we find its extent by the simple rule that the size of the field bears the same proportion to the size of the space in which the count was made that the whole number of grains in the ten bushels sown bears to the number of grains counted. If we find ten grains in a square foot, we know that the number of square feet in the whole field is one-tenth that of the number of grains sown. So it is with the universe of stars. If the latter are sown equally through space, the extent of the space occupied must be proportional to the number of stars which it contains.

But this consideration does not tell us anything about the actual distance of the stars or how thickly they may be scattered. To do this we must be able to determine the distance of a certain number of stars, just as we suppose the farmer to count the grains in a certain small extent of his wheat-field. There is only one way in which we can make a definite measure of the distance of any one star. As the earth swings through its vast annual circuit round the sun, the direction of the stars must appear to be a little different when seen from one extremity of the circuit than when seen from the other. This difference is called the parallax of the stars; and the problem of measuring it is one of the most delicate and difficult in the whole field of practical astronomy.

The nineteenth century was well on its way before the instruments of the astronomer were brought to such perfection as to admit of the measurement. From the time of Copernicus to that of Bessel many attempts had been made to measure the parallax of the stars, and more than once had some eager astronomer thought himself successful. But subsequent investigation always showed that he had been mistaken, and that what he thought was the effect of parallax was due to some other cause, perhaps the imperfections of his instrument, perhaps the effect of heat and cold upon it or upon the atmosphere through which he was obliged to observe the star, or upon the going of his clock. Thus things went on until 1837, when Bessel announced that measures with a heliometer—the most refined instrument that has ever been used in measurement—showed that a certain star in the constellation Cygnus had a parallax of one-third of a second. It may be interesting to give an idea of this quantity. Suppose one's self in a house on top of a mountain looking out of a window one foot square, at a house on another mountain one hundred miles away. One is allowed to look at that distant house through one edge of the pane of glass and then through the opposite edge; and he has to determine the change in the direction of the distant house produced by this change of one foot in his own position. From this he is to estimate how far off the other mountain is. To do this, one would have to measure just about the amount of parallax that Bessel found in his star. And yet this star is among the few nearest to our system. The nearest star of all, Alpha Centauri, visible only in latitudes south of our middle ones, is perhaps half as far as Bessel's star, while Sirius and one or two others are nearly at the same distance. About 100 stars, all told, have had their parallax measured with a greater or less degree of probability. The work is going on from year to year, each successive astronomer who takes it up being able, as a general rule, to avail himself of better instruments or to use a better method. But, after all, the distances of even some of the 100 stars carefully measured must still remain quite doubtful.

Let us now return to the idea of dividing the space in which the universe is situated into concentric spheres drawn at various distances around our system as a centre. Here we shall take as our standard a distance 400,000 times that of the sun from the earth. Regarding this as a unit, we imagine ourselves to measure out in any direction a distance twice as great as this—then another equal distance, making one three times as great, and so indefinitely. We then have successive spheres of which we take the nearer one as the unit. The total space filled by the second sphere will be 8 times the unit; that of the third space 27 times, and so on, as the cube of each distance. Since each sphere includes all those within it, the volume of space between each two spheres will be proportional to the difference of these numbers—that is, to 1, 7, 19, etc. Comparing these volumes with the number of stars probably within them, the general result up to the present time is that the number of stars in any of these spheres will be about equal to the units of volume which they comprise, when we take for this unit the smallest and innermost of the spheres, having a radius 400,000 times the sun's distance. We are thus enabled to form some general idea of how thickly the stars are sown through space. We cannot claim any numerical exactness for this idea, but in the absence of better methods it does afford us some basis for reasoning.

Now we can carry on our computation as we supposed the farmer to measure the extent of his wheat-field. Let us suppose that there are 125,000,000 stars in the heavens. This is an exceedingly rough estimate, but let us make the supposition for the time being. Accepting the view that they are nearly equally scattered throughout space, it will follow that they must be contained within a volume equal to 125,000,000 times the sphere we have taken as our unit. We find the distance of the surface of this sphere by extracting the cube root of this number, which gives us 500. We may, therefore, say, as the result of a very rough estimate, that the number of stars we have supposed would be contained within a distance found by multiplying 400,000 times the distance of the sun by 500; that is, that they are contained within a region whose boundary is 200,000,000 times the distance of the sun. This is a distance through which light would travel in about 3300 years.

It is not impossible that the number of stars is much greater than that we have supposed. Let us grant that there are eight times as many, or 1,000,000,000. Then we should have to extend the boundary of our universe twice as far, carrying it to a distance which light would require 6600 years to travel.

There is another method of estimating the thickness with which stars are sown through space, and hence the extent of the universe, the result of which will be of interest. It is based on the proper motion of the stars. One of the greatest triumphs of astronomy of our time has been the measurement of the actual speed at which many of the stars are moving to or from us in space. These measures are made with the spectroscope. Unfortunately, they can be best made only on the brighter stars—becoming very difficult in the case of stars not plainly visible to the naked eye. Still the motions of several hundreds have been measured and the number is constantly increasing.

A general result of all these measures and of other estimates may be summed up by saying that there is a certain average speed with which the individual stars move in space; and that this average is about twenty miles per second. We are also able to form an estimate as to what proportion of the stars move with each rate of speed from the lowest up to a limit which is probably as high as 150 miles per second. Knowing these proportions we have, by observation of the proper motions of the stars, another method of estimating how thickly they are scattered in space; in other words, what is the volume of space which, on the average, contains a single star. This method gives a thickness of the stars greater by about twenty-five per cent, than that derived from the measures of parallax. That is to say, a sphere like the second we have proposed, having a radius 800,000 times the distance of the sun, and therefore a diameter 1,600,000 times this distance, would, judging by the proper motions, have ten or twelve stars contained within it, while the measures of parallax only show eight stars within the sphere of this diameter having the sun as its centre. The probabilities are in favor of the result giving the greater thickness of the stars. But, after all, the discrepancy does not change the general conclusion as to the limits of the visible universe. If we cannot estimate its extent with the same certainty that we can determine the size of the earth, we can still form a general idea of it.

The estimates we have made are based on the supposition that the stars are equally scattered in space. We have good reason to believe that this is true of all the stars except those of the Milky Way. But, after all, the latter probably includes half the whole number of stars visible with a telescope, and the question may arise whether our results are seriously wrong from this cause. This question can best be solved by yet another method of estimating the average distance of certain classes of stars.

The parallaxes of which we have heretofore spoken consist in the change in the direction of a star produced by the swing of the earth from one side of its orbit to the other. But we have already remarked that our solar system, with the earth as one of its bodies, has been journeying straightforward through space during all historic times. It follows, therefore, that we are continually changing the position from which we view the stars, and that, if the latter were at rest, we could, by measuring the apparent speed with which they are moving in the opposite direction from that of the earth, determine their distance. But since every star has its own motion, it is impossible, in any one case, to determine how much of the apparent motion is due to the star itself, and how much to the motion of the solar system through space. Yet, by taking general averages among groups of stars, most of which are probably near each other, it is possible to estimate the average distance by this method. When an attempt is made to apply it, so as to obtain a definite result, the astronomer finds that the data now available for the purpose are very deficient. The proper motion of a star can be determined only by comparing its observed position in the heavens at two widely separate epochs. Observations of sufficient precision for this purpose were commenced about 1750 at the Greenwich Observatory, by Bradley, then Astronomer Royal of England. But out of 3000 stars which he determined, only a few are available for the purpose. Even since his time, the determinations made by each generation of astronomers have not been sufficiently complete and systematic to furnish the material for anything like a precise determination of the proper motions of stars. To determine a single position of any one star involves a good deal of computation, and if we reflect that, in order to attack the problem in question in a satisfactory way, we should have observations of 1,000,000 of these bodies made at intervals of at least a considerable fraction of a century, we see what an enormous task the astronomers dealing with this problem have before them, and how imperfect must be any determination of the distance of the stars based on our motion through space. So far as an estimate can be made, it seems to agree fairly well with the results obtained by the other methods. Speaking roughly, we have reason, from the data so far available, to believe that the stars of the Milky Way are situated at a distance between 100,000,000 and 200,000,000 times the distance of the sun. At distances less than this it seems likely that the stars are distributed through space with some approach to uniformity. We may state as a general conclusion, indicated by several methods of making the estimate, that nearly all the stars which we can see with our telescopes are contained within a sphere not likely to be much more than 200,000,000 times the distance of the sun.

The inquiring reader may here ask another question. Granting that all the stars we can see are contained within this limit, may there not be any number of stars outside the limit which are invisible only because they are too far away to be seen?

This question may be answered quite definitely if we grant that light from the most distant stars meets with no obstruction in reaching us. The most conclusive answer is afforded by the measure of starlight. If the stars extended out indefinitely, then the number of those of each order of magnitude would be nearly four times that of the magnitude next brighter. For example, we should have nearly four times as many stars of the sixth magnitude as of the fifth; nearly four times as many of the seventh as of the sixth, and so on indefinitely. Now, it is actually found that while this ratio of increase is true for the brighter stars, it is not so for the fainter ones, and that the increase in the number of the latter rapidly falls off when we make counts of the fainter telescopic stars. In fact, it has long been known that, were the universe infinite in extent, and the stars equally scattered through all space, the whole heavens would blaze with the light of countless millions of distant stars separately invisible even with the telescope.

The only way in which this conclusion can be invalidated is by the possibility that the light of the stars is in some way extinguished or obstructed in its passage through space. A theory to this effect was propounded by Struve nearly a century ago, but it has since been found that the facts as he set them forth do not justify the conclusion, which was, in fact, rather hypothetical. The theories of modern science converge towards the view that, in the pure ether of space, no single ray of light can ever be lost, no matter how far it may travel. But there is another possible cause for the extinction of light. During the last few years discoveries of dark and therefore invisible stars have been made by means of the spectroscope with a success which would have been quite incredible a very few years ago, and which, even to-day, must excite wonder and admiration. The general conclusion is that, besides the shining stars which exist in space, there may be any number of dark ones, forever invisible in our telescopes. May it not be that these bodies are so numerous as to cut off the light which we would otherwise receive from the more distant bodies of the universe? It is, of course, impossible to answer this question in a positive way, but the probable conclusion is a negative one. We may say with certainty that dark stars are not so numerous as to cut off any important part of the light from the stars of the Milky Way, because, if they did, the latter would not be so clearly seen as it is. Since we have reason to believe that the Milky Way comprises the more distant stars of our system, we may feel fairly confident that not much light can be cut off by dark bodies from the most distant region to which our telescopes can penetrate. Up to this distance we see the stars just as they are. Even within the limit of the universe as we understand it, it is likely that more than one-half the stars which actually exist are too faint to be seen by human vision, even when armed with the most powerful telescopes. But their invisibility is due only to their distance and the faintness of their intrinsic light, and not to any obstructing agency.

