Chapter IV: Part 4

This was a perfectly correct and wonderfully sagacious explanation of those complex and exasperatingly puzzling phenomena that had been too difficult for no less a person than Galileo himself. It was an explanation that _explained_. The reason for its preliminary announcement in the above manner must have been the following: Huygens was probably not quite sure of his ground in 1656, while three years afterward he had become quite certain. By the publication of the logogriph of 1656 he secured for himself the credit of what he had done. If any other astronomer had published the true explanation after 1656, Huygens could have proved his claim to priority by rearranging the letters of his puzzle. On the other hand, if further researches showed him that he was wrong, he would never have made known the true meaning of his logogriph, and would thus have escaped the ignominy of making an erroneous explanation. Thus, the method of announcement was comparable in ingenuity with the Huygenian explanation itself.

We are compelled to pass over briefly the entertaining history of subsequent observations of the ring, in order to explain the new work of Keeler and others. Cassini, about 1675, been able to show that the ring was double; that there are really two independent rings, with a distinct dark space between them. It was a case of wheels within wheels. To our own eminent countryman, W. C. Bond, of Cambridge, Mass., we owe the further discovery (Harvard College Observatory, November, 1850) of the third ring. This is also concentric with the other two, and interior to them, but difficult to observe, because of its much smaller luminosity.

It is almost transparent, and the brilliant light of the planet's central ball is capable of shining directly through it. For this reason the inner ring is called the "gauze" or "crape" ring. If we add to the above details the fact that our modern large telescopes show slight irregularities in the surface of the rings, especially when seen edgewise, we have a brief statement of all that the telescope has been able to reveal to us since Galileo's time.

But of far greater interest than the mere fact of their existence is the important cosmic question as to the constitution, structure, and, above all, durability of the ring system. Astronomers often use the term "stability" with regard to celestial systems like the ring system of Saturn. By this they mean permanent durability. A system is stable if its various parts can continue in their present relationship to one another, without violating any of the known laws of astronomy. Whenever we study any collection of celestial objects, and endeavor to explain their motions and peculiarities, we always seek some explanation not inconsistent with the continued existence of the phenomena in question. For this there is, perhaps, no sufficient philosophical basis. Probably much of the great celestial procession is but a passing show, to be but for a moment in the endless vista of cosmic time.

However this may be, we are bound to assume as a working theory that Saturn has always had these rings, and will always have them; and it is for us to find out how this is possible. The problem has been attacked mathematically by various astronomers, including Laplace; but no conclusive mathematical treatment was obtained until 1857, when James Clerk Maxwell proved in a masterly manner that the rings could be neither solid nor liquid. He showed, indeed, that they would not last if they were continuous bodies like the planets. A big solid wheel would inevitably be torn asunder by any slight disturbance, and then precipitated upon the planet's surface. Therefore, the rings must be composed of an immense number of small detached particles, revolving around Saturn in separate orbits, like so many tiny satellites.

This mathematical theory of the ring system being once established, astronomers were more eager than ever to obtain a visual confirmation of it. We had, indeed, a sort of analogy in the assemblage of so-called "minor planets" (p. 64), which are known to be revolving around our sun in orbits situated between Mars and Jupiter. Some hundreds of these are known to exist, and probably there are countless others too small for us to see. Such a swarm of tiny particles of luminous matter would certainly give the impression of a continuous solid body, if seen from a distance comparable to that separating us from Saturn. But arguments founded on analogy are of comparatively little value.

Astronomers need direct and conclusive telescopic evidence, and this was lacking until Keeler made his remarkable spectroscopic observation in 1895. The spectroscope is a peculiar instrument, different in principle from any other used in astronomy; we study distant objects with it by analyzing the light they send us, rather than by examining and measuring the details of their visible surfaces. The reader will recall that according to the modern undulatory theory, light consists simply of a series of waves. Now, the nature of waves is very far from being understood in the popular mind. Most people, for instance, think that the waves of ocean consist of great masses of water rolling along the surface.

This notion doubtless arises from the behavior of waves when they break upon the shore, forming what we call surf. When a wave meets with an immovable body like a sand beach, the wave is broken, and the water really does roll upon the beach. But this is an exceptional case. Farther away from the shore, where the waves are unimpeded, they consist simply of particles of water moving straight up and down. None of the water is carried by mere wave-action away from the point over which it was situated at first.

Tides or other causes may move the water, but not simple wave-motion alone. That this is so can be proved easily. If a chip of wood be thrown overboard from a ship at sea it will be seen to rise and fall a long time on the waves, but it will not move. Similarly, wind-waves are often quite conspicuous on a field of grain; but they are caused by the individual grain particles moving up and down. The grain certainly cannot travel over the ground, since each particle is fast to its own stalk.

