Chapter VIII: The Stars 221 (5)

The “man in the moon” disappears when we are looking in a telescope, because we are then brought so near to details that the general features are lost; but he can be seen in any photograph of the full moon by viewing it at a sufficient distance, and making allowance for the fact that the contrasts of light and shade appear stronger in the photograph than they are in reality. If the small full moon given in Fig. 66, for instance, be looked at from across a room, the naked-eye view will be recovered, and its connection with the telescopic ones better made out. The best time for viewing the moon, however, is not at the full, but at the close of the first quarter; for then we see, as in this beautiful photograph (Fig. 65) by Mr. Rutherfurd, that the sunlight, falling slantingly on it, casts shadows which bring out all the details so that we can distinguish many of them even here,--this photograph, though much reduced, giving the reader a better view than Galileo obtained with his most powerful telescope. The large gray expanse in the lower part is the Mare Serenitatis, that on the left the Mare Crisium, and so on; these “seas,” as they were called by the old observers, being no seas at all in reality, but extended plains which reflect less light than other portions, and which with higher powers show an irregular surface. Most of the names of the main features of the lunar surface were bestowed by the earlier observers in the infancy of the telescope, when her orb

“Through optic glass the Tuscan artist ‘viewed’
At evening from the top of Fiesole
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains in her spotty globe.”

Mountains there are, like the chain of the lunar Apennines, which the reader sees a little below the middle of the moon, and to the right of the Mare Serenitatis, and where a good telescope will show several thousand distinct summits. Apart from the mountain chains, however, the whole surface is visibly pitted with shallow, crater-like cavities, which vary from over a hundred miles in diameter to a few hundred yards or less, and which, we shall see later, are smaller sunken plains walled about with mountains or hills.

One of the most remarkable, of these is Tycho, here seen on the photograph of the full moon (Fig. 66), from which radiating streaks go in all directions over the lunar surface. These streaks are a feature peculiar to the moon (at least we know of nothing to which they can be compared on the earth), for they run through mountain and valley for hundreds of miles without any apparent reference to the obstacles in their way, and it is clear that the cause is a deep-seated one. This cause is believed by our authors to be the fact that the moon was once a liquid sphere over which a hard crust formed, and that in subsequent time the expansion of the interior before solidification cracked the shell as we see. The annexed figure (Fig. 67) is furnished by them to illustrate their theory, and to show the effects of what they believe to be an analogous experiment, _in minimis_, to what Nature has performed on the grandest scale; for the photograph shows a glass globe actually cracked by the expansion of an enclosed fluid (in this case water), and the resemblance of the model to the photograph of the full moon on page 141 is certainly a very interesting one.

We are able to see from this, and from the multitude of craters shown even on the general view, where the whole face of our satellite is pit-marked, that eruptive action has been more prominent on the moon in ages past than on our own planet, and we are partly prepared for what we see when we begin to study it in detail.

We may select almost any part of the moon’s surface for this nearer view, with the certainty of finding something interesting. Let us choose, for instance, on the photograph of the half-full moon (Fig. 65), the point near the lower part of the Terminator (as the line dividing light from darkness is called) where a minute sickle of light seems to invade the darkness, and let us apply in imagination the power of a large telescope to it. We are brought at once considerably within a thousand miles of the surface, over which we seem to be suspended, everything lying directly beneath us as in a bird’s-eye view, and what we see is the remarkable scene shown in Fig. 68.

We have before us such a wealth of detail that the only trouble is to choose what to speak of where every point has something to demand attention, and we can only give here the briefest reference to the principal features. The most prominent of these is the great crater “Plato,” which lies in the lower right-hand part of the cut. It will give the reader an idea of the scale of things to state that the diameter of its ring is about seventy miles; so that he will readily understand that the mountains surrounding it may average five to six thousand feet in height, as they do. The sun is shining from the left, and, being low, casts long shadows, so that the real forms of the mountains on one side are beautifully indicated by these shadows, where they fall on the floor of the crater. In the lower part of the mountain wall there has been a land-slide, as we see by the fragments that have rolled down into the plain, and of which a trace can be observed in our engraving. The whole is quite unlike most terrestrial craters, however, not only in its enormous size, but in its proportions; for the floor is not precipitous, but flat, or partaking of the general curvature of the lunar surface, which it sinks but little below. I have watched with interest in the telescope streaks and shades on the floor of Plato, not shown in our cut; for here some have suspected evidences of change, and fancied a faint greenish tint, as if due to vegetation, but it is probably fancy only. Notice the number of small craters around the big one, and everywhere on the plate, and then look at the amazingly rugged and tumbled mountain heaps on the left (the lunar Alps), cut directly through by a great valley (the valley of the Alps), which is at the bottom about six miles wide and extraordinarily flat,--flatter and smoother even than our engraving shows it, and looking as though a great engineering work, rather than an operation of Nature, were in question. Above this the mountain shadows are cast upon a wide plain, in which are both depressed pits with little mountain (or rather hill) rings about them, and extraordinary peaks, one of which, Pico (above the great crater), starts up abruptly to the height of eight thousand feet, a lunar Matterhorn.