The possibility of dark stars, therefore, does not invalidate the general conclusions at which our survey of the subject points. The universe, so far as we can see it, is a bounded whole. It is surrounded by an immense girdle of stars, which, to our vision, appears as the Milky Way. While we cannot set exact limits to its distance, we may yet confidently say that it is bounded. It has uniformities running through its vast extent. Could we fly out to distances equal to that of the Milky Way, we should find comparatively few stars beyond the limits of that girdle. It is true that we cannot set any definite limit and say that beyond this nothing exists. What we can say is that the region containing the visible stars has some approximation to a boundary. We may fairly anticipate that each successive generation of astronomers, through coming centuries, will obtain a little more light on the subject—will be enabled to make more definite the boundaries of our system of stars, and to draw more and more probable conclusions as to the existence or non-existence of any object outside of it. The wise investigator of to-day will leave to them the task of putting the problem into a more positive shape.

V

MAKING AND USING A TELESCOPE

The impression is quite common that satisfactory views of the heavenly bodies can be obtained only with very large telescopes, and that the owner of a small one must stand at a great disadvantage alongside of the fortunate possessor of a great one. This is not true to the extent commonly supposed. Sir William Herschel would have been delighted to view the moon through what we should now consider a very modest instrument; and there are some objects, especially the moon, which commonly present a more pleasing aspect through a small telescope than through a large one. The numerous owners of small telescopes throughout the country might find their instruments much more interesting than they do if they only knew what objects were best suited to examination with the means at their command. There are many others, not possessors of telescopes, who would like to know how one can be acquired, and to whom hints in this direction will be valuable. We shall therefore give such information as we are able respecting the construction of a telescope, and the more interesting celestial objects to which it may be applied.

Whether the reader does or does not feel competent to undertake the making of a telescope, it may be of interest to him to know how it is done. First, as to the general principles involved, it is generally known that the really vital parts of the telescope, which by their combined action perform the office of magnifying the object looked at, are two in number, the OBJECTIVE and the EYE-PIECE. The former brings the rays of light which emanate from the object to the focus where the image of the object is formed. The eye-piece enables the observer to see this image to the best advantage.

The functions of the objective as well as those of the eye-piece may, to a certain extent, each be performed by a single lens. Galileo and his contemporaries made their telescopes in this way, because they knew of no way in which two lenses could be made to do better than one. But every one who has studied optics knows that white light passing through a single lens is not all brought to the same focus, but that the blue light will come to a focus nearer the objective than the red light. There will, in fact, be a succession of images, blue, green, yellow, and red, corresponding to the colors of the spectrum. It is impossible to see these different images clearly at the same time, because each of them will render all the others indistinct.

The achromatic object-glass, invented by Dollond, about 1750, obviates this difficulty, and brings all the rays to nearly the same focus. Nearly every one interested in the subject is aware that this object-glass is composed of two lenses—a concave one of flint-glass and a convex one of crown-glass, the latter being on the side towards the object. This is the one vital part of the telescope, the construction of which involves the greatest difficulty. Once in possession of a perfect object-glass, the rest of the telescope is a matter of little more than constructive skill which there is no difficulty in commanding.

The construction of the object-glass requires two completely distinct processes: the making of the rough glass, which is the work of the glass-maker; and the grinding and polishing into shape, which is the work of the optician. The ordinary glass of commerce will not answer the purpose of the telescope at all, because it is not sufficiently clear and homogeneous. OPTICAL GLASS, as it is called, must be made of materials selected and purified with the greatest care, and worked in a more elaborate manner than is necessary in any other kind of glass. In the time of Dollond it was found scarcely possible to make good disks of flint-glass more than three or four inches in diameter. Early in the present century, Guinand, of Switzerland, invented a process by which disks of much larger size could be produced. In conjunction with the celebrated Fraunhofer he made disks of nine or ten inches in diameter, which were employed by his colaborer in constructing the telescopes which were so famous in their time. He was long supposed to be in possession of some secret method of avoiding the difficulties which his predecessors had met. It is now believed that this secret, if one it was, consisted principally in the constant stirring of the molten glass during the process of manufacture. However this may be, it is a curious historical fact that the most successful makers of these great disks of glass have either been of the family of Guinand, or successors, in the management of the family firm. It was Feil, a son-in-law or near relative, who made the glass from which Clark fabricated the lenses of the great telescope of the Lick Observatory. His successor, Mantois, of Paris, carried the art to a point of perfection never before approached. The transparency and uniformity of his disks as well as the great size to which he was able to carry them would suggest that he and his successors have out-distanced all competitors in the process. He it was who made the great 40-inch lens for the Yerkes Observatory.

As optical glass is now made, the material is constantly stirred with an iron rod during all the time it is melting in the furnace, and after it has begun to cool, until it becomes so stiff that the stirring has to cease. It is then placed, pot and all, in the annealing furnace, where it is kept nearly at a melting heat for three weeks or more, according to the size of the pot. When the furnace has cooled off, the glass is taken out, and the pot is broken from around it, leaving only the central mass of glass. Having such a mass, there is no trouble in breaking it up into pieces of all desirable purity, and sufficiently large for moderate-sized telescopes. But when a great telescope of two feet aperture or upward is to be constructed, very delicate and laborious operations have to be undertaken. The outside of the glass has first to be chipped off, because it is filled with impurities from the material of the pot itself. But this is not all. Veins of unequal density are always found extending through the interior of the mass, no way of avoiding them having yet been discovered. They are supposed to arise from the materials of the pot and stirring rod, which become mixed in with the glass in consequence of the intense heat to which all are subjected. These veins must, so far as possible, be ground or chipped out with the greatest care. The glass is then melted again, pressed into a flat disk, and once more put into the annealing oven. In fact, the operation of annealing must be repeated every time the glass is melted. When cooled, it is again examined for veins, of which great numbers are sure to be found. The problem now is to remove these by cutting and grinding without either breaking the glass in two or cutting a hole through it. If the parts of the glass are once separated, they can never be joined without producing a bad scar at the point of junction. So long, however, as the surface is unbroken, the interior parts of the glass can be changed in form to any extent. Having ground out the veins as far as possible, the glass is to be again melted, and moulded into proper shape. In this mould great care must be taken to have no folding of the surface. Imagining the latter to be a sort of skin enclosing the melted glass inside, it must be raised up wherever the glass is thinnest, and the latter allowed to slowly run together beneath it.

[Illustration with caption: THE GLASS DISK.]

If the disk is of flint, all the veins must be ground out on the first or second trial, because after two or three mouldings the glass will lose its transparency. A crown disk may, however, be melted a number of times without serious injury. In many cases—perhaps the majority—the artisan finds that after all his months of labor he cannot perfectly clear his glass of the noxious veins, and he has to break it up into smaller pieces. When he finally succeeds, the disk has the form of a thin grindstone two feet or upward in diameter, according to the size of the telescope to be made, and from two to three inches in thickness. The glass is then ready for the optician.

[Illustration with caption: THE OPTICIAN'S TOOL.]

The first process to be performed by the optician is to grind the glass into the shape of a lens with perfectly spherical surfaces. The convex surface must be ground in a saucer-shaped tool of corresponding form. It is impossible to make a tool perfectly spherical in the first place, but success may be secured on the geometrical principle that two surfaces cannot fit each other in all positions unless both are perfectly spherical. The tool of the optician is a very simple affair, being nothing more than a plate of iron somewhat larger, perhaps a fourth, than the lens to be ground to the corresponding curvature. In order to insure its changing to fit the glass, it is covered on the interior with a coating of pitch from an eighth to a quarter of an inch thick. This material is admirably adapted to the purpose because it gives way certainly, though very slowly, to the pressure of the glass. In order that it may have room to change its form, grooves are cut through it in both directions, so as to leave it in the form of squares, like those on a chess-board.

[Illustration with caption: THE OPTICIAN'S TOOL.]

It is then sprinkled over with rouge, moistened with water, and gently warmed. The roughly ground lens is then placed upon it, and moved from side to side. The direction of the motion is slightly changed with every stroke, so that after a dozen or so of strokes the lines of motion will lie in every direction on the tool. This change of direction is most readily and easily effected by the operator slowly walking around as he polishes, at the same time the lens is to be slowly turned around either in the opposite direction or more rapidly yet in the same direction, so that the strokes of the polisher shall cross the lens in all directions. This double motion insures every part of the lens coming into contact with every part of the polisher, and moving over it in every direction.

Then whatever parts either of the lens or of the polisher may be too high to form a spherical surface will be gradually worn down, thus securing the perfect sphericity of both.

[Illustration with caption: GRINDING A LARGE LENS.]

When the polishing is done by machinery, which is the custom in Europe, with large lenses, the polisher is slid back and forth over the lens by means of a crank attached to a revolving wheel. The polisher is at the same time slowly revolving around a pivot at its centre, which pivot the crank works into, and the glass below it is slowly turned in an opposite direction. Thus the same effect is produced as in the other system. Those who practice this method claim that by thus using machinery the conditions of a uniform polish for every part of the surface can be more perfectly fulfilled than by a hand motion. The results, however, do not support this view. No European optician will claim to do better than the American firm of Alvan Clark & Sons in producing uniformly good object-glasses, and this firm always does the work by hand, moving the glass over the polisher, and not the polisher over the glass.

Having brought both flint and crown glasses into proper figure by this process, they are joined together, and tested by observations either upon a star in the heavens, or some illuminated point at a little distance on the ground. The reflection of the sun from a drop of quicksilver, a thermometer bulb, or even a piece of broken bottle, makes an excellent artificial star. The very best optician will always find that on a first trial his glass is not perfect. He will find that he has not given exactly the proper curves to secure achromatism. He must then change the figure of one or both the glasses by polishing it upon a tool of slightly different curvature. He may also find that there is some spherical aberration outstanding. He must then alter his curve so as to correct this. The correction of these little imperfections in the figures of the lenses so as to secure perfect vision through them is the most difficult branch of the art of the optician, and upon his skill in practising it will depend more than upon anything else his ultimate success and reputation. The shaping of a pair of lenses in the way we have described is not beyond the power of any person of ordinary mechanical ingenuity, possessing the necessary delicacy of touch and appreciation of the problem he is attacking. But to make a perfect objective of considerable size, which shall satisfy all the wants of the astronomer, is an undertaking requiring such accuracy of eyesight, and judgment in determining where the error lies, and such skill in manipulating so as to remove the defects, that the successful men in any one generation can be counted on one's fingers.