But while the particles do not travel, the wave-disturbance does. At times it is transmitted to a considerable distance from the point where it was first set in motion. Thus, when a stone is dropped into still water, the disturbance (though not the water) travels in ever-widening circles, until at last it becomes too feeble for us to perceive. Light is just such a travelling wave-disturbance. Beginning, perhaps, in some distant star, it travels through space, and finally the wave impinges on our eyes like the ocean-wave breaking on a sand beach. Such a light-wave affects the eye in some mysterious way. We call it "seeing."

The spectroscope (p. 21) enables us to measure and count the waves reaching us each second from any source of light. No matter how far away the origin of stellar light may be, the spectroscope examines the character of that light, and tells us the number of waves set up every second. It is this characteristic of the instrument that has enabled us to make some of the most remarkable observations of modern times. If the distant star is approaching us in space, more light-waves per second will reach us than we should receive from the same star at rest. Thus if we find from the spectroscope that there are too many waves, we know that the star is coming nearer; and if there are too few, we can conclude with equal certainty that the star is receding.

Keeler was able to apply the spectroscope in this way to the planet Saturn and to the ring system. The observations required dexterity and observational manipulative skill in a superlative degree. These Keeler had; and this work of his will always rank as a classic observation. He found by examining the light-waves from opposite sides of the planet that the luminous ball rotated; for one side was approaching us and the other receding. This observation was, of course, in accord with the known fact of Saturn's rotation on his axis. With regard to the rings, Keeler showed in the same way the existence of an axial rotation, which appears not to have been satisfactorily proved before, strange as it may seem. But the crucial point established by his spectroscope was that the interior part of the rings rotates _faster_ than the exterior.

The velocity of rotation diminishes gradually from the inside to the outside. This fact is absolutely inconsistent with the motion of a solid ring; but it fits in admirably with the theory of a ring comprised of a vast assemblage of small separate particles. Thus, for the first time, astronomy comes into possession of an observational determination of the nature of Saturn's rings, and Galileo's puzzle is forever solved.

THE HELIOMETER

Astronomical discoveries are always received by the public with keen interest. Every new fact read in the great open book of nature is written eagerly into the books of men. For there exists a strong curiosity to ascertain just how the greater world is built and governed; and it must be admitted that astronomers have been able to satisfy that curiosity with no small measure of success. But it is seldom that we hear of the means by which the latest and most refined astronomical observations are effected. Popular imagination pictures the astronomer, as he doubtless once was, an aged gentleman, usually having a long white beard, and spending entire nights staring at the sky through a telescope.

But the facts to-day are very different. The working astronomer is an active man in the prime of life, often a young man. He wastes no time in star-gazing. His observations consist of exact measurements made in a precise, systematic, and almost business-like manner. A night's "watch" at the telescope is seldom allowed to exceed about three hours, since it is found that more continued exertions fatigue the eye and lead to less accurate results. To this, of course, there have been many notable exceptions, for endurance of sight, like any form of physical strength, differs greatly in different individuals. Astronomical research does not include "picking out" the constellations, and learning the Arabic names of individual stars. These things are not without interest; but they belong to astronomy's ancient history, and are of little value except to afford amusement and instruction to successive generations of amateurs.

Among the instruments for carefully planned measurements of precision the heliometer probably takes first rank. It is at once the most exquisitely accurate in its results, and the most fatiguing to the observer, of all the varied apparatus employed by the astronomer. The principle upon which its construction depends is very peculiar, and applies to all telescopes, even ordinary ones for terrestrial purposes. If part of a telescope lens be covered up with the hand, it will still be possible to see through the instrument. The glass lens at the end of the tube farthest from the observer's eye helps to magnify distant objects and make them seem nearer by gathering to a single point, or focus, a greater amount of their light than could be brought together by the far smaller lens in the unaided eye.

The telescope might very properly be likened to an enlarged eye, which can see more than we can, simply because it is bigger. If a telescope lens has a surface one hundred times as large as that of the lens in our eye, it will gather and bring to a focus one hundred times as much light from a distant object. Now, if any part of this telescope be covered, the remaining part will, nevertheless, gather and focus light just as though the whole lens were in action; only, there will be less light collected at the focus within the tube. The small lens at the telescope's eye-end is simply a magnifier to help our eye examine the image of any distant object formed at the focus by the large lens at the farther end of the instrument. For of this simple character is the operation of any telescope: the large glass lens at one end collects a distant planet's light, and brings it to a focus near the other end of the tube, where it forms a tiny picture of the planet, which, in turn, is examined with the little magnifier at the eye-end.

Having arrived at the fundamental principle that part of a lens will act in a manner similar to a whole one, it is easy to explain the construction of a heliometer. An ordinary telescope lens is sawed in half by means of a thin round metal disk revolved rapidly by machinery, and fed continually with emery and water at its edge. The cutting effect of emery is sufficient to make such a disk enter glass much as an ordinary saw penetrates wood. The two "semi-lenses," as they are called, are then mounted separately in metal holders. These are attached to one end of the heliometer, called the "head," in such a way that the two semi-lenses can slide side by side upon metal guides. This head is then fastened to one end of a telescope tube mounted in the usual way. The "head" end of the instrument is turned toward the sky in observing, and at the eye-end is placed the usual little magnifier we have already described.