If Mars were as near as the moon, we should see with the naked eye clouds passing over its face; and that we never do see these on the moon, even with the telescope, is itself a proof that none exist there. Now, this absence of clouds, or indeed of any evidence of moisture, is confirmed by every one of the nearer views like those we are here getting. We might return to this region with the telescope every month of our lives without finding one indication of vapor, of moisture, or even of air; and from a summit like Pico, could we ascend it, we should look out on a scene of such absolute desolation as probably no earthly view could parallel. If, as is conceivable, these plains were once covered with verdure, and the abode of living creatures, verdure and life exist here no longer, and over all must be the silence of universal death. But we must leave it for another scene.

South of Plato extends for many hundred miles a great plain, which from its smoothness was thought by the ancient observers to be water, and was named by them the “Imbrian Sea,” and this is bounded on the south and west by a range of mountains--the “lunar Apennines” (Fig. 69)--which are the most striking on our satellite. They are visible even with a spy-glass, looking then like bread-crumbs ranged upon a cloth, while with a greater power they grow larger and at the same time more chaotic. As we approach nearer, we see that they rise with a comparatively gradual slope, to fall abruptly, in a chain of precipices that may well be called tremendous, down to the plain below, across which their shadows are cast. Near their bases are some great craters of a somewhat different type from Plato, and our illustration represents an enlarged view of a part of this Apennine chain, of the great crater Archimedes, and of its companions Aristillus and Autolycus.

Our engraving will tell, more than any description, of the contrast of the tumbled mountain peaks with the level plain from which they spring,--a contrast for which we have scarcely a terrestrial parallel, though the rise of the Alps from the plains of Lombardy may suggest an inadequate one. The Sierra Nevadas of California climb slowly up from the coast side, to descend in great precipices on the east, somewhat like this; but the country at their feet is irregular and broken, and their highest summits do not equal those before us, which rise to seventeen or eighteen thousand feet, and from one of which we should look out over such a scene of desolation as we can only imperfectly picture to ourselves from any experience of a terrestrial desert. The curvature of the moon’s surface is so much greater than ours, that it would hide the spurs of hills which buttress the southern slopes of Archimedes, leaving only the walls of the great mountain ring visible in the extremest horizon, while between us and them would extend what some still maintain to have been the bed of an ancient lunar ocean, though assuredly no water exists there now.

Among the many fanciful theories to account for the forms of the ringed plains, one (and this is from a man of science whose ideas are always original) invokes the presence of water. According to it, these great plains were once ocean beds, and in them worked a coral insect, building up lunar “atolls” and ring-shaped submarine mountains, as the coral polyp does here. The highest summits of the great rings thus formed were then low islands, just “a-wash” with the waves of the ancient lunar sea, and, for aught we know, green with feathery palms. Then came (in the supposition in question) a time when the ocean dried up, and the mountains were left standing, as we see, in rings, after the cause of their formation was gone. If it be asked where the water went to, the answer is not very obvious on the old theories; but those who believe in them point to the extraordinary cracks in the soil, like those our engraving shows, as chasms and rents, by which the vanished seas, and perhaps also the vanished air, have been absorbed into the interior.

If there was indeed such an ancient ocean, it would have washed the very feet of the precipices on whose summits we are in imagination standing, and below us their recesses would have formed harbors which fancy might fill with commerce, and cities in which we might picture life and movement where all is now dead. It need hardly be said that no telescope has ever revealed their existence (if such ruins, indeed, there are), and it may be added that the opinion of geologists is, as a whole, unfavorable to the presence of water on the moon, even in the past, from the absence of any clear evidence of erosive action; but perhaps we are not yet entitled to speak on these points with certainty, and are not forbidden to believe that water may have existed here in the past by any absolute testimony to the contrary. The views of those who hold the larger portion of the lunar craters to have been volcanic in their formation are far more probable; and perhaps as simple an evidence of the presumption in their favor as we can give is directly to compare such a lunar region as this, the picture of which was made for us from a model, with a similar model made from some terrestrial volcanic region. Here (Fig. 70) is a photograph of such a modelled plan of the country round the Bay of Naples, showing the ancient crater of Vesuvius and its central cone, with other and smaller craters along the sea. Here, of course, we _know_ that the forms originated in volcanic action, and a comparison of them with our moon-drawing is most interesting. To return to our Apennine region (Fig. 69), we must admit, however, when we consider the vast size of these things (Archimedes is fifty miles in diameter), that they are very different in proportion from our terrestrial craters, and that numbers of them present no central cone whatever; so that if some of them seem clearly eruptive, there are others to which we have great difficulties in making these volcanic theories apply. Let us look, for instance, at still another region (Fig. 71). It lies rather above the centre of the full moon, and may be recognized also on the Rutherfurd photograph; and it consists of the group of great ring-plains, three of which form prominent figures in our cut.