In order that the telescope may finally perform satisfactorily it is not sufficient that the lenses should both be of proper figure; they must also both be properly centred in their cells. If either lens is tipped aside, or slid out from its proper central line, the definition will be injured. As this is liable to happen with almost any telescope, we shall explain how the proper adjustment is to be made.

The easiest way to test this adjustment is to set the cell with the two glasses of the objective in it against a wall at night, and going to a short distance, observe the reflection in the glass of the flame of a candle held in the hand. Three or four reflections will be seen from the different surfaces. The observer, holding the candle before his eye, and having his line of sight as close as possible to the flame, must then move until the different images of the flame coincide with each other. If he cannot bring them into coincidence, owing to different pairs coinciding on different sides of the flame, the glasses are not perfectly centred upon each other. When the centring is perfect, the observer having the light in the line of the axes of the lenses, and (if it were possible to do so) looking through the centre of the flame, would see the three or four images all in coincidence. As he cannot see through the flame itself, he must look first on one side and then on the other, and see if the arrangement of the images seen in the lenses is symmetrical. If, going to different distances, he finds no deviation from symmetry, in this respect the adjustment is near enough for all practical purposes.

A more artistic instrument than a simple candle is a small concave reflector pierced through its centre, such as is used by physicians in examining the throat.

[Illustration with caption: IMAGE OF CANDLE-FLAME IN OBJECT-GLASS.]

[Illustration with caption: TESTING ADJUSTMENT OF OBJECT-GLASS.]

Place this reflector in the prolongation of the optical axis, set the candle so that the light from the reflector shall be shown through the glass, and look through the opening. Images of the reflector itself will then be seen in the object-glass, and if the adjustment is perfect, the reflector can be moved so that they will all come into coincidence together.

When the objective is in the tube of the telescope, it is always well to examine this adjustment from time to time, holding the candle so that its light shall shine through the opening perpendicularly upon the object-glass. The observer looks upon one side of the flame, and then upon the other, to see if the images are symmetrical in the different positions. If in order to see them in this way the candle has to be moved to one side of the central line of the tube, the whole objective must be adjusted. If two images coincide in one position of the candle-flame, and two in another position, so that they cannot all be brought together in any position, it shows that the glasses are not properly adjusted in their cell. It may be remarked that this last adjustment is the proper work of the optician, since it is so difficult that the user of the telescope cannot ordinarily effect it. But the perpendicularity of the whole objective to the tube of the telescope is liable to be deranged in use, and every one who uses such an instrument should be able to rectify an error of this kind.

The question may be asked, How much of a telescope can an amateur observer, under any circumstances, make for himself? As a general rule, his work in this direction must be confined to the tube and the mounting. We should not, it is true, dare to assert that any ingenious young man, with a clear appreciation of optical principles, could not soon learn to grind and polish an object-glass for himself by the method we have described, and thus obtain a much better instrument than Galileo ever had at his command. But it would be a wonderful success if his home-made telescope was equal to the most indifferent one which can be bought at an optician's. The objective, complete in itself, can be purchased at prices depending upon the size.

[Footnote: The following is a rough rule for getting an idea of the price of an achromatic objective, made to order, of the finest quality. Take the cube of the diameter in inches, or, which is the same thing, calculate the contents of a cubical box which would hold a sphere of the same diameter as the clear aperture of the glass. The price of the glass will then range from $1 to $1.75 for each cubic inch in this box. For example, the price of a four-inch objective will probably range from $64 to $112. Very small object-glasses of one or two inches may be a little higher than would be given by this rule. Instruments which are not first-class, but will answer most of the purposes of the amateur, are much cheaper.]

[Illustration with caption: A VERY PRIMITIVE MOUNTING FOR A TELESCOPE.]

The tube for the telescope may be made of paper, by pasting a great number of thicknesses around a long wooden cylinder. A yet better tube is made of a simple wooden box. The best material, however, is metal, because wood and pasteboard are liable both to get out of shape, and to swell under the influence of moisture. Tin, if it be of sufficient thickness, would be a very good material. The brighter it is kept, the better. The work of fitting the objective into one end of a tin tube of double thickness, and properly adjusting it, will probably be quite within the powers of the ordinary amateur. The fitting of the eye-piece into the other end of the tube will require some skill and care both on his own part and that of his tinsmith.

Although the construction of the eye-piece is much easier than that of the objective, since the same accuracy in adjusting the curves is not necessary, yet the price is lower in a yet greater degree, so that the amateur will find it better to buy than to make his eye-piece, unless he is anxious to test his mechanical powers. For a telescope which has no micrometer, the Huyghenian or negative eye-piece, as it is commonly called, is the best. As made by Huyghens, it consists of two plano-convex lenses, with their plane sides next the eye, as shown in the figure.

[Illustration with caption: THE HUYGHENIAN EYE-PIECE.]

So far as we have yet described our telescope it is optically complete. If it could be used as a spy-glass by simply holding it in the hand, and pointing at the object we wish to observe, there would be little need of any very elaborate support. But if a telescope, even of the smallest size, is to be used with regularity, a proper "mounting" is as essential as a good instrument. Persons unpractised in the use of such instruments are very apt to underrate the importance of those accessories which merely enable us to point the telescope. An idea of what is wanted in the mounting may readily be formed if the reader will try to look at a star with an ordinary good-sized spy-glass held in the hand, and then imagine the difficulties he meets with multiplied by fifty.

The smaller and cheaper telescopes, as commonly sold, are mounted on a simple little stand, on which the instrument admits of a horizontal and vertical motion. If one only wants to get a few glimpses of a celestial object, this mounting will answer his purpose. But to make anything like a study of a celestial body, the mounting must be an equatorial one; that is, one of the axes around which the telescope moves must be inclined so as to point towards the pole of the heavens, which is near the polar star. This axis will then make an angle with the horizon equal to the latitude of the place. The telescope cannot, however, be mounted directly on this axis, but must be attached to a second one, itself fastened to this one.

[Illustration with caption: SECTION OF THE PRIMITIVE MOUNTING. P P. Polar axis, bearing a fork at the upper end A. Declination axis passing through the fork E. Section of telescope tube C. Weight to balance the tube.]

When mounted in this way, an object can be followed in its diurnal motion from east to west by turning on the polar axis alone. But if the greatest facility in use is required, this motion must be performed by clock-work. A telescope with this appendage will commonly cost one thousand dollars and upward, so that it is not usually applied to very small ones.

We will now suppose that the reader wishes to purchase a telescope or an object-glass for himself, and to be able to judge of its performance. He must have the object-glass properly adjusted in its tube, and must use the highest power; that is, the smallest eye-piece, which he intends to use in the instrument. Of course he understands that in looking directly at a star or a celestial object it must appear sharp in outline and well defined. But without long practice with good instruments, this will not give him a very definite idea. If the person who selects the telescope is quite unpractised, it is possible that he can make the best test by ascertaining at what distance he can read ordinary print. To do this he should have an eye-piece magnifying about fifty times for each inch of aperture of the telescope. For instance, if his telescope is three inches clear aperture, then his eye-piece should magnify one hundred and fifty times; if the aperture is four inches, one magnifying two hundred times may be used. This magnifying power is, as a general rule, about the highest that can be advantageously used with any telescope. Supposing this magnifying power to be used, this page should be legible at a distance of four feet for every unit of magnifying power of the telescope. For example, with a power of 100, it should be legible at a distance of 400 feet; with a power of 200, at 800 feet, and so on. To put the condition into another shape: if the telescope will read the print at a distance of 150 feet for each inch of aperture with the best magnifying power, its performance is at least not very bad. If the magnifying power is less than would be given by this rule, the telescope should perform a little better; for instance, a three-inch telescope with a power of 60 should make this page legible at a distance of 300 feet, or four feet for each unit of power.

The test applied by the optician is much more exact, and also more easy. He points the instrument at a star, or at the reflection of the sun's rays from a small round piece of glass or a globule of quicksilver several hundred yards away, and ascertains whether the rays are all brought to a focus. This is not done by simply looking at the star, but by alternately pushing the eye-piece in beyond the point of distinct vision and drawing it out past the point. In this way the image of the star will appear, not as a point, but as a round disk of light. If the telescope is perfect, this disk will appear round and of uniform brightness in either position of the eye-piece. But if there is any spherical aberration or differences of density in different parts of the glass, the image will appear distorted in various ways. If the spherical aberration is not correct, the outer rim of the disk will be brighter than the centre when the eye-piece is pushed in, and the centre will be the brighter when it is drawn out. If the curves of the glass are not even all around, the image will appear oval in one or the other position. If there are large veins of unequal density, wings or notches will be seen on the image. If the atmosphere is steady, the image, when the eye-piece is pushed in, will be formed of a great number of minute rings of light. If the glass is good, these rings will be round, unbroken, and equally bright. We present several figures showing how these spectral images, as they are sometimes called, will appear; first, when the eye-piece is pushed in, and secondly, when it is drawn out, with telescopes of different qualities.

We have thus far spoken only of the refracting telescope, because it is the kind with which an observer would naturally seek to supply himself. At the same time there is little doubt that the construction of a reflector of moderate size is easier than that of a corresponding refractor. The essential part of the reflector is a slightly concave mirror of any metal which will bear a high polish. This mirror may be ground and polished in the same way as a lens, only the tool must be convex.

[Illustration with caption: SPECTRAL IMAGES OF STARS; THE UPPER LINE SHOWING HOW THEY APPEAR WITH THE EYE-PIECE PUSHED IN, THE LOWER WITH THE EYE-PIECE DRAWN OUT.

A The telescope is all right B Spherical aberration shown by the light and dark centre C The objective is not spherical but elliptical D The glass not uniform—a very bad and incurable case E One side of the objective nearer than the other. Adjust it]

Of late years it has become very common to make the mirror of glass and to cover the reflecting face with an exceedingly thin film of silver, which can be polished by hand in a few minutes. Such a mirror differs from our ordinary looking-glass in that the coating of silver is put on the front surface, so that the light does not pass through the glass. Moreover, the coating of silver is so thin as to be almost transparent: in fact, the sun may be seen through it by direct vision as a faint blue object. Silvered glass reflectors made in this way are extensively manufactured in London, and are far cheaper than refracting telescopes of corresponding size. Their great drawback is the want of permanence in the silver film. In the city the film will ordinarily tarnish in a few months from the sulphurous vapors arising from gaslights and other sources, and even in the country it is very difficult to preserve the mirror from the contact of everything that will injure it. In consequence, the possessor of such a telescope, if he wishes to keep it in order, must always be prepared to resilver and repolish it. To do this requires such careful manipulation and management of the chemicals that it is hardly to be expected that an amateur will take the trouble to keep his telescope in order, unless he has a taste for chemistry as well as for astronomy.