The observer at the eye-end has control of certain rods by means of which he can push the semi-lenses on their slides in the head at the other end of the tube. Now, if he moves the semi-lenses so as to bring them side by side exactly, the whole arrangement will act like an ordinary telescope. For the semi-lenses will then fit together just as if the original glass had never been cut. But if the half-lenses are separated a little on their slides, each will act by itself. Being slightly separated, each will cover a different part of the sky. The whole affair acts as if the observer at the eye-end were looking through two telescopes at once. For each semi-lens acts independently, just as if it were a complete glass of only half the size.

Now, suppose there were a couple of stars in the sky, one in the part covered by the first semi-lens, and one in the part covered by the second. The observer would, of course, see both stars at once upon looking into the little magnifier at the eye-end of the heliometer.

We must remember that these stars will appear in the field of view simply as two tiny points of light. The astronomer, as we have said, is provided with a simple system of long rods, by means of which he can manipulate the semi-lenses while the observation is being made. If he slides them very slowly one way or the other, the two star-points in the field of view will be seen to approach each other. In this way they can at last be brought so near together that they will form but a single dot of light. Observation with the heliometer consists in thus bringing two star-images together, until at last they are superimposed one upon the other, and we see one image only. Means are provided by which it is then possible to measure the amount of separation of the two half-lenses. Evidently the farther asunder on the sky are the two stars under observation, the greater will be the separation of the semi-lenses necessary to make a single image of their light. Thus, measurement of the lenses' separation becomes a means of determining the separation of the stars themselves upon the sky.

The two slides in the heliometer head are supplied with a pair of very delicate measures or "scales" usually made of silver. These can be examined from the eye-end of the instrument by looking through a long microscope provided for this special purpose. Thus an extremely precise value is obtained both of the separation of the sliders and of the distance on the sky between the stars under examination. Measures made in this way with the heliometer are counted the most precise of astronomical observations.

Having thus described briefly the kind of observations obtained with the heliometer, we shall now touch upon their further utilization. We shall take as an example but one of their many uses--that one which astronomers consider the most important--the measurement of stellar distances. (See also p. 94.)

Even the nearest fixed star is almost inconceivably remote from us. And astronomers are imprisoned on this little earth; we cannot bridge the profound distance separating us from the stars, so as to use direct measurement with tape-line or surveyor's chain. We are forced to have recourse to some indirect method. Suppose a certain star is suspected, on account of its brightness, or for some other reason, of being near us in space, and so giving a favorable opportunity for a determination of distance. A couple of very faint stars are selected close by. These, on account of their faintness, the astronomer may regard as quite immeasurably far away. He then determines with his heliometer the exact position on the sky of the bright star with respect to the pair of faint ones. Half a year is then allowed to pass. During that time the earth has been swinging along in its annual path or orbit around the sun. Half a year will have sufficed to carry the observer on the earth to the other side of that path, and he is then 185,000,000 miles away from his position at the first observation.

Another determination is made of the bright star's position as referred to the two faint ones. Now, if all these stars were equally distant, their relative positions at the second observation would be just the same as at the former one. But if, as is very probable, the bright star is very much nearer us than are the two faint ones, we shall obtain a different position from our second observation. For the change of 185,000,000 miles in the observer's location will, of course, affect the direction in which we see the near star, while it will leave the distant ones practically unchanged. Without entering into technical details, we may say that from a large number of observations of this kind, we can obtain the distance of the bright star by a process of calculation. The only essential is to have an instrument that can make the actual observations of position accurately enough; and in this respect the heliometer is still unexcelled.

OCCULTATIONS

Scarcely anyone can have watched the sky without noticing how different is the behavior of our moon from that of any other object we can see. Of course, it has this in common with the sun and stars and planets, that it rises in the eastern horizon, slowly climbs the dome of the sky, and again goes down and sets in the west. This motion of the heavenly bodies is known to be an apparent one merely, and caused by the turning of our own earth upon its axis. A man standing upon the earth's surface can look up and see above him one-half the great celestial vault, gemmed with twinkling stars, and bearing, perhaps, within its ample curve one or two serenely shining planets and the lustrous moon. But at any given moment the observer can see nothing of the other half of the heavenly sphere. It is beneath his feet, and concealed by the solid bulk of the earth.