Ptolemy (the lower of these in the drawing) is an example of such a plain, whose diameter reaches to about one hundred and fifteen miles, so that it encloses an area of nearly eight thousand square miles (or about that of the State of Massachusetts), within which there is no central cone or point from which eruptive forces appear to have acted, except the smaller craters it encloses. On the south we see a pass in the mountain wall opening into the neighboring ring-plain of Alphonsus, which is only less in size; and south of this again is Arzachel, sixty-six miles in diameter, surrounded with terraced walls, rising in one place to a height greater than that of Mont Blanc, while the central cone is far lower. The whole of the region round about, though not the roughest on the moon, is rough and broken in a way beyond any parallel here, and which may speak for itself; but perhaps the most striking of the many curious features--at least the only one we can pause to examine--is what is called “The Railway,” an almost perfectly straight line, on one side of which the ground has abruptly sunk, leaving the undisturbed part standing like a wall, and forming a “fault,” as geologists call it. This is the most conspicuous example of its kind in the moon, but it is only one of many evidences that we are looking at a world whose geological history has been not wholly unlike our own. But the moon contains, as has been said, but the one-eightieth part of the mass of our globe, and has therefore cooled with much greater rapidity, so that it has not only gone through the epochs of our own past time, but has in all probability already undergone experiences which for us lie far in the future; and it is hardly less than justifiable language to say that we are beholding here in some respects what the face of our world may be when ages have passed away.

To see this more clearly, we may consider that in general we find that the early stages of cosmical life are characterized by great heat; a remark of the truth of which the sun itself furnishes the first and most obvious illustration. Then come periods which we appear to have seen exemplified in Jupiter, where the planet is surrounded by volumes of steam-like vapor, through which we may almost believe we recognize the dull glow of not yet extinguished fires; then times like those which our earth passed through before it became the abode of man; and then the times in which human history begins. But if this process of the gradual loss of heat go on indefinitely, we must yet come to still another era, when the planet has grown too cold to support life, as it was before too hot; and this condition, in the light of some very recent investigations, it seems probable we have now before us on the moon.

We have, it is true, been taught until very lately that the side of the moon turned sunward would grow hotter and hotter in the long lunar day, till it reached a temperature of two hundred to three hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and that in the equally long lunar night it would fall as much as this below zero. But the evidence which was supposed to support this conclusion as to the heat of the lunar day is not supported by recent experiments of the writer; and if these be trustworthy, certain facts appear to him to show that the temperature of the moon’s surface, even under full perpetual sunshine, must be low,--and this because of the absence of air there to keep the stored sun-heat from being radiated away again into space.

As we ascend the highest terrestrial mountains, and get partly above our own protecting blanket of air, things do not grow hotter and hotter, but colder and colder; and it seems contrary to the teachings of common sense to believe that if we could ascend higher yet, where the air ceases altogether, we should not find that it grew colder still. But this last condition (of airlessness) is the one which does prevail beyond a doubt in the moon, on whose whole surface, then, there must be (unless there are sources of internal heat of which we know nothing) conditions of temperature which are an exaggeration of those we experience on the summit of a very lofty mountain, where we have the curious result that the skin may be burned under the solar rays, while we are shivering at the same time in what the thermometer shows is an arctic cold.

We have heard of this often; but a personal experience so impressed the fact on me that I will relate it for the benefit of the reader, who may wish to realize to himself the actual conditions which probably exist in the airless lunar mountains and plains we are looking at. He cannot go there; but he may go if he pleases, as I have done, to the waterless, shadeless waste which stretches at the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevadas (a chain almost as high and steep as the lunar Apennines), and live some part of July and August in this desert, where the thermometer rises occasionally to one hundred and ten degrees in the shade, and his face is tanned till it can tan no more, and he appears to himself to have experienced the utmost in this way that the sun can do.