The curiosity to see the heavenly bodies through great telescopes is so wide-spread that we are apt to forget how much can be seen and done with small ones. The fact is that a large proportion of the astronomical observations of past times have been made with what we should now regard as very small instruments, and a good deal of the solid astronomical work of the present time is done with meridian circles the apertures of which ordinarily range from four to eight inches. One of the most conspicuous examples in recent times of how a moderate-sized instrument may be utilized is afforded by the discoveries of double stars made by Mr. S. W. Burnham, of Chicago. Provided with a little six-inch telescope, procured at his own expense from the Messrs. Clark, he has discovered many hundred double stars so difficult that they had escaped the scrutiny of Maedler and the Struves, and gained for himself one of the highest positions among the astronomers of the day engaged in the observation of these objects. It was with this little instrument that on Mount Hamilton, California—afterward the site of the great Lick Observatory—he discovered forty-eight new double stars, which had remained unnoticed by all previous observers. First among the objects which show beautifully through moderate instruments stands the moon. People who want to see the moon at an observatory generally make the mistake of looking when the moon is full, and asking to see it through the largest telescope. Nothing can then be made out but a brilliant blaze of light, mottled with dark spots, and crossed by irregular bright lines. The best time to view the moon is near or before the first quarter, or when she is from three to eight days old. The last quarter is of course equally favorable, so far as seeing is concerned, only one must be up after midnight to see her in that position. Seen through a three or four inch telescope, a day or two before the first quarter, about half an hour after sunset, and with a magnifying power between fifty and one hundred, the moon is one of the most beautiful objects in the heavens. Twilight softens her radiance so that the eye is not dazzled as it will be when the sky is entirely dark. The general aspect she then presents is that of a hemisphere of beautiful chased silver carved out in curious round patterns with a more than human skill. If, however, one wishes to see the minute details of the lunar surface, in which many of our astronomers are now so deeply interested, he must use a higher magnifying power. The general beautiful effect is then lessened, but more details are seen. Still, it is hardly necessary to seek for a very large telescope for any investigation of the lunar surface. I very much doubt whether any one has ever seen anything on the moon which could not be made out in a clear, steady atmosphere with a six-inch telescope of the first class.

Next to the moon, Saturn is among the most beautiful of celestial objects. Its aspect, however, varies with its position in its orbit. Twice in the course of a revolution, which occupies nearly thirty years, the rings are seen edgewise, and for a few days are invisible even in a powerful telescope. For an entire year their form may be difficult to make out with a small telescope. These unfavorable conditions occur in 1907 and 1921. Between these dates, especially for some years after 1910, the position of the planet in the sky will be the most favorable, being in northern declination, near its perihelion, and having its rings widely open. We all know that Saturn is plainly visible to the naked eye, shining almost like a star of the first magnitude, so that there is no difficulty in finding it if one knows when and where to look. In 1906-1908 its oppositions occur in the month of September. In subsequent years, it will occur a month later every two and a half years. The ring can be seen with a common, good spy-glass fastened to a post so as to be steady. A four or five-inch telescope will show most of the satellites, the division in the ring, and, when the ring is well opened, the curious dusky ring discovered by Bond. This "crape ring," as it is commonly called, is one of the most singular phenomena presented by that planet.

It might be interesting to the amateur astronomer with a keen eye and a telescope of four inches aperture or upward to frequently scrutinize Saturn, with a view of detecting any extraordinary eruptions upon his surface, like that seen by Professor Hall in 1876. On December 7th of that year a bright spot was seen upon Saturn's equator. It elongated itself from day to day, and remained visible for several weeks. Such a thing had never before been known upon this planet, and had it not been that Professor Hall was engaged in observations upon the satellites, it would not have been seen then. A similar spot on the planet was recorded in 1902, and much more extensively noticed. On this occasion the spot appeared in a higher latitude from the planet's equator than did Professor Hall's. At this appearance the time of the planet's revolution on its axis was found to be somewhat greater than in 1876, in accordance with the general law exhibited in the rotations of the sun and of Jupiter. Notwithstanding their transient character, these two spots have afforded the only determination of the time of revolution of Saturn which has been made since Herschel the elder.

[Illustration with caption: THE GREAT REFRACTOR OF THE NATIONAL OBSERVATORY AT WASHINGTON]

Of the satellites of Saturn the brightest is Titan, which can be seen with the smallest telescope, and revolves around the planet in fifteen days. Iapetus, the outer satellite, is remarkable for varying greatly in brilliancy during its revolution around the planet. Any one having the means and ability to make accurate photometrical estimates of the light of this satellite in all points of its orbit, can thereby render a valuable service to astronomy.

The observations of Venus, by which the astronomers of the last century supposed themselves to have discovered its time of rotation on its axis, were made with telescopes much inferior to ours. Although their observations have not been confirmed, some astronomers are still inclined to think that their results have not been refuted by the failure of recent observers to detect those changes which the older ones describe on the surface of the planet. With a six-inch telescope of the best quality, and with time to choose the most favorable moment, one will be as well equipped to settle the question of the rotation of Venus as the best observer. The few days near each inferior conjunction are especially to be taken advantage of.

The questions to be settled are two: first, are there any dark spots or other markings on the disk? second, are there any irregularities in the form of the sharp cusps? The central portions of the disk are much darker than the outline, and it is probably this fact which has given rise to the impression of dark spots. Unless this apparent darkness changes from time to time, or shows some irregularity in its outline, it cannot indicate any rotation of the planet. The best time to scrutinize the sharp cusps will be when the planet is nearly on the line from the earth to the sun. The best hour of the day is near sunset, the half-hour following sunset being the best of all. But if Venus is near the sun, she will after sunset be too low down to be well seen, and must be looked at late in the afternoon.

The planet Mars must always be an object of great interest, because of all the heavenly bodies it is that which appears to bear the greatest resemblance to the earth. It comes into opposition at intervals of a little more than two years, and can be well seen only for a month or two before and after each opposition. It is hopeless to look for the satellites of Mars with any but the greatest telescopes of the world. But the markings on the surface, from which the time of rotation has been determined, and which indicate a resemblance to the surface of our own planet, can be well seen with telescopes of six inches aperture and upward. One or both of the bright polar spots, which are supposed to be due to deposits of snow, can be seen with smaller telescopes when the situation of the planet is favorable.

The case is different with the so-called canals discovered by Schiaparelli in 1877, which have ever since excited so much interest, and given rise to so much discussion as to their nature. The astronomer who has had the best opportunities for studying them is Mr. Percival Lowell, whose observatory at Flaggstaff, Arizona, is finely situated for the purpose, while he also has one of the best if not the largest of telescopes. There the canals are seen as fine dark lines; but, even then, they must be fifty miles in breadth, so that the word "canal" may be regarded as a misnomer.

Although the planet Jupiter does not present such striking features as Saturn, it is of even more interest to the amateur astronomer, because he can study it with less optical power, and see more of the changes upon its surface. Every work on astronomy tells in a general way of the belts of Jupiter, and many speculate upon their causes. The reader of recent works knows that Jupiter is supposed to be not a solid mass like the earth, but a great globe of molten and vaporous matter, intermediate in constitution between the earth and the sun. The outer surface which we see is probably a hot mass of vapor hundreds of miles deep, thrown up from the heated interior. The belts are probably cloudlike forms in this vaporous mass. Certain it is that they are continually changing, so that the planet seldom looks exactly the same on two successive evenings. The rotation of the planet can be very well seen by an hour's watching. In two hours an object at the centre of the disk will move off to near the margin.

The satellites of this planet, in their ever-varying phases, are objects of perennial interest. Their eclipses may be observed with a very small telescope, if one knows when to look for them. To do this successfully, and without waste of time, it is necessary to have an astronomical ephemeris for the year. All the observable phenomena are there predicted for the convenience of observers. Perhaps the most curious observation to be made is that of the shadow of the satellite crossing the disk of Jupiter. The writer has seen this perfectly with a six-inch telescope, and a much smaller one would probably show it well. With a telescope of this size, or a little larger, the satellites can be seen between us and Jupiter. Sometimes they appear a little brighter than the planet, and sometimes a little fainter.

Of the remaining large planets, Mercury, the inner one, and Uranus and Neptune, the two outer ones, are of less interest than the others to an amateur with a small telescope, because they are more difficult to see. Mercury can, indeed, be observed with the smallest instrument, but no physical configurations or changes have ever been made out upon his surface. The question whether any such can be observed is still an open one, which can be settled only by long and careful scrutiny. A small telescope is almost as good for this purpose as a large one, because the atmospheric difficulties in the way of getting a good view of the planet cannot be lessened by an increase of telescopic power.

Uranus and Neptune are so distant that telescopes of considerable size and high magnifying power are necessary to show their disks. In small telescopes they have the appearance of stars, and the observer has no way of distinguishing them from the surrounding stars unless he can command the best astronomical appliances, such as star maps, circles on his instrument, etc. It is, however, to be remarked, as a fact not generally known, that Uranus can be well seen with the naked eye if one knows where to look for it. To recognize it, it is necessary to have an astronomical ephemeris showing its right ascension and declination, and star maps showing where the parallels of right ascension and declination lie among the stars. When once found by the naked eye, there will, of course, be no difficulty in pointing the telescope upon it.

Of celestial objects which it is well to keep a watch upon, and which can be seen to good advantage with inexpensive instruments, the sun may be considered as holding the first place. Astronomers who make a specialty of solar physics have, especially in this country, so many other duties, and their view is so often interrupted by clouds, that a continuous record of the spots on the sun and the changes they undergo is hardly possible. Perhaps one of the most interesting and useful pieces of astronomical work which an amateur can perform will consist of a record of the origin and changes of form of the solar spots and faculae. What does a spot look like when it first comes into sight? Does it immediately burst forth with considerable magnitude, or does it begin as the smallest visible speck, and gradually grow? When several spots coalesce into one, how do they do it? When a spot breaks up into several pieces, what is the seeming nature of the process? How do the groups of brilliant points called faculae come, change, and grow? All these questions must no doubt be answered in various ways, according to the behavior of the particular spot, but the record is rather meagre, and the conscientious and industrious amateur will be able to amuse himself by adding to it, and possibly may make valuable contributions to science in the same way.