The earth, however, is turning on an axis, carrying the observer with it. And so it is continually presenting him to a new part of the sky. At any moment he sees but a single half-sphere; yet the very next instant it is no longer the same; a small portion has passed out of sight on one side by going down behind the turning earth, while a corresponding new section has come into view on the opposite side. It is this coming into view that we call the rising of a star; and the corresponding disappearance on the other side is called setting. Thus rising and setting are, of course, due entirely to a turning of the earth, and not at all to actual motions of the stars; and for this reason, all objects in the sky, without exception, must rise and set again. But the moon really has a motion of its own in addition to this apparent one caused by the earth's rotation.

Somewhere in the dawn of time early watchers of the stars thought out those fancied constellations that survive even down to our own day. They placed the mighty lion, king of beasts, upon the face of night, and the great hunter, too, armed with club and dagger, to pursue him. Among these constellations the moon threads her destined way, night after night, so rapidly that the unaided eye can see that she is moving. It needs but little power of fancy's magic to recall from the dim past a picture of some aged astronomer graving upon his tablets the Records of the Moon. "To-night she is near the bright star in the eye of the Bull." And again: "To-night she rides full, and near to the heart of the Virgin."

And why does the moon ride thus through the stars of night? Modern science has succeeded in disentangling the intricacies of her motion, until to-day only one or two of the very minutest details of that motion remain unexplained. But it has been a hard problem. Someone has well said that lunar theory should be likened to a lofty cliff upon whose side the intellectual giants among men can mark off their mental stature, but whose height no one of them may ever hope to scale.

But for our present purpose it is unnecessary to pursue the subject of lunar motion into its abstruser details. To understand why the moon moves rapidly among the stars, it is sufficient to remember that she is whirling quickly round the earth, so as to complete her circuit in a little less than a month. We see her at all times projected upon the distant background of the sky on which are set the stellar points of light, as though intended for beacons to mark the course pursued by moon and planets. The stars themselves have no such motions as the moon; situated at a distance almost inconceivably great, they may, indeed, be travellers through empty space, yet their journeys shrink into insignificance as seen from distant earth. It requires the most delicate instruments of the astronomer to so magnify the tiny displacements of the stars on the celestial vault that they may be measured by human eyes.

Let us again recur to our supposed observer watching the moon night after night, so as to record the stars closely approached by her. Why should he not some time or other be surprised by an approach so close as to amount apparently to actual contact? The moon covers quite a large surface on the sky, and when we remember the nearly countless numbers of the stars, it would, indeed, be strange if there were not some behind the moon as well as all around her.

A moment's consideration shows that this must often be the case; and in fact, if the moon's advancing edge be scrutinized carefully through a telescope, small stars can be seen frequently to disappear behind it. This is a most interesting observation. At first we see the moon and star near each other in the telescope's field of view. But the distance between them lessens perceptibly, even quickly, until at last, with a startling suddenness, the star goes out of sight behind the moon. After a time, ranging from a few moments to, perhaps, more than an hour, the moon will pass, and we can see the star suddenly reappear from behind the other edge.

These interesting observations, while not at all uncommon, can be made only very rarely by naked-eye astronomers. The reason is simple. The moon's light is so brilliant that it fairly overcomes the stars whenever they are at all near, except in the case of very bright ones. Small stars that can be followed quite easily up to the moon's edge in a good telescope, disappear from a naked-eye view while the moon is still a long distance away. But the number of very bright stars is comparatively small, so that it is quite unusual to find anyone not a professional astronomer who has actually seen one of these so-called "occultations." Moreover, most people are not informed in advance of the occurrence of an opportunity to make such observations, although they can be predicted quite easily by the aid of astronomical calculations. Sometimes we have occultations of planets, and these are the most interesting of all. When the moon passes between us and one of the larger planets, it is worth while to observe the phenomenon even without a telescope.

Up to this point we have considered occultations chiefly as being of interest to the naked-eye astronomer. Yet occultations have a real scientific value. It is by their means that we can, perhaps, best measure the moon's size. By noting with a telescope the time of disappearance and reappearance of known stars, astronomers can bring the direct measurement of the moon's diameter within the range of their numerical calculations. Sometimes the moon passes over a condensed cluster of stars like the Pleiades. The results obtainable on these occasions are valuable in a very high degree, and contribute largely to making precise our knowledge of the lunar diameter.

There is another thing of scientific interest about occultations, though it has lost some of its importance in recent years. When such an event has been observed, the agreement of the predicted time with that actually recorded by the astronomer offers a most searching test of the correctness of our theory of lunar motion. We have already called attention to the great inherent difficulty of this theory. It is easy to see that by noting the exact instant of disappearance of a star at a place on the earth the latitude and longitude of which are known, we can both check our calculations and gather material for improving our theory. The same principle can be used also in the converse direction. Within the limits of precision imposed by the state of our knowledge of lunar theory, we can utilize occultations to help determine the position on the earth of places whose longitude is unknown. It is a very interesting bit of history that the first determination of the longitude of Washington was made by means of occultations, and that this early determination led to the founding of the United States Naval Observatory.