The sky is cloudless, and the air so clear that all idea of the real distance and size of things is lost. The mountains, which rise in tremendous precipices above him, seem like moss-covered rocks close at hand, on the tops of which, here and there, a white cloth has been dropped; but the “moss” is great primeval forests, and the white cloths large isolated snow-fields, tantalizing the dweller in the burning desert with their delusive nearness. When I climbed the mountains, at an altitude of ten thousand feet I already found the coolness delicious, but at the same time (by the strange effect I have been speaking of) the skin began to burn, as though the seasoning in the desert counted for nothing at all; and as the air grew thinner and thinner while I mounted still higher and higher, though the thermometer fell, every part of the person exposed to the solar rays presented the appearance of a recent severe burn from an actual fire,--and a really severe burn it was, as I can testify,--and yet all the while around us, under this burning sun and cloudless sky, reigned a perpetual winter which made it hard to believe that torrid summer still lay below. The thinner the air, then, the colder it grows, even where we are exposed to the sun, and the lower becomes the reading of the thermometer. Now, by means of suitable apparatus, it was sought by the writer to determine, while at this elevation of fifteen thousand feet, _how_ great the fall of temperature would be if the thin air there could be removed altogether; and the result was that the thermometer would under such circumstances fall, at any rate, below zero in the full sunshine.

Of course, all this applies indirectly to the moon, above whose surface (if these inferences be correct) the mercury in the bulb of a thermometer would probably freeze and never melt again during the lunar day (and still less during the lunar night),--a conclusion which has been reached through other means by Mr. Ericsson,--and whose surface itself cannot be very greatly warmer. Other and direct measures of the lunar heat are still in progress while this is being written, but their probable result seems to be already indicated: it is that the moon’s surface, even in perpetual sunshine, must be forever cold. Just how cold, is still doubtful; and it is not yet certain whether ice, if once formed there, could ever melt.

Here (Fig. 72) is one more scene from the almost unlimited field the lunar surface affords.

The most prominent things in the landscape before us are two fine craters (Mercator and Campanus), each over thirty miles in diameter; but we have chosen this scene for remark rather on account of the great crack or rift which is seen in the upper part, and which cuts through plain and mountain for a length of sixty miles. Such cracks are counted by hundreds on the moon, where they are to be seen almost everywhere; and other varieties, in fact, are visible on this same plate, but we will not stop to describe them. This one varies in width from an eighth of a mile to a mile; and though we cannot see to the bottom of it, others are known to be at least eight miles deep, and may be indefinitely deeper.

The edge of a cliff on the earth commonly gets weather-worn and rounded; but here the edge is sharp, so that a traveller along the lunar plains would come to the very brink of this tremendous chasm before he had any warning of its existence. It is usually thus with all such rifts; and the straightness and sharpness of the edge in these cases suggest the appearance of an ice-crack to the observer. I do not mean to assert that there is more than a superficial resemblance. I do not write as a geologist; but in view of what we have just been reading of the lunar cold, we may ask ourselves whether, if water ever did exist here, we should not expect to find perpetual ice, not necessarily glittering, but covered, perhaps, with the deposits of an air laden with the dust-products of later volcanic eruptions, or even covered in after ages, when the air has ceased from the moon, with the slow deposit of meteoric dust during millions of years of windless calm. What else can we think will become of the water on our own earth if it be destined to pass through such an experience as we seem to see prophesied in the condition of our dead satellite?

The reader must not understand me as saying that there is ice on the moon,--only that there is not improbably perpetual ice there now _if_ there ever was water in past time; and he is not to suppose that to say this is in any way to deny what seems the strong evidence of the existence of volcanic action everywhere, for the two things may well have existed in successive ages of our satellite’s past, or even have both existed together, like Hecla, within our own arctic snows; and if no sign of any still active lunar volcano has been discovered, we appear to read the traces of their presence in the past none the less clearly.

I remember that at one time, when living on the lonely upper lava-wastes of Mount Etna, which are pitted with little craters, I grew acquainted with so many a chasm and rent filled with these, that the dreary landscape appeared from above as if a bit of the surface of the moon I looked up at through the telescope had been brought down beside me.

I remember, too, that as I studied the sun there, and watched the volcanic outbursts on its surface, I felt that I possibly embraced in a threefold picture as many stages in the history of planetary existence, through all of which this eruptive action was an agent,--above in the primal energies of the sun; all around me in the great volcano, black and torn with the fires that still burn below, and whose smoke rose over me in the plume that floated high up from the central cone; and finally in this last stage in the moon, which hung there pale in the daylight sky, and across whose face the vapors of the great terrestrial volcano drifted, but on whose own surface the last fire was extinct.

We shall not get an adequate idea of it all, unless we add to our bird’s-eye views one showing a chain of lunar mountains as they would appear to us if we saw them, as we do our own Alps or Apennines, from about their feet; and such a view Fig. 74 affords us. In the barren plain on the foreground are great rifts such as we have been looking at from above, and smaller craters, with their extinct cones; while beyond rise the mountains, ghastly white in the cold sunshine, their precipices crowned by no mountain fir or cedar, and softened by no intervening air to veil their nakedness.