Still another branch of astronomical observation, in which industry and skill count for more than expensive instruments, is the search for new comets. This requires a very practised eye, in order that the comet may be caught among the crowd of stars which flit across the field of view as the telescope is moved. It is also necessary to be well acquainted with a number of nebulae which look very much like comets. The search can be made with almost any small telescope, if one is careful to use a very low power. With a four-inch telescope a power not exceeding twenty should be employed. To search with ease, and in the best manner, the observer should have what among astronomers is familiarly known as a "broken-backed telescope." This instrument has the eye-piece on the end of the axis, where one would never think of looking for it. By turning the instrument on this axis, it sweeps from one horizon through the zenith and over to the other horizon without the observer having to move his head. This is effected by having a reflector in the central part of the instrument, which throws the rays of light at right angles through the axis.

[Illustration: THE "BROKEN-BACKED COMET-SEEKER">[

How well this search can be conducted by observers with limited means at their disposal is shown by the success of several American observers, among whom Messrs. W. R. Brooks, E. E. Barnard, and Lewis Swift are well known. The cometary discoveries of these men afford an excellent illustration of how much can be done with the smallest means when one sets to work in the right spirit.

The larger number of wonderful telescopic objects are to be sought for far beyond the confines of the solar system, in regions from which light requires years to reach us. On account of their great distance, these objects generally require the most powerful telescopes to be seen in the best manner; but there are quite a number within the range of the amateur. Looking at the Milky Way, especially its southern part, on a clear winter or summer evening, tufts of light will be seen here and there. On examining these tufts with a telescope, they will be found to consist of congeries of stars. Many of these groups are of the greatest beauty, with only a moderate optical power. Of all the groups in the Milky Way the best known is that in the sword-handle of Perseus, which may be seen during the greater part of the year, and is distinctly visible to the naked eye as a patch of diffused light. With the telescope there are seen in this patch two closely connected clusters of stars, or perhaps we ought rather to say two centres of condensation.

Another object of the same class is Proesepe in the constellation Cancer. This can be very distinctly seen by the naked eye on a clear moonless night in winter or spring as a faint nebulous object, surrounded by three small stars. The smallest telescope shows it as a group of stars.

Of all stellar objects, the great nebula of Orion is that which has most fascinated the astronomers of two centuries. It is distinctly visible to the naked eye, and may be found without difficulty on any winter night. The three bright stars forming the sword-belt of Orion are known to every one who has noticed that constellation. Below this belt is seen another triplet of stars, not so bright, and lying in a north and south direction. The middle star of this triplet is the great nebula. At first the naked eye sees nothing to distinguish it from other stars, but if closely scanned it will be seen to have a hazy aspect. A four-inch telescope will show its curious form. Not the least interesting of its features are the four stars known as the "Trapezium," which are located in a dark region near its centre. In fact, the whole nebula is dotted with stars, which add greatly to the effect produced by its mysterious aspect.

The great nebula of Andromeda is second only to that of Orion in interest. Like the former, it is distinctly visible to the naked eye, having the aspect of a faint comet. The most curious feature of this object is that although the most powerful telescopes do not resolve it into stars, it appears in the spectroscope as if it were solid matter shining by its own light.

The above are merely selections from the countless number of objects which the heavens offer to telescopic study. Many such are described in astronomical works, but the amateur can gratify his curiosity to almost any extent by searching them out for himself.

[Illustration with caption: NEBULA IN ORION]

Ever since 1878 a red spot, unlike any before noticed, has generally been visible on Jupiter. At first it was for several years a very conspicuous object, but gradually faded away, so that since 1890 it has been made out only with difficulty. But it is now regarded as a permanent feature of the planet. There is some reason to believe it was occasionally seen long before attention was first attracted to it. Doubtless, when it can be seen at all, practice in observing such objects is more important than size of telescope.

VI

WHAT THE ASTRONOMERS ARE DOING

In no field of science has human knowledge been more extended in our time than in that of astronomy. Forty years ago astronomical research seemed quite barren of results of great interest or value to our race. The observers of the world were working on a traditional system, grinding out results in an endless course, without seeing any prospect of the great generalizations to which they might ultimately lead. Now this is all changed. A new instrument, the spectroscope, has been developed, the extent of whose revelations we are just beginning to learn, although it has been more than thirty years in use. The application of photography has been so extended that, in some important branches of astronomical work, the observer simply photographs the phenomenon which he is to study, and then makes his observation on the developed negative.

The world of astronomy is one of the busiest that can be found to-day, and the writer proposes, with the reader's courteous consent, to take him on a stroll through it and see what is going on. We may begin our inspection with a body which is, for us, next to the earth, the most important in the universe. I mean the sun. At the Greenwich Observatory the sun has for more than twenty years been regularly photographed on every clear day, with the view of determining the changes going on in its spots. In recent years these observations have been supplemented by others, made at stations in India and Mauritius, so that by the combination of all it is quite exceptional to have an entire day pass without at least one photograph being taken. On these observations must mainly rest our knowledge of the curious cycle of change in the solar spots, which goes through a period of about eleven years, but of which no one has as yet been able to establish the cause.

This Greenwich system has been extended and improved by an American. Professor George E. Hale, formerly Director of the Yerkes Observatory, has devised an instrument for taking photographs of the sun by a single ray of the spectrum. The light emitted by calcium, the base of lime, and one of the substances most abundant in the sun, is often selected to impress the plate.

The Carnegie Institution has recently organized an enterprise for carrying on the study of the sun under a combination of better conditions than were ever before enjoyed. The first requirement in such a case is the ablest and most enthusiastic worker in the field, ready to devote all his energies to its cultivation. This requirement is found in the person of Professor Hale himself. The next requirement is an atmosphere of the greatest transparency, and a situation at a high elevation above sea-level, so that the passage of light from the sun to the observer shall be obstructed as little as possible by the mists and vapors near the earth's surface. This requirement is reached by placing the observatory on Mount Wilson, near Pasadena, California, where the climate is found to be the best of any in the United States, and probably not exceeded by that of any other attainable point in the world. The third requirement is the best of instruments, specially devised to meet the requirements. In this respect we may be sure that nothing attainable by human ingenuity will be found wanting.

Thus provided, Professor Hale has entered upon the task of studying the sun, and recording from day to day all the changes going on in it, using specially devised instruments for each purpose in view. Photography is made use of through almost the entire investigation. A full description of the work would require an enumeration of technical details, into which we need not enter at present. Let it, therefore, suffice to say in a general way that the study of the sun is being carried on on a scale, and with an energy worthy of the most important subject that presents itself to the astronomer. Closely associated with this work is that of Professor Langley and Dr. Abbot, at the Astro-Physical Observatory of the Smithsonian Institution, who have recently completed one of the most important works ever carried out on the light of the sun. They have for years been analyzing those of its rays which, although entirely invisible to our eyes, are of the same nature as those of light, and are felt by us as heat. To do this, Langley invented a sort of artificial eye, which he called a bolometer, in which the optic nerve is made of an extremely thin strip of metal, so slight that one can hardly see it, which is traversed by an electric current. This eye would be so dazzled by the heat radiated from one's body that, when in use, it must be protected from all such heat by being enclosed in a case kept at a constant temperature by being immersed in water. With this eye the two observers have mapped the heat rays of the sun down to an extent and with a precision which were before entirely unknown.

The question of possible changes in the sun's radiation, and of the relation of those changes to human welfare, still eludes our scrutiny. With all the efforts that have been made, the physicist of to-day has not yet been able to make anything like an exact determination of the total amount of heat received from the sun. The largest measurements are almost double the smallest. This is partly due to the atmosphere absorbing an unknown and variable fraction of the sun's rays which pass through it, and partly to the difficulty of distinguishing the heat radiated by the sun from that radiated by terrestrial objects.

In one recent instance, a change in the sun's radiation has been noticed in various parts of the world, and is of especial interest because there seems to be little doubt as to its origin. In the latter part of 1902 an extraordinary diminution was found in the intensity of the sun's heat, as measured by the bolometer and other instruments. This continued through the first part of 1903, with wide variations at different places, and it was more than a year after the first diminution before the sun's rays again assumed their ordinary intensity.

This result is now attributed to the eruption of Mount Pelee, during which an enormous mass of volcanic dust and vapor was projected into the higher regions of the air, and gradually carried over the entire earth by winds and currents. Many of our readers may remember that something yet more striking occurred after the great cataclasm at Krakatoa in 1883, when, for more than a year, red sunsets and red twilights of a depth of shade never before observed were seen in every part of the world.

What we call universology—the knowledge of the structure and extent of the universe—must begin with a study of the starry heavens as we see them. There are perhaps one hundred million stars in the sky within the reach of telescopic vision. This number is too great to allow of all the stars being studied individually; yet, to form the basis for any conclusion, we must know the positions and arrangement of as many of them as we can determine.

To do this the first want is a catalogue giving very precise positions of as many of the brighter stars as possible. The principal national observatories, as well as some others, are engaged in supplying this want. Up to the present time about 200,000 stars visible in our latitudes have been catalogued on this precise plan, and the work is still going on. In that part of the sky which we never see, because it is only visible from the southern hemisphere, the corresponding work is far from being as extensive. Sir David Gill, astronomer at the Cape of Good Hope, and also the directors of other southern observatories, are engaged in pushing it forward as rapidly as the limited facilities at their disposal will allow.

Next in order comes the work of simply listing as many stars as possible. Here the most exact positions are not required. It is only necessary to lay down the position of each star with sufficient exactness to distinguish it from all its neighbors. About 400,000 stars were during the last half-century listed in this way at the observatory of Bonn by Argelander, Schonfeld, and their assistants. This work is now being carried through the southern hemisphere on a large scale by Thome, Director of the Cordoba Observatory, in the Argentine Republic. This was founded thirty years ago by our Dr. B. A. Gould, who turned it over to Dr. Thome in 1886. The latter has, up to the present time, fixed and published the positions of nearly half a million stars. This work of Thome extends to fainter stars than any other yet attempted, so that, as it goes on, we have more stars listed in a region invisible in middle northern latitudes than we have for that part of the sky we can see. Up to the present time three quarto volumes giving the positions and magnitudes of the stars have appeared. Two or three volumes more, and, perhaps, ten or fifteen years, will be required to complete the work.

About twenty years ago it was discovered that, by means of a telescope especially adapted to this purpose, it was possible to photograph many more stars than an instrument of the same size would show to the eye. This discovery was soon applied in various quarters. Sir David Gill, with characteristic energy, photographed the stars of the southern sky to the number of nearly half a million. As it was beyond his power to measure off and compute the positions of the stars from his plates, the latter were sent to Professor J. C. Kapteyn, of Holland, who undertook the enormous labor of collecting them into a catalogue, the last volume of which was published in 1899. One curious result of this enterprise is that the work of listing the stars is more complete for the southern hemisphere than for the northern.