On March 28, 1810, Mr. Pitkin, of Connecticut, reported to the House of Representatives on "laying a foundation for the establishment of a first meridian for the United States, by which a further dependence on Great Britain or any other foreign nation for such meridian may be entirely removed." This report was the result of a memorial presented by one William Lambert, who had deduced the longitude of the Capitol from an occultation observed October 20, 1804. Various proceedings were had in Congress and in committee, until at last, in 1821, Lambert was appointed "to make astronomical observations by lunar occultations of fixed stars, solar eclipses, or any approved method adapted to ascertain the longitude of the Capitol from Greenwich." Lambert's reports were made in 1822 and 1823, but ten years passed before the establishment of a formal Naval Observatory under Goldsborough, Wilkes, and Gilliss. But to Lambert belongs the honor of having marked out the first fundamental official meridian of longitude in the United States.

MOUNTING GREAT TELESCOPES

There are many interesting practical things about an astronomical observatory with which the public seldom has an opportunity to become acquainted. Among these, perhaps, the details connected with setting up a great telescope take first rank. The writer happened to be present at the Cape of Good Hope Observatory when the photographic equatorial telescope was being mounted, and the operation of putting it in position may be taken as typical of similar processes elsewhere. (See also p. 86.)

In the first place, it is necessary to explain what is meant by an "equatorial" telescope. One of the chief difficulties in making ordinary observations arises from the rising and setting of the stars. They are all apparently moving across the face of the sky, usually climbing up from the eastern horizon, only to go down again and set in the west. If, therefore, we wish to scrutinize any given object for a considerable time, we must move the telescope continuously so as to keep pace with the motion of the heavens. For this purpose, the tube must be attached to axles, so that it can be turned easily in any direction. The equatorial mounting is a device that permits the telescope to be thus aimed at any part of the sky, and at the same time facilitates greatly the operation of keeping it pointed correctly after a star has once been brought into the field of view.

To understand the equatorial mounting it is necessary to remember that the rising and setting motions of the heavenly bodies are apparent ones only, and due in reality to the turning of the earth on its own axis. As the earth goes around, it carries observer, telescope, and observatory past the stars fixed upon the distant sky. Consequently, to keep a telescope pointed continuously at a given star, it is merely necessary to rotate it steadily backward upon a suitable axis just fast enough to neutralize exactly the turning of our earth.

By a suitable axis for this purpose we mean one so mounted as to be exactly parallel to the earth's own axis of rotation. A little reflection shows how simply such an arrangement will work. All the heavenly bodies may be regarded, for practical purposes, as excessively remote in comparison with the dimensions of our earth. The entire planet shrinks into absolute insignificance when compared with the distances of the nearest objects brought under observation by astronomers. It follows that if we have our telescope attached to such a rotation-axis as we have described, it will be just the same for purposes of observation as though the telescope's axis were not only parallel to the earth's axis, but actually coincident with it. The two axes may be separated by a distance equal to that between the earth's surface and its centre; but, as we have said, this distance is insignificant so far as our present object is concerned.

There is another way to arrive at the same result. We know that the stars in rising and setting all seem to revolve about the pole star, which itself seems to remain immovable. Consequently, if we mount our telescope so that it can turn about an axis pointing at the pole, we shall be able to neutralize the rotation of the stars by simply turning the telescope about the axis at the proper speed and in the right direction. Astronomical considerations teach us that an axis thus pointing at the pole will be parallel to the earth's own axis. Thus we arrive at the same fundamental principle for mounting an astronomical telescope from whichever point of view we consider the subject.

Every large telescope is provided with such an axis of rotation; and for the reason stated it is called the "polar axis." The telescope itself is then called an "equatorial." The advantage of this method of mounting is very evident. Since we can follow the stars' motions by turning the telescope about one axis only, it becomes a very simple matter to accomplish this turning automatically by means of clock-work.

The "following" of a star being thus provided for by the device of a polar axis, it is, of course, also necessary to supply some other motion so as to enable us to aim the tube at any point in the heavens. For it is obvious that if it were rigidly attached to the polar axis, we could, indeed, follow any star that happened to be in the field of view, but we could not change this field of view at will so as to observe other stars or planets. To accomplish this, the telescope is attached to the polar axis by means of a pivot. By turning the telescope around its polar axis, and also on this pivot, we can find any object in the heavens; and once found, we can leave to the polar axis and its automatic clock-work the task of keeping that object before the observer's eye.

In setting up the Cape of Good Hope instrument the astronomers were obliged to do a large part of the work of adjustment personally. Far away from European instrument-makers, the parts of the mounting and telescope had to be "assembled," or put together, by the astronomers of the Cape Observatory. A heavy pier of brick and masonry had been prepared in advance. Upon this was placed a massive iron base, intended to support the superstructure of polar axis and telescope. This base rested on three points, one of which could be screwed in and out, so as to tilt the whole affair a little forward or backward. By means of this screw we effected the final adjustment of the polar axis to exact parallelism with that of the earth. Other screws were provided with which the base could be twisted a little horizontally either to the right or left. Once set up in a position almost correct, it was easy to perfect the adjustment by the aid of these screws.