If the reader has ever climbed one of the highest Alpine peaks, like those about Monte Rosa or the Matterhorn, and there waited for the dawn, he cannot but remember the sense of desolation and strangeness due to the utter absence of everything belonging to man or his works or his customary abode, above all which he is lifted into an upper world, so novel and, as it were, so unhuman in its features, that he is not likely to have forgotten his first impression of it; and this impression gives the nearest but still a feeble idea of what we see with the telescope in looking down on such a colorless scene, where too no water bubbles, no tree can sigh in the breeze, no bird can sing,--the home of silence.

But here, above it, hangs a world in the sky, which we should need to call in color to depict, for it is green and yellow with the forests and the harvest-fields that overspread its continents, with emerald islands studding its gray oceans, over all of which sweep the clouds that bring the life-giving rain. It is our own world, which lights up the dreary lunar night, as the moon does ours.

The signs of age are on the moon. It seems pitted, torn, and rent by the past action of long-dead fires, till its surface is like a piece of porous cinder under the magnifying-glass,--a burnt-out cinder of a planet, which rolls through the void like a ruin of what has been; and, more significant still, this surface is wrinkled everywhere, till the analogy with an old and shrivelled face or hand or fruit (Figs. 73 and 75), where the puckered skin is folded about a shrunken centre, forces itself on our attention, and suggests a common cause,--a something underlying the analogy, and making it more than a mere resemblance.

The moon, then, is dead; and if it ever was the home of a race like ours, that race is dead too. I have said that our New Astronomy modifies our view of the moral universe as well as of the physical one; nor do we need a more pregnant instance than in this before us. In these days of decay of old creeds of the eternal, it has been sought to satisfy man’s yearning toward it by founding a new religion whose god is Humanity, and whose hope lies in the future existence of our own race, in whose collective being the individual who must die may fancy his aims and purpose perpetuated in an endless progress. But, alas for hopes looking to this alone! we are here brought to face the solemn thought that, like the individual, though at a little further date, Humanity itself may die!

Before we leave this dead world, let us take a last glance at one of its fairest scenes,--that which we obtain when looking at a portion on which the sun is rising, as in this view of Gassendi (Fig. 76), in which the dark part on our right is still the body of the moon, on which the sun has not yet risen. Its nearly level rays stretch elsewhere over a surface that is, in places, of a strangely smooth texture, contrasting with the ruggedness of the ordinary soil, which is here gathered into low plaits, that, with the texture we have spoken of, look

“Like marrowy crapes of China silk,
Or wrinkled skin on scalded milk,”

as they lie, soft and almost beautiful, in the growing light.

Where its first beams are kindling, the summits cast their shadows illimitedly over the darkening plains away on the right, until they melt away into the night,--a night which is not utterly black, for even here a subdued radiance comes from the earth-shine of our own world in the sky.

Let us leave here the desolation about us, happy that we can come back at will to that world, our own familiar dwelling, where the meadows are still green and the birds still sing, and where, better yet, still dwells our own kind,--surely the world, of all we have found in our wanderings, which we should ourselves have chosen to be our home.

VI.

METEORS.

What is truth? What is fact, and what is fancy, even with regard to solid visible things that we may see and handle?

Among the many superstitions of the early world and credulous fancies of the Middle Ages, was the belief that great stones sometimes fell down out of heaven onto the earth.

Pliny has a story of such a black stone, big enough to load a chariot; the Mussulman still adores one at Mecca; and a mediæval emperor of Germany had a sword which was said to have been forced from one of these bolts shot out of the blue. But with the revival of learning, people came to know better! That stones should fall down from the sky was clearly, they thought, an absurdity; indeed, according to the learned opinion of that time, one would hardly ask a better instance of the difference between the realities which science recognized and the absurdities which it condemned than the fancy that such a thing could be. So at least the matter looked to the philosophers of the last century, who treated it much as they might treat certain alleged mental phenomena, for instance, if they were alive to-day, and at first refused to take any notice of these stories, when from time to time they still came to hand. When induced to give the matter consideration, they observed that all the conditions for scientific observation were violated by these bodies, since the wonder always happened at some far-off place or at some past time, and (suspicious circumstance!) the stones only fell in the presence of ignorant and unscientific witnesses, and never when scientific men were at hand to examine the facts. That there were many worthy, if ignorant, men who asserted that they had seen such stones fall, seen them with their very eyes, and held them in their own hands, was accounted for by the general love of the marvellous and by the ignorance of the common mind, unlearned in the conditions of scientific observation, and unguided by the great principle of the uniformity of the Laws of Nature.

Such a tone, of course, cannot be heard among us, who never hastily pronounce anything a departure from the “Laws of Nature,” while uncertain that these can be separated from the laws of the fallible human mind, in which alone Nature is seen. But in the last century philosophers had not yet become humble, or scientific men diffident of the absoluteness of their own knowledge, and so it seemed that no amount of evidence was enough to gain an impartial hearing in the face of the settled belief that the atmosphere extended only a few miles above the earth’s surface, and that the region beyond, whence alone such things could come, was an absolute void extending to the nearest planet.