Another great photographic work now in progress has to do with the millions of stars which it is impossible to handle individually. Fifteen years ago an association of observatories in both hemispheres undertook to make a photographic chart of the sky on the largest scale. Some portions of this work are now approaching completion, but in others it is still in a backward state, owing to the failure of several South American observatories to carry out their part of the programme. When it is all done we shall have a picture of the sky, the study of which may require the labor of a whole generation of astronomers.

Quite independently of this work, the Harvard University, under the direction of Professor Pickering, keeps up the work of photographing the sky on a surprising scale. On this plan we do not have to leave it to posterity to learn whether there is any change in the heavens, for one result of the enterprise has been the discovery of thirteen of the new stars which now and then blaze out in the heavens at points where none were before known. Professor Pickering's work has been continually enlarged and improved until about 150,000 photographic plates, showing from time to time the places of countless millions of stars among their fellows are now stored at the Harvard Observatory. Not less remarkable than this wealth of material has been the development of skill in working it up. Some idea of the work will be obtained by reflecting that, thirty years ago, careful study of the heavens by astronomers devoting their lives to the task had resulted in the discovery of some two or three hundred stars, varying in their light. Now, at Harvard, through keen eyes studying and comparing successive photographs not only of isolated stars, but of clusters and agglomerations of stars in the Milky Way and elsewhere, discoveries of such objects numbering hundreds have been made, and the work is going on with ever-increasing speed. Indeed, the number of variable stars now known is such that their study as individual objects no longer suffices, and they must hereafter be treated statistically with reference to their distribution in space, and their relations to one another, as a census classifies the entire population without taking any account of individuals.

The works just mentioned are concerned with the stars. But the heavenly spaces contain nebulae as well as stars; and photography can now be even more successful in picturing them than the stars. A few years ago the late lamented Keeler, at the Lick Observatory, undertook to see what could be done by pointing the Crossley reflecting telescope at the sky and putting a sensitive photographic plate in the focus. He was surprised to find that a great number of nebulae, the existence of which had never before been suspected, were impressed on the plate. Up to the present time the positions of about 8000 of these objects have been listed. Keeler found that there were probably 200,000 nebulae in the heavens capable of being photographed with the Crossley reflector. But the work of taking these photographs is so great, and the number of reflecting telescopes which can be applied to it so small, that no one has ventured to seriously commence it. It is worthy of remark that only a very small fraction of these objects which can be photographed are visible to the eye, even with the most powerful telescope.

This demonstration of what the reflecting telescope can do may be regarded as one of the most important discoveries of our time as to the capabilities of astronomical instruments. It has long been known that the image formed in the focus of the best refracting telescope is affected by an imperfection arising from the different action of the glasses on rays of light of different colors. Hence, the image of a star can never be seen or photographed with such an instrument, as an actual point, but only as a small, diffused mass. This difficulty is avoided in the reflecting telescope; but a new difficulty is found in the bending of the mirror under the influence of its own weight. Devices for overcoming this had been so far from successful that, when Mr. Crossley presented his instrument to the Lick Observatory, it was feared that little of importance could be done with it. But as often happens in human affairs outside the field of astronomy, when ingenious and able men devote their attention to the careful study of a problem, it was found that new results could be reached. Thus it was that, before a great while, what was supposed to be an inferior instrument proved not only to have qualities not before suspected, but to be the means of making an important addition to the methods of astronomical investigation.

In order that our knowledge of the position of a star may be complete, we must know its distance. This can be measured only through the star's parallax—that is to say, the slight change in its direction produced by the swing of our earth around its orbit. But so vast is the distance in question that this change is immeasurably small, except for, perhaps, a few hundred stars, and even for these few its measurement almost baffles the skill of the most expert astronomer. Progress in this direction is therefore very slow, and there are probably not yet a hundred stars of which the parallax has been ascertained with any approach to certainty. Dr. Chase is now completing an important work of this kind at the Yale Observatory.

To the most refined telescopic observations, as well as to the naked eye, the stars seem all alike, except that they differ greatly in brightness, and somewhat in color. But when their light is analyzed by the spectroscope, it is found that scarcely any two are exactly alike. An important part of the work of the astro-physical observatories, especially that of Harvard, consists in photographing the spectra of thousands of stars, and studying the peculiarities thus brought out. At Harvard a large portion of this work is done as part of the work of the Henry Draper Memorial, established by his widow in memory of the eminent investigator of New York, who died twenty years ago.

By a comparison of the spectra of stars Sir William Huggins has developed the idea that these bodies, like human beings, have a life history. They are nebulae in infancy, while the progress to old age is marked by a constant increase in the density of their substance. Their temperature also changes in a way analogous to the vigor of the human being. During a certain time the star continually grows hotter and hotter. But an end to this must come, and it cools off in old age. What the age of a star may be is hard even to guess. It is many millions of years, perhaps hundreds, possibly even thousands, of millions.

Some attempt at giving the magnitude is included in every considerable list of stars. The work of determining the magnitudes with the greatest precision is so laborious that it must go on rather slowly. It is being pursued on a large scale at the Harvard Observatory, as well as in that of Potsdam, Germany.

We come now to the question of changes in the appearance of bright stars. It seems pretty certain that more than one per cent of these bodies fluctuate to a greater or less extent in their light. Observations of these fluctuations, in the case of at least the brighter stars, may be carried on without any instrument more expensive than a good opera-glass—in fact, in the case of stars visible to the naked eye, with no instrument at all.

As a general rule, the light of these stars goes through its changes in a regular period, which is sometimes as short as a few hours, but generally several days, frequently a large fraction of a year or even eighteen months. Observations of these stars are made to determine the length of the period and the law of variation of the brightness. Any person with a good eye and skill in making estimates can make the observations if he will devote sufficient pains to training himself; but they require a degree of care and assiduity which is not to be expected of any one but an enthusiast on the subject. One of the most successful observers of the present time is Mr. W. A. Roberts, a resident of South Africa, whom the Boer war did not prevent from keeping up a watch of the southern sky, which has resulted in greatly increasing our knowledge of variable stars. There are also quite a number of astronomers in Europe and America who make this particular study their specialty.

During the past fifteen years the art of measuring the speed with which a star is approaching us or receding from us has been brought to a wonderful degree of perfection. The instrument with which this was first done was the spectroscope; it is now replaced with another of the same general kind, called the spectrograph. The latter differs from the other only in that the spectrum of the star is photographed, and the observer makes his measures on the negative. This method was first extensively applied at the Potsdam Observatory in Germany, and has lately become one of the specialties of the Lick Observatory, where Professor Campbell has brought it to its present degree of perfection. The Yerkes Observatory is also beginning work in the same line, where Professor Frost is already rivalling the Lick Observatory in the precision of his measures.

Let us now go back to our own little colony and see what is being done to advance our knowledge of the solar system. This consists of planets, on one of which we dwell, moons revolving around them, comets, and meteoric bodies. The principal national observatories keep up a more or less orderly system of observations of the positions of the planets and their satellites in order to determine the laws of their motion. As in the case of the stars, it is necessary to continue these observations through long periods of time in order that everything possible to learn may be discovered.

Our own moon is one of the enigmas of the mathematical astronomer. Observations show that she is deviating from her predicted place, and that this deviation continues to increase. True, it is not very great when measured by an ordinary standard. The time at which the moon's shadow passed a given point near Norfolk during the total eclipse of May 29, 1900, was only about seven seconds different from the time given in the Astronomical Ephemeris. The path of the shadow along the earth was not out of place by more than one or two miles But, small though these deviations are, they show that something is wrong, and no one has as yet found out what it is. Worse yet, the deviation is increasing rapidly. The observers of the total eclipse in August, 1905, were surprised to find that it began twenty seconds before the predicted time. The mathematical problems involved in correcting this error are of such complexity that it is only now and then that a mathematician turns up anywhere in the world who is both able and bold enough to attack them.

There now seems little doubt that Jupiter is a miniature sun, only not hot enough at its surface to shine by its own light The point in which it most resembles the sun is that its equatorial regions rotate in less time than do the regions near the poles. This shows that what we see is not a solid body. But none of the careful observers have yet succeeded in determining the law of this difference of rotation.

Twelve years ago a suspicion which had long been entertained that the earth's axis of rotation varied a little from time to time was verified by Chandler. The result of this is a slight change in the latitude of all places on the earth's surface, which admits of being determined by precise observations. The National Geodetic Association has established four observatories on the same parallel of latitude—one at Gaithersburg, Maryland, another on the Pacific coast, a third in Japan, and a fourth in Italy—to study these variations by continuous observations from night to night. This work is now going forward on a well-devised plan.

A fact which will appeal to our readers on this side of the Atlantic is the success of American astronomers. Sixty years ago it could not be said that there was a well-known observatory on the American continent. The cultivation of astronomy was confined to a professor here and there, who seldom had anything better than a little telescope with which he showed the heavenly bodies to his students. But during the past thirty years all this has been changed. The total quantity of published research is still less among us than on the continent of Europe, but the number of men who have reached the highest success among us may be judged by one fact. The Royal Astronomical Society of England awards an annual medal to the English or foreign astronomer deemed most worthy of it. The number of these medals awarded to Americans within twenty-five years is about equal to the number awarded to the astronomers of all other nations foreign to the English. That this preponderance is not growing less is shown by the award of medals to Americans in three consecutive years—1904, 1905, and 1906. The recipients were Hale, Boss, and Campbell. Of the fifty foreign associates chosen by this society for their eminence in astronomical research, no less than eighteen—more than one-third—are Americans.

VII

LIFE IN THE UNIVERSE

So far as we can judge from what we see on our globe, the production of life is one of the greatest and most incessant purposes of nature. Life is absent only in regions of perpetual frost, where it never has an opportunity to begin; in places where the temperature is near the boiling-point, which is found to be destructive to it; and beneath the earth's surface, where none of the changes essential to it can come about. Within the limits imposed by these prohibitory conditions—that is to say, within the range of temperature at which water retains its liquid state, and in regions where the sun's rays can penetrate and where wind can blow and water exist in a liquid form—life is the universal rule. How prodigal nature seems to be in its production is too trite a fact to be dwelt upon. We have all read of the millions of germs which are destroyed for every one that comes to maturity. Even the higher forms of life are found almost everywhere. Only small islands have ever been discovered which were uninhabited, and animals of a higher grade are as widely diffused as man.