Afterward the tube and lenses were put in place, and the clock properly attached inside the big cast-iron base. This clock-work looked more like a piece of heavy machinery than a delicate clock mechanism. But it had heavy work to do, carrying the massive telescope with its weighty lenses, and needed to be correspondingly strong. It had a driving-weight of about 2,000 pounds, and was so powerful that turning the telescope affected it no more than the hour-hand of an ordinary clock affects the mechanism within its case.

The final test of the whole adjustment consisted in noting whether stars once brought into the telescopic field of view could be maintained there automatically by means of the clock. This object having been attained successfully, the instrument stood ready to be used in the routine business of the observatory.

Before leaving the subject of telescope-mountings, we must mention the giant instrument set up at the Paris Exposition of 1900. The project of having a _Grande Lunette_ had been hailed by newspapers throughout the world and by the general public in their customary excitable way. It was tremendously over-advertised; exaggerated notions of the instrument's powers were spread abroad and eagerly credited; the moon was to be dragged down, as it were, from its customary place in the sky, so near that we should be able almost to touch its surface. As to the planets--free license was given to the journalistic imagination, and there was no effective limitation to the magnificence of astronomical discovery practically within our grasp, beyond the necessity for printed space demanded by sundry wars, pestilences, and other mundane trifles.

Now, the present writer is very far from advocating a lessening of the attention devoted to astronomy. Rather would he magnify his office than diminish it. But let journalistic astronomy be as good an imitation of sober scientific truth as can be procured at space rates; let editors encourage the public to study those things in the science that are ennobling and cultivating to the mind; let there be an end to the frenzied effort to fabricate a highly colored account of alleged discoveries of yesterday, capable of masquerading to-day under heavy head-lines as News.

The manner in which the big telescope came to be built is not without interest, and shows that enterprise is far from dead, even in the old countries. A stock company was organized--we should call it a corporation--under the name _Société de l'Optique_. It would appear that shares were regularly put on the market, and that a prospectus, more or less alluring, was widely distributed. We may say at once that the investing public did not respond with obtrusive alacrity; but at all events, the promoters' efforts received sufficient encouragement to enable them to begin active work. From the very first a vigorous attempt was made to utilize both the resources of genuine science and the devices of quasi-charlatanry. It was announced that the public were to be admitted to look through the big glass (apparently at so much an eye), and many, doubtless, expected that the man in the street would be able to make personal acquaintance with the man in the moon. A telescopic image of the sun was to be projected on a big screen, and exhibited to a concourse of spectators assembled in rising tiers of seats within a great amphitheatre. And when clouds or other circumstances should prevent observing the planets or scrutinizing the sun, a powerful stereopticon was to be used. Artificial pictures of the wonders of heaven were to be projected on the screen, and the public would never be disappointed. It was arranged that skilled talkers should be present to explain all marvels: and, in short, financial profit was to be combined with machinery for advancing scientific discovery. Astronomers the world over were "circularized," asked to become shareholders, and, in default of that, to send lantern-slides or photographs of remarkable celestial objects for exhibition in the magic-lantern part of the show.

The project thus brought to the attention of scientific men three years ago did not have an attractive air. It savored too much of charlatanism. But it soon appeared that effective government sanction had been given to the enterprise; and, above all, that men of reputation were allowing the use of their names in connection with the affair. More important still, we learned that the actual construction had been undertaken by Gautier, of Paris, that finances were favorable, and that real work on parts of the instrument was to commence without delay.

Gautier is a first-class instrument-builder; he has established his reputation by constructing successfully several telescopes of very large size, including the _equatorial coudé_ of the Paris Observatory, a unique instrument of especial complexity. The present writer believes that, if sufficient time and money were available, the _Grande Lunette_ would stand a reasonable chance of success in the hands of such a man. And by a reasonable chance, we mean that there is a large enough probability of genuine scientific discovery to justify the necessary financial outlay. But the project should be divorced from its "popular" features, and every kind of advertising and charlatanism excluded with rigor.

As planned originally, and actually constructed, the _Grande Lunette_ presents interesting peculiarities, distinguishing it from other telescopes. Previous instruments have been built on the principle of universal mobility. It is possible to move them in all directions, and thus bring any desired star under observation, irrespective of its position in the sky. But this general mobility offers great difficulties in the case of large and ponderous telescopes. Delicacy of adjustment is almost destroyed when the object to be adjusted weighs several tons. And the excessive weight of telescopes is not due to unavoidably heavy lenses alone. It is essential that the tube be long; and great length involves appreciable thickness of material, if stiffness and solidity are to remain unsacrificed. Length in the tube is necessitated by certain peculiar optical defects of all lenses, into the nature of which we shall not enter at present. The consequences of these defects can be rendered harmless only if the instrument is so arranged that the observer's eye is far from the other end of the tube. The length of a good telescope should be at least twelve times the diameter of its large lens. If the relative length can be still further increased, so much the better; for then the optical defects can be further reduced.