(FROM “PROFESSIONAL PAPERS OF THE SIGNAL SERVICE,” VOL. XV.)]

It used to be supposed that we were absolutely isolated, not only from the stars but from other planets, by vast empty spaces extending from world to world,--regions altogether vacant except for some vagrant comet; but of late years we are growing to have new ideas on this subject, and not only to consider space as far from void or tenantless, but to admit, as a possibility at least, that there is a sort of continuity between our very earth’s surface, the air above it, and all which lies beyond the blue overarching dome of our own sky. Our knowledge of the physical nature of the universe without has chiefly come from what the spectroscope, overleaping the space between us and the stars, has taught us of them; as a telegram might report to us the existence of a race across the ocean, without telling anything of what lay between. It would be a novel path to the stars, and to the intermediate regions whence these once mythical stones are now actually believed to come, if we could take the reader to them by a route which enabled us to note each step of a continuous journey from the earth’s surface out into the unknown; but if we undertake to start upon it, he will understand that we must almost at the outset leave the ground of comparative certainty on which we have hitherto rested, and need to speak of things on this road which are still but probabilities, and even some which are little more than conjectures, before we get to the region of comparative certainty again,--a region which, strange to say, exists far away from us, while that of doubt lies close at hand, for we may be said without exaggeration to know more about Sirius than about the atmosphere a thousand miles above the earth’s surface; indeed, it would be more just to say that we are sure not only of the existence but of the elements that compose a star, though a million of times as far off as the sun, while at the near point named we are not sure of so much as that the atmosphere exists at all.

To begin our outward journey in a literal sense, we might rise from the earth’s surface some miles in a balloon, when we should find our progress stayed by the rarity of the air. Below us would be a gray cloud-ocean, through which we could see here and there the green earth beneath, while above us there would still be something in the apparently empty air, for if the sun has just set it will still be _light_ all round us. Something then, in a cloudless sky, still exists to reflect the rays towards us, and this something is made up of separately invisible specks of dust and vapor, but very largely of actual dust, which probably forms the nucleus of each mist-particle. That discrete matter of some kind exists here has long been recognized from the phenomena of twilight; but it is, I think, only recently that we are coming to admit that a shell of actual solid particles in the form of dust probably encloses the whole globe, up to far above the highest clouds.

In 1881 the writer had occasion to conduct a scientific expedition to the highest point in the territories of the United States, on one of the summits of the Sierra Nevadas of Southern California, which rise even above the Rocky Mountains.

The illustration on page 177 represents the camp occupied by this party below the summit, where the tents, which look as if in the bottom of a valley, are yet really above the highest zone of vegetation, and at an altitude of nearly twelve thousand feet.

Still above these rise the precipices of barren rock seen in the background, their very bases far above the highest visible dust-clouds, which overspread like a sea the deserts at the mountain’s foot,--precipices which when scaled lift the observer into what is, perhaps, the clearest and purest air to be found in the world. It will be seen from the mere looks of the landscape that we are far away here from ordinary sources of contamination in the atmosphere. Yet even above here on the highest peak, where we felt as if standing on the roof of the continent and elevated into the great aerial currents of the globe, the telescope showed particles of dust in the air, which the geologists deemed to have probably formed part of the soil of China and to have been borne across the Pacific, but which also, as we shall see later, may owe something to the mysterious source of the phenomena already alluded to.

It is far from being indifferent to us that the dust is there; for, to mention nothing else, without it, it would be night till the sunrise, and black night again as soon as the sun’s edge disappeared below the horizon. The morning and the evening twilight, which in northern latitudes increase our average time of light by some hours, and add very materially to the actual days of man’s life, are probably due almost wholly to particles scarcely visible in the microscope, and to the presence of such atoms, smaller than the very motes ordinarily seen in the sunbeam, which, as Mr. Aitken has shown, fill the air we breathe,--so minute and remote are the causes on which the habits of life depend.

Before we can see that a part of this impalpable, invisible dust is also perhaps a link between our world and other members of the solar system, we must ask how it gets into the atmosphere. Is it blown up from the earth, or does it fall down out of the miscalled “void” of space?

If we cast a handful of dust into the air, it will not mount far above the hand unless we set the air in motion with it, as in ascending smoke-currents; and the greatest explosions we can artificially produce, hurl their finer products but a few hundred feet at most from the soil. Utterly different are the forces of Nature. We have on page 183 a reproduction from a photograph of an eruption of Vesuvius,--a mere toy-volcano compared to Etna or Hecla. But observe the smoke-cloud which rises high in the sunshine, looking solid as the rounded snows of an Alp, while the cities and the sea below are in the shadow. The smoke that mounts from the foreground, where the burning lava-streams are pouring over the surface and firing the woods, is of another kind from that rolling high above. _This_ comes from within the mountain, and is composed of clouds of steam mingled with myriads of dust-particles from the comminuted products of the earth’s interior; and we can see ourselves that it is borne away on a level, miles high in the upper air.