If it would be going too far to claim that all conditions may have forms of life appropriate to them, it would be going as much too far in the other direction to claim that life can exist only with the precise surroundings which nurture it on this planet. It is very remarkable in this connection that while in one direction we see life coming to an end, in the other direction we see it flourishing more and more up to the limit. These two directions are those of heat and cold. We cannot suppose that life would develop in any important degree in a region of perpetual frost, such as the polar regions of our globe. But we do not find any end to it as the climate becomes warmer. On the contrary, every one knows that the tropics are the most fertile regions of the globe in its production. The luxuriance of the vegetation and the number of the animals continually increase the more tropical the climate becomes. Where the limit may be set no one can say. But it would doubtless be far above the present temperature of the equatorial regions.

It has often been said that this does not apply to the human race, that men lack vigor in the tropics. But human vigor depends on so many conditions, hereditary and otherwise, that we cannot regard the inferior development of humanity in the tropics as due solely to temperature. Physically considered, no men attain a better development than many tribes who inhabit the warmer regions of the globe. The inferiority of the inhabitants of these regions in intellectual power is more likely the result of race heredity than of temperature.

We all know that this earth on which we dwell is only one of countless millions of globes scattered through the wilds of infinite space. So far as we know, most of these globes are wholly unlike the earth, being at a temperature so high that, like our sun, they shine by their own light. In such worlds we may regard it as quite certain that no organized life could exist. But evidence is continually increasing that dark and opaque worlds like ours exist and revolve around their suns, as the earth on which we dwell revolves around its central luminary. Although the number of such globes yet discovered is not great, the circumstances under which they are found lead us to believe that the actual number may be as great as that of the visible stars which stud the sky. If so, the probabilities are that millions of them are essentially similar to our own globe. Have we any reason to believe that life exists on these other worlds?

The reader will not expect me to answer this question positively. It must be admitted that, scientifically, we have no light upon the question, and therefore no positive grounds for reaching a conclusion. We can only reason by analogy and by what we know of the origin and conditions of life around us, and assume that the same agencies which are at play here would be found at play under similar conditions in other parts of the universe.

If we ask what the opinion of men has been, we know historically that our race has, in all periods of its history, peopled other regions with beings even higher in the scale of development than we are ourselves. The gods and demons of an earlier age all wielded powers greater than those granted to man—powers which they could use to determine human destiny. But, up to the time that Copernicus showed that the planets were other worlds, the location of these imaginary beings was rather indefinite. It was therefore quite natural that when the moon and planets were found to be dark globes of a size comparable with that of the earth itself, they were made the habitations of beings like unto ourselves.

The trend of modern discovery has been against carrying this view to its extreme, as will be presently shown. Before considering the difficulties in the way of accepting it to the widest extent, let us enter upon some preliminary considerations as to the origin and prevalence of life, so far as we have any sound basis to go upon.

A generation ago the origin of life upon our planet was one of the great mysteries of science. All the facts brought out by investigation into the past history of our earth seemed to show, with hardly the possibility of a doubt, that there was a time when it was a fiery mass, no more capable of serving as the abode of a living being than the interior of a Bessemer steel furnace. There must therefore have been, within a certain period, a beginning of life upon its surface. But, so far as investigation had gone—indeed, so far as it has gone to the present time—no life has been found to originate of itself. The living germ seems to be necessary to the beginning of any living form. Whence, then, came the first germ? Many of our readers may remember a suggestion by Sir William Thomson, now Lord Kelvin, made twenty or thirty years ago, that life may have been brought to our planet by the falling of a meteor from space. This does not, however, solve the difficulty—indeed, it would only make it greater. It still leaves open the question how life began on the meteor; and granting this, why it was not destroyed by the heat generated as the meteor passed through the air. The popular view that life began through a special act of creative power seemed to be almost forced upon man by the failure of science to discover any other beginning for it. It cannot be said that even to-day anything definite has been actually discovered to refute this view. All we can say about it is that it does not run in with the general views of modern science as to the beginning of things, and that those who refuse to accept it must hold that, under certain conditions which prevail, life begins by a very gradual process, similar to that by which forms suggesting growth seem to originate even under conditions so unfavorable as those existing in a bottle of acid.

But it is not at all necessary for our purpose to decide this question. If life existed through a creative act, it is absurd to suppose that that act was confined to one of the countless millions of worlds scattered through space. If it began at a certain stage of evolution by a natural process, the question will arise, what conditions are favorable to the commencement of this process? Here we are quite justified in reasoning from what, granting this process, has taken place upon our globe during its past history. One of the most elementary principles accepted by the human mind is that like causes produce like effects. The special conditions under which we find life to develop around us may be comprehensively summed up as the existence of water in the liquid form, and the presence of nitrogen, free perhaps in the first place, but accompanied by substances with which it may form combinations. Oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen are, then, the fundamental requirements. The addition of calcium or other forms of matter necessary to the existence of a solid world goes without saying. The question now is whether these necessary conditions exist in other parts of the universe.

The spectroscope shows that, so far as the chemical elements go, other worlds are composed of the same elements as ours. Hydrogen especially exists everywhere, and we have reason to believe that the same is true of oxygen and nitrogen. Calcium, the base of lime, is almost universal. So far as chemical elements go, we may therefore take it for granted that the conditions under which life begins are very widely diffused in the universe. It is, therefore, contrary to all the analogies of nature to suppose that life began only on a single world.

It is a scientific inference, based on facts so numerous as not to admit of serious question, that during the history of our globe there has been a continually improving development of life. As ages upon ages pass, new forms are generated, higher in the scale than those which preceded them, until at length reason appears and asserts its sway. In a recent well-known work Alfred Russel Wallace has argued that this development of life required the presence of such a rare combination of conditions that there is no reason to suppose that it prevailed anywhere except on our earth. It is quite impossible in the present discussion to follow his reasoning in detail; but it seems to me altogether inconclusive. Not only does life, but intelligence, flourish on this globe under a great variety of conditions as regards temperature and surroundings, and no sound reason can be shown why under certain conditions, which are frequent in the universe, intelligent beings should not acquire the highest development.

Now let us look at the subject from the view of the mathematical theory of probabilities. A fundamental tenet of this theory is that no matter how improbable a result may be on a single trial, supposing it at all possible, it is sure to occur after a sufficient number of trials—and over and over again if the trials are repeated often enough. For example, if a million grains of corn, of which a single one was red, were all placed in a pile, and a blindfolded person were required to grope in the pile, select a grain, and then put it back again, the chances would be a million to one against his drawing out the red grain. If drawing it meant he should die, a sensible person would give himself no concern at having to draw the grain. The probability of his death would not be so great as the actual probability that he will really die within the next twenty-four hours. And yet if the whole human race were required to run this chance, it is certain that about fifteen hundred, or one out of a million, of the whole human family would draw the red grain and meet his death.

Now apply this principle to the universe. Let us suppose, to fix the ideas, that there are a hundred million worlds, but that the chances are one thousand to one against any one of these taken at random being fitted for the highest development of life or for the evolution of reason. The chances would still be that one hundred thousand of them would be inhabited by rational beings whom we call human. But where are we to look for these worlds? This no man can tell. We only infer from the statistics of the stars—and this inference is fairly well grounded—that the number of worlds which, so far as we know, may be inhabited, are to be counted by thousands, and perhaps by millions.

In a number of bodies so vast we should expect every variety of conditions as regards temperature and surroundings. If we suppose that the special conditions which prevail on our planet are necessary to the highest forms of life, we still have reason to believe that these same conditions prevail on thousands of other worlds. The fact that we might find the conditions in millions of other worlds unfavorable to life would not disprove the existence of the latter on countless worlds differently situated.

Coming down now from the general question to the specific one, we all know that the only worlds the conditions of which can be made the subject of observation are the planets which revolve around the sun, and their satellites. The question whether these bodies are inhabited is one which, of course, completely transcends not only our powers of observation at present, but every appliance of research that we can conceive of men devising. If Mars is inhabited, and if the people of that planet have equal powers with ourselves, the problem of merely producing an illumination which could be seen in our most powerful telescope would be beyond all the ordinary efforts of an entire nation. An unbroken square mile of flame would be invisible in our telescopes, but a hundred square miles might be seen. We cannot, therefore, expect to see any signs of the works of inhabitants even on Mars. All that we can do is to ascertain with greater or less probability whether the conditions necessary to life exist on the other planets of the system.

The moon being much the nearest to us of all the heavenly bodies, we can pronounce more definitely in its case than in any other. We know that neither air nor water exists on the moon in quantities sufficient to be perceived by the most delicate tests at our command. It is certain that the moon's atmosphere, if any exists, is less than the thousandth part of the density of that around us. The vacuum is greater than any ordinary air-pump is capable of producing. We can hardly suppose that so small a quantity of air could be of any benefit whatever in sustaining life; an animal that could get along on so little could get along on none at all.

But the proof of the absence of life is yet stronger when we consider the results of actual telescopic observation. An object such as an ordinary city block could be detected on the moon. If anything like vegetation were present on its surface, we should see the changes which it would undergo in the course of a month, during one portion of which it would be exposed to the rays of the unclouded sun, and during another to the intense cold of space. If men built cities, or even separate buildings the size of the larger ones on our earth, we might see some signs of them.

In recent times we not only observe the moon with the telescope, but get still more definite information by photography. The whole visible surface has been repeatedly photographed under the best conditions. But no change has been established beyond question, nor does the photograph show the slightest difference of structure or shade which could be attributed to cities or other works of man. To all appearances the whole surface of our satellite is as completely devoid of life as the lava newly thrown from Vesuvius. We next pass to the planets. Mercury, the nearest to the sun, is in a position very unfavorable for observation from the earth, because when nearest to us it is between us and the sun, so that its dark hemisphere is presented to us. Nothing satisfactory has yet been made out as to its condition. We cannot say with certainty whether it has an atmosphere or not. What seems very probable is that the temperature on its surface is higher than any of our earthly animals could sustain. But this proves nothing.

We know that Venus has an atmosphere. This was very conclusively shown during the transits of Venus in 1874 and 1882. But this atmosphere is so filled with clouds or vapor that it does not seem likely that we ever get a view of the solid body of the planet through it. Some observers have thought they could see spots on Venus day after day, while others have disputed this view. On the whole, if intelligent inhabitants live there, it is not likely that they ever see sun or stars. Instead of the sun they see only an effulgence in the vapory sky which disappears and reappears at regular intervals.

When we come to Mars, we have more definite knowledge, and there seems to be greater possibilities for life there than in the case of any other planet besides the earth. The main reason for denying that life such as ours could exist there is that the atmosphere of Mars is so rare that, in the light of the most recent researches, we cannot be fully assured that it exists at all. The very careful comparisons of the spectra of Mars and of the moon made by Campbell at the Lick Observatory failed to show the slightest difference in the two. If Mars had an atmosphere as dense as ours, the result could be seen in the darkening of the lines of the spectrum produced by the double passage of the light through it. There were no lines in the spectrum of Mars that were not seen with equal distinctness in that of the moon. But this does not prove the entire absence of an atmosphere. It only shows a limit to its density. It may be one-fifth or one-fourth the density of that on the earth, but probably no more.