In the case of the Paris instrument a radical departure consists in making the tube of unprecedented length, 197 feet, with a lens diameter of 49¼ inches. This great length, while favorable optically, precludes the possibility of making the instrument movable in the usual sense. In fact, the entire tube is attached to a fixed horizontal base, and no attempt is made to change its position. Outside the big lens, and disconnected altogether from the telescope proper, is mounted a smooth mirror, so arranged that it can be turned in any direction, and thus various parts of the sky examined by reflection in the telescope.

While this method unquestionably has the advantage of leaving the optician quite free as to how long he will make his tube, it suffers from the compensating objection that a new optical surface is introduced into the combination, viz., the mirror. Any slight unavoidable imperfection in the polishing of its surface will infallibly be reproduced on a magnified scale in the image of a distant star brought before the observer's eye.

But it is not yet possible to pronounce definitely upon the merit of this form of instrument, since, as we have said, the maker has not been given time enough to try the idea to the complete satisfaction of scientific men. In the early part of August, 1900, when the informant of the present writer left Paris, after serving as a member of the international jury for judging instruments of precision at the Exposition, the condition of the _Grande Lunette_ was as follows: Two sets of lenses had been contemplated, one intended for celestial photography, and the other to be used for ordinary visual observation. Only the photographic lenses had been completed, however, and for this reason the public could not be permitted to look through the instrument. The photographic lenses were in place in the tube, but at that time their condition was such that, though some photographs had been obtained, it was not thought advisable to submit them to the jury. Consequently, the _Lunette_ did not receive a prize. Since that time various newspapers have reported wonderful results from the telescope; but, disregarding the fusillade from the sensational press, we may sum up the present state of affairs very briefly. Gautier is still experimenting; and, given sufficient time and money, he may succeed in producing what astronomers hope for--an instrument capable of advancing our knowledge, even if that advance be only a small one.

THE ASTRONOMER'S POLE

The pole of the frozen North is not the only pole sought with determined effort by more than one generation of scientific men. Up in the sky astronomers have another pole which they are following up just as vigorously as ever Arctic explorer struggled toward the difficult goal of his terrestrial journeying. The celestial pole is, indeed, a fundamentally important thing in astronomical science, and the determination of its exact position upon the sky has always engaged the closest attention of astronomers. Quite recently new methods of research have been brought to bear, promising a degree of success not hitherto attained in the astronomers' pursuit of their pole.

In the first place, we must explain what is meant by the celestial pole. We have already mentioned the poles of the earth (p. 136). Our planet turns once daily upon an axis passing through its centre, and it is this rotation that causes all the so-called diurnal phenomena of the heavens. Rising and setting of sun, moon, and stars are simply results of this turning of the earth. Heavenly bodies do not really rise; it is merely the man on the earth who is turned round on an axis until he is brought into a position from which he can see them. The terrestrial poles are those two points on the earth's surface where it is pierced by the rotation axis of the planet. Now we can, if we choose, imagine this axis lengthened out indefinitely, further and further, until at last it reaches the great round vault of the sky. Here it will again pierce out two polar points; and these are the celestial poles.

The whole thing is thus quite easy to understand. On the sky the poles are marked by the prolongation of the earth's axis, just as on the earth the poles are marked by the axis itself. And this explains at once why the stars seem nightly to revolve about the pole. If the observer is being turned round the earth's axis, of course it will appear to him as if the stars were rotating around the same axis in the opposite direction, just as houses and fields seem to fly past a person sitting in a railway train, unless he stops to remember that it is really himself who is in motion, and not the trees and houses.

The existence of such a centre of daily motions among the stars once recognized, it becomes of interest to ascertain whether the centre itself always retains precisely the same position in the sky. It was discovered as early as the time of Hipparchus (p. 39) that such is not the case, and that the celestial pole is subject to a slow motion among the stars on the sky. If a given star were to-day situated exactly at the pole, it would no longer be there after the lapse of a year's time; for the pole would have moved away from it.

This motion of the pole is called precession. It means that certain forces are continually at work, compelling the earth's axis to change its position, so that the prolongation of that axis must pierce the sky at a point which moves as time goes on. These forces are produced by the gravitational attractions of the sun, moon, and planets upon the matter composing our earth. If the earth were perfectly spherical in shape, the attractions of the other heavenly bodies would not affect the direction of the earth's rotation-axis in the least. But the earth is not quite globular in form; it is flattened a little at the poles and bulges out somewhat at the equator. (See p. 135.)