But what is this to the eruption of Sumbawa or Krakatao? The latter occurred in 1883, and it will be remembered that the air-wave started by the explosion was felt around the globe, and that, probably owing to the dust and water-vapor blown into the atmosphere, the sunsets even in America became of that extraordinary crimson we all remember three years ago; and coincidently, that dim reddish halo made its appearance about the sun, the world over, which is hardly yet gone.[6] Very careful estimates of the amount of ashes ejected have been made; and though most of the heavier particles are known to have fallen into the sea within a few miles, a certain portion--the lightest--was probably carried by the explosion far above the lower strata of the atmosphere, to descend so slowly that some of it may still be there. Of this lighter class the most careful estimates must be vague; but according to the report of the official investigation by the Dutch Government, that which remained floating is something enormous. An idea of its amount may be gained by supposing these impalpable and invisible particles to condense again from the upper sky, and to pour down on the highest edifice in the world, the Washington Monument. If the dust were allowed to spread out on all sides, till the pyramidal slope was so flat as to be permanent, the capstone of the monument would not only be buried before the supply was exhausted, but buried as far below the surface as that pinnacle is now above it.

[6] In January, 1887.

Of the explosive suddenness with which the mass was hurled, we can judge something (comparing small things with great) by the explosion of dynamite.

It happened once that the writer was standing by a car in which some railway porters were lifting boxes. At that moment came an almost indescribable sound, for it was literally stunning, though close and sharp as the crack of a whip in one’s hand, and yet louder than the nearest thunder-clap. The men leaped from the car, thinking that one of the boxes had exploded between them; but the boxes were intact, and we saw what seemed a pillar of dust rising above the roof of the station, hundreds of yards away. When we hurried through the building, we found nothing on the other side but a bare plain, extending over a mile, and beyond this the actual scene of the explosion that had seemed to be at our feet. There had been there, a few minutes before, extensive buildings and shops belonging to the railroad, and sidings on which cars were standing, two of which, loaded with dynamite, had exploded.

Where they _had_ been was a crater-like depression in the earth, some rods in diameter; the nearest buildings, great solid structures of brick and stone, had vanished, and the more distant wooden ones and the remoter lines of freight-cars on the side-tracks presented a curious sight, for they were not shattered so much as bent and leaning every way, as though they had been built of pasteboard, like card-houses, and had half yielded to some gigantic puff of breath. All that the explosion had shot skyward had settled to earth or blown away before we got in sight of the scene, which was just as quiet as it had been a minute before. It was like one of the changes of a dream.

Now, it is of some concern to us to know that the earth holds within itself similar forces, on an incomparably greater scale. For instance, the explosion which occurred at Krakatao, at five minutes past ten, on the 27th of August, 1883, according to official evidence, was heard at a distance of eighteen hundred miles, and the puff of its air-wave injured dwellings two hundred miles distant, and, we repeat, carried into the highest regions of the atmosphere and around the world matter which it is at least possible still affects the aspect of the sun to-day from New York or Chicago.

Do not the great flames which we have seen shot out from the sun at the rate of hundreds of miles a second, the immense and sudden perturbations in the atmosphere of Jupiter, and the scarred surface of the moon, seem to be evidences of analogous phenomena, common to the whole solar system, not wholly unconnected with those of earthquakes, and which we can still study in the active volcanoes of the earth?

If the explosion of gunpowder can hurl a cannon-shot three or four miles into the air, how far might the explosion of Krakatao cast its fragments? At first we might think there must be some proportionality between the volume of the explosion and the distance, but this is not necessarily so. Apart from the resistance of the air, it is a question of the velocity with which the thing is shot upward, rather than the size of the gun, or the size of the thing itself, and with a sufficient velocity the projectile would never fall back again. “What goes up must come down,” is, like most popular maxims, true only within the limits of ordinary experience; and even were there nothing else in the universe to attract it, and though the earth’s attraction extend to infinity, so that the body would never escape from it, it is yet quite certain that it would, with a certain initial velocity (very moderate in comparison with that of the planet itself), go up and _never_ come back; while under other and possible conditions it might voyage out into space on a comet-like orbit, and be brought back to the earth, perhaps in after ages, when the original explosion had passed out of memory or tradition. But because all this is possible, it does not follow that it is necessarily true; and if the reader ask why he should then be invited to consider such suppositions at all, we repeat that in our journey outward, before we come to the stars, of which we know something, we pass through a region of which we know almost nothing; and this region, which is peopled by the subjects of conjecture, is the scene, if not the source, of the marvel of the falling stones, concerning which the last century was so incredulous, but for which we can, aided by what has just been said, now see at least a possible cause, and to which we now return.