That there must be something in the nature of vapor at least seems to be shown by the formation and disappearance of the white polar caps of this planet. Every reader of astronomy at the present time knows that, during the Martian winter, white caps form around the pole of the planet which is turned away from the sun, and grow larger and larger until the sun begins to shine upon them, when they gradually grow smaller, and perhaps nearly disappear. It seems, therefore, fairly well proved that, under the influence of cold, some white substance forms around the polar regions of Mars which evaporates under the influence of the sun's rays. It has been supposed that this substance is snow, produced in the same way that snow is produced on the earth, by the evaporation of water.

But there are difficulties in the way of this explanation. The sun sends less than half as much heat to Mars as to the earth, and it does not seem likely that the polar regions can ever receive enough of heat to melt any considerable quantity of snow. Nor does it seem likely that any clouds from which snow could fall ever obscure the surface of Mars.

But a very slight change in the explanation will make it tenable. Quite possibly the white deposits may be due to something like hoar-frost condensed from slightly moist air, without the actual production of snow. This would produce the effect that we see. Even this explanation implies that Mars has air and water, rare though the former may be. It is quite possible that air as thin as that of Mars would sustain life in some form. Life not totally unlike that on the earth may therefore exist upon this planet for anything that we know to the contrary. More than this we cannot say.

In the case of the outer planets the answer to our question must be in the negative. It now seems likely that Jupiter is a body very much like our sun, only that the dark portion is too cool to emit much, if any, light. It is doubtful whether Jupiter has anything in the nature of a solid surface. Its interior is in all likelihood a mass of molten matter far above a red heat, which is surrounded by a comparatively cool, yet, to our measure, extremely hot, vapor. The belt-like clouds which surround the planet are due to this vapor combined with the rapid rotation. If there is any solid surface below the atmosphere that we can see, it is swept by winds such that nothing we have on earth could withstand them. But, as we have said, the probabilities are very much against there being anything like such a surface. At some great depth in the fiery vapor there is a solid nucleus; that is all we can say.

The planet Saturn seems to be very much like that of Jupiter in its composition. It receives so little heat from the sun that, unless it is a mass of fiery vapor like Jupiter, the surface must be far below the freezing-point.

We cannot speak with such certainty of Uranus and Neptune; yet the probability seems to be that they are in much the same condition as Saturn. They are known to have very dense atmospheres, which are made known to us only by their absorbing some of the light of the sun. But nothing is known of the composition of these atmospheres.

To sum up our argument: the fact that, so far as we have yet been able to learn, only a very small proportion of the visible worlds scattered through space are fitted to be the abode of life does not preclude the probability that among hundreds of millions of such worlds a vast number are so fitted. Such being the case, all the analogies of nature lead us to believe that, whatever the process which led to life upon this earth—whether a special act of creative power or a gradual course of development—through that same process does life begin in every part of the universe fitted to sustain it. The course of development involves a gradual improvement in living forms, which by irregular steps rise higher and higher in the scale of being. We have every reason to believe that this is the case wherever life exists. It is, therefore, perfectly reasonable to suppose that beings, not only animated, but endowed with reason, inhabit countless worlds in space. It would, indeed, be very inspiring could we learn by actual observation what forms of society exist throughout space, and see the members of such societies enjoying themselves by their warm firesides. But this, so far as we can now see, is entirely beyond the possible reach of our race, so long as it is confined to a single world.

VIII

HOW THE PLANETS ARE WEIGHED

You ask me how the planets are weighed? I reply, on the same principle by which a butcher weighs a ham in a spring-balance. When he picks the ham up, he feels a pull of the ham towards the earth. When he hangs it on the hook, this pull is transferred from his hand to the spring of the balance. The stronger the pull, the farther the spring is pulled down. What he reads on the scale is the strength of the pull. You know that this pull is simply the attraction of the earth on the ham. But, by a universal law of force, the ham attracts the earth exactly as much as the earth does the ham. So what the butcher really does is to find how much or how strongly the ham attracts the earth, and he calls that pull the weight of the ham. On the same principle, the astronomer finds the weight of a body by finding how strong is its attractive pull on some other body. If the butcher, with his spring-balance and a ham, could fly to all the planets, one after the other, weigh the ham on each, and come back to report the results to an astronomer, the latter could immediately compute the weight of each planet of known diameter, as compared with that of the earth. In applying this principle to the heavenly bodies, we at once meet a difficulty that looks insurmountable. You cannot get up to the heavenly bodies to do your weighing; how then will you measure their pull? I must begin the answer to this question by explaining a nice point in exact science. Astronomers distinguish between the weight of a body and its mass. The weight of objects is not the same all over the world; a thing which weighs thirty pounds in New York would weigh an ounce more than thirty pounds in a spring-balance in Greenland, and nearly an ounce less at the equator. This is because the earth is not a perfect sphere, but a little flattened. Thus weight varies with the place. If a ham weighing thirty pounds were taken up to the moon and weighed there, the pull would only be five pounds, because the moon is so much smaller and lighter than the earth. There would be another weight of the ham for the planet Mars, and yet another on the sun, where it would weigh some eight hundred pounds. Hence the astronomer does not speak of the weight of a planet, because that would depend on the place where it was weighed; but he speaks of the mass of the planet, which means how much planet there is, no matter where you might weigh it.

At the same time, we might, without any inexactness, agree that the mass of a heavenly body should be fixed by the weight it would have in New York. As we could not even imagine a planet at New York, because it may be larger than the earth itself, what we are to imagine is this: Suppose the planet could be divided into a million million million equal parts, and one of these parts brought to New York and weighed. We could easily find its weight in pounds or tons. Then multiply this weight by a million million million, and we shall have a weight of the planet. This would be what the astronomers might take as the mass of the planet.

With these explanations, let us see how the weight of the earth is found. The principle we apply is that round bodies of the same specific gravity attract small objects on their surface with a force proportional to the diameter of the attracting body. For example, a body two feet in diameter attracts twice as strongly as one of a foot, one of three feet three times as strongly, and so on. Now, our earth is about 40,000,000 feet in diameter; that is 10,000,000 times four feet. It follows that if we made a little model of the earth four feet in diameter, having the average specific gravity of the earth, it would attract a particle with one ten-millionth part of the attraction of the earth. The attraction of such a model has actually been measured. Since we do not know the average specific gravity of the earth—that being in fact what we want to find out—we take a globe of lead, four feet in diameter, let us suppose. By means of a balance of the most exquisite construction it is found that such a globe does exert a minute attraction on small bodies around it, and that this attraction is a little more than the ten-millionth part of that of the earth. This shows that the specific gravity of the lead is a little greater than that of the average of the whole earth. All the minute calculations made, it is found that the earth, in order to attract with the force it does, must be about five and one-half times as heavy as its bulk of water, or perhaps a little more. Different experimenters find different results; the best between 5.5 and 5.6, so that 5.5 is, perhaps, as near the number as we can now get. This is much more than the average specific gravity of the materials which compose that part of the earth which we can reach by digging mines. The difference arises from the fact that, at the depth of many miles, the matter composing the earth is compressed into a smaller space by the enormous weight of the portions lying above it. Thus, at the depth of 1000 miles, the pressure on every cubic inch is more than 2000 tons, a weight which would greatly condense the hardest metal.

We come now to the planets. I have said that the mass or weight of a heavenly body is determined by its attraction on some other body. There are two ways in which the attraction of a planet may be measured. One is by its attraction on the planets next to it. If these bodies did not attract one another at all, but only moved under the influence of the sun, they would move in orbits having the form of ellipses. They are found to move very nearly in such orbits, only the actual path deviates from an ellipse, now in one direction and then in another, and it slowly changes its position from year to year. These deviations are due to the pull of the other planets, and by measuring the deviations we can determine the amount of the pull, and hence the mass of the planet.

The reader will readily understand that the mathematical processes necessary to get a result in this way must be very delicate and complicated. A much simpler method can be used in the case of those planets which have satellites revolving round them, because the attraction of the planet can be determined by the motions of the satellite. The first law of motion teaches us that a body in motion, if acted on by no force, will move in a straight line. Hence, if we see a body moving in a curve, we know that it is acted on by a force in the direction towards which the motion curves. A familiar example is that of a stone thrown from the hand. If the stone were not attracted by the earth, it would go on forever in the line of throw, and leave the earth entirely. But under the attraction of the earth, it is drawn down and down, as it travels onward, until finally it reaches the ground. The faster the stone is thrown, of course, the farther it will go, and the greater will be the sweep of the curve of its path. If it were a cannon-ball, the first part of the curve would be nearly a right line. If we could fire a cannon-ball horizontally from the top of a high mountain with a velocity of five miles a second, and if it were not resisted by the air, the curvature of the path would be equal to that of the surface of our earth, and so the ball would never reach the earth, but would revolve round it like a little satellite in an orbit of its own. Could this be done, the astronomer would be able, knowing the velocity of the ball, to calculate the attraction of the earth as well as we determine it by actually observing the motion of falling bodies around us.

Thus it is that when a planet, like Mars or Jupiter, has satellites revolving round it, astronomers on the earth can observe the attraction of the planet on its satellites and thus determine its mass. The rule for doing this is very simple. The cube of the distance between the planet and satellite is divided by the square of the time of revolution of the satellite. The quotient is a number which is proportional to the mass of the planet. The rule applies to the motion of the moon round the earth and of the planets round the sun. If we divide the cube of the earth's distance from the sun, say 93,000,000 miles, by the square of 365 1/4, the days in a year, we shall get a certain quotient. Let us call this number the sun-quotient. Then, if we divide the cube of the moon's distance from the earth by the square of its time of revolution, we shall get another quotient, which we may call the earth-quotient. The sun-quotient will come out about 330,000 times as large as the earth-quotient. Hence it is concluded that the mass of the sun is 330,000 times that of the earth; that it would take this number of earths to make a body as heavy as the sun.

I give this calculation to illustrate the principle; it must not be supposed that the astronomer proceeds exactly in this way and has only this simple calculation to make. In the case of the moon and earth, the motion and distance of the former vary in consequence of the attraction of the sun, so that their actual distance apart is a changing quantity. So what the astronomer actually does is to find the attraction of the earth by observing the length of a pendulum which beats seconds in various latitudes. Then, by very delicate mathematical processes, he can find with great exactness what would be the time of revolution of a small satellite at any given distance from the earth, and thus can get the earth-quotient.