This protuberant matter near the equator gives the other bodies in the solar system an opportunity to disturb the earth's rotation. The general effect of all these attractions is to make the celestial pole move upon the sky in a circle having a radius of about 23½ degrees; and it requires 25,800 years to complete a circuit of this precessional cycle. One of the most striking consequences of this motion will be the change of the polar star. Just at present the bright star Polaris in the constellation of the Little Bear is very close to the pole. But after the lapse of sufficient ages the first-magnitude star Vega of the constellation Lyra will in its turn become Guardian of the Pole.

It must not be supposed, however, that the motion of the pole proceeds quite uniformly, and in an exact circle; the varying positions of the heavenly bodies whose attractions cause the phenomena in question are such as to produce appreciable divergencies from exact circular motion. Sometimes the pole deviates a little to one side of the precessional circle, and sometimes it deviates on the other side. The final result is a sort of wavy line, half on one side and half on the other of an average circular curve. It takes only nineteen years to complete one of these little waves of polar motion, so that in the whole precessional cycle of 25,800 years there are about 1,400 indentations. This disturbance of the polar motion is called by astronomers nutation.

The first step in a study of polar motion is to devise a method of finding just where the pole is on any given date. If the astronomer can ascertain by observational processes just where the pole is among the stars at any moment, and can repeat his observations year after year and generation after generation, he will possess in time a complete chart of a small portion at least of the celestial pole's vast orbit. From this he can obtain necessary data for a study of the mathematical theory of attractions, and thus, perhaps, arrive at an explanation of the fundamental laws governing the universe in which we live.

The instrument which has been used most extensively for the study of these problems is the transit (p. 118) or the "meridian circle." This latter consists of a telescope firmly attached to a metallic axis about which it can turn. The axis itself rests on massive stone supports, and is so placed that it points as nearly as possible in an east-and-west direction. Consequently, when the telescope is turned about its axis, it will trace out on the sky a great circle (the meridian) which passes through the north and south points of the horizon and the point directly overhead. The instrument has also a metallic circle very firmly fastened to the telescope and its axis. Let into the surface of this circle is a silver disk upon which are engraved a series of lines or graduations by means of which it is possible to measure angles.

Observers with the meridian circle begin by noting the exact instant when any given star passes the centre of the field of view of the telescope. This centre is marked with a cross made by fastening into the focus some pieces of ordinary spider's web, which give a well-marked, delicate set of lines, even under the magnifying power of the telescope's eye-piece. In addition to thus noting the time when the star crosses the field of the telescope, the astronomer can measure by means of the circle, how high up it was in the sky at the instant when it was thus observed.

If the telescope of the meridian circle be turned toward the north, and we observe stars close to the pole, it is possible to make two different observations of the same star. For the close polar stars revolve in such small circles around the pole of the heavens that we can observe them when they are on the meridian either above the pole or below it. Double observations of this class enable us to obtain the elevation of the pole above the horizon, and to fix its position with respect to the stars.

Now, there is one very serious objection to this method. In order to secure the two necessary observations of the same star, it is essential to be stationed at the instrument at two moments of time separated by exactly twelve hours; and if one of the observations occurs in the night, the other corresponding observation will occur in daylight.

It is a fact not generally known that the brighter stars can be seen with a telescope, even when the sun is quite high above the horizon. Unfortunately, however, there is only one star close to the pole which is bright enough to be thus observed in daylight--the polar star already mentioned under the name Polaris. The fact that we are thus limited to observations of a single star has made it difficult even for generations of astronomers to accumulate with the meridian circle a very large quantity of observational material suitable for the solution of our problem.

The new method of observation to which we have referred above consists in an application of photography to the polar problem. If we aim at the pole a powerful photographic telescope, and expose a photographic plate throughout the entire night, we shall find that all stars coming within the range of the plate will mark out little circles or "trails" upon the developed negative. It is evident that as the stars revolve about the pole on the sky, tracing out their daily circular orbits, these same little circles must be reproduced faithfully upon the photographic plate. The only condition is that the stars shall be bright enough to make their light affect the sensitive gelatine surface.

But even if observations of this kind are continued throughout all the hours of darkness, we do not obtain complete circles, but only those portions of circles traced out on the sky between sunset and sunrise. If the night is twelve hours in length, we get half-circles on the plate; if it is eighteen hours long, we get circles that lack only one-quarter of being complete. In other words, we get a series of circular arcs, one corresponding to each close polar star. There are no fewer than sixteen stars near enough to the pole to come within the range of a photographic plate, and bright enough to cause measurable impressions upon the sensitive surface. The fact that the circular arcs are not complete circles does not in the least prevent our using them for ascertaining the position of their common centre; and that centre is the pole. Moreover, as the arcs are distributed at all sorts of distances from the pole and in all directions, corresponding to the accidental positions of the stars on the sky, we have a state of affairs extremely favorable to the accurate determination of the pole's place among the stars by means of microscopic measurements of the plate.