Stories of falling stones, then, kept arising from time to time during the last century as they had always done, and philosophers kept on disbelieving them as they had always done, till an event occurred which suddenly changed scientific opinion to compulsory belief.

On the 26th of April, 1803, there fell, not in some far-off part of the world, but in France, not one alone, but many thousand stones, over an area of some miles, accompanied with noises like the discharge of artillery. A committee of scientific men visited the spot on the part of the French Institute, and brought back not only the testimony of scores of witnesses or auditors, but the stones themselves. Soon after stones fell in Connecticut, and here and elsewhere, as soon as men were prepared to believe, they found evidence multiplied; and such falls, it is now admitted, though rare in any single district, are of what may be called frequent occurrence as regards the world at large,--for, taking land and sea together, the annual stone-falls are probably to be counted by hundreds.

It was early noticed that these stones consisted either of a peculiar alloy of iron, or of minerals of volcanic origin, or both; and the first hypothesis was that they had just been shot out from terrestrial volcanoes. As they were however found, as in the case of the Connecticut meteorite, thousands of miles from any active volcanoes, and were seen to fall, not vertically down, but as if shot horizontally overhead, this view was abandoned. Next the idea was suggested that they were coming from volcanoes in the moon; and though this had little to recommend it, it was adopted in default of a better, and entertained down to a comparatively very recent period. These stones are now collected in museums, where any one may see them, and are to be had of the dealers in such articles by any who wish to buy them. They are coming to have such a considerable money value that, in one case at least, a lawsuit has been instituted for their possession between the finder, who had picked the stones up on ground leased to him, and claimed them under the tenant’s right to wild game, and his landlord, who thought they were his as part of the real estate.

Leaving the decision of this novel law-point to the lawyers, let us notice some facts now well established.

The fall is usually preceded by a thundering sound, sometimes followed or accompanied by a peculiar noise described as like that of a flock of ducks rising from the water. The principal sound is often, however, far louder than any thunder, and sometimes of stunning violence. At night this is accompanied by a blaze of lightning-like suddenness and whiteness, and the stones commonly do not fall vertically, but as if shot from a cannon at long range. They are usually burning hot, but in at least one authenticated instance one was so intensely cold that it could not be handled. They are of all sizes, from tons to ounces, comparatively few, however, exceeding a hundred-weight, and they are oftenest of a rounded form, or looking like pieces of what was originally round, and usually wholly or partly covered with a glaze formed of the fused substance itself. If we slowly heat a lump of loaf sugar all through, it will form a pasty mass, while we may also hold it without inconvenience in our fingers to the gas-flame a few seconds, when it will be melted only on the side next the sudden heat, and rounded by the melting. The sharp contrast of the melted and the rough side is something like that of the meteorites; and just as the sugar does not burn the hand, though close to where it is brought suddenly to a melting heat, a mass of ironstone may be suddenly heated on the surface, while it remains cold on the inside. But, however it got there, the stone undoubtedly comes from the intensely cold spaces above the upper air; and what is the source of such a heat that it is melted in the cold air, and in a few seconds?

Everybody has noticed that if we move a fan gently, the air parts before it with little effort, while, when we try to fan violently, the same air is felt to react; yet if we go on to say that if the motion is still more violent the atmosphere will resist like a solid, against which the fan, if made of iron, would break in pieces, this may seem to some an unexpected property of the “nimble” air through which we move daily. Yet this is the case; and if the motion is only so quick that the air cannot get out of the way, a body hurled against it will rise in temperature like a shot striking an armor-plate. It is all a question of speed, and that of the meteorite is known to be immense. One has been seen to fly over this country from the Mississippi to the Atlantic in an inappreciably short time, probably in less than two minutes; and though at a presumable height of over fifty miles, the velocity with which it shot by gave every one the impression that it went just above his head, and some witnesses of the unexpected apparition looked the next day to see if it had struck their chimneys. The heat developed by arrested motion in the case of a mass of iron moving twenty miles a second can be calculated, and is found to be much more than enough, not only to melt it, but to turn it into vapor; though what probably does happen is, according to Professor Newton, that the melted surface-portions are wiped away by the pressure of the air and volatilized to form the luminous train, the interior remaining cold, until the difference of temperature causes a fracture, when the stone breaks and pieces fall,--some of them at red-hot heat, some of them possibly at the temperature of outer space, or far below that of freezing mercury.

Where do these stones come from? What made them? The answer is not yet complete; but if a part of the riddle is already yielding to patience, it is worthy of note, as an instance of the connection of the sciences, that the first help to the solution of this astronomical enigma came from the chemists and the geologists.