Chapter X: Part 10

It is, however, in a physical point of view that these bodies offer the greatest stimulus to our curiosity. There is, beyond question, some profound secret and mystery of nature concerned in the phenomenon of their tails. Perhaps it is not too much to hope that future observation, borrowing every aid from rational speculation, grounded on the progress of physical science generally (especially those branches of it which relate to the ethereal or imponderable elements), may ere long enable us to penetrate this mystery, and to declare whether it is really _matter_ in the ordinary acceptation of the term which is projected from their heads with such extravagant velocity, and if not impelled, at least _directed_, in its course by a reference to the sun, as its point of avoidance. In no respect is the question as to the materiality of the tail more forcibly pressed on us for consideration than in that of the enormous sweep which it makes round the sun in perihelio, in the manner of a straight and rigid rod, in defiance of the law of gravitation, nay, even of the received laws of motion, extending (as we have seen in the comets of 1680 and 1843) from near the sun’s surface to the earth’s orbit, yet whirled round unbroken: in the latter case through an angle of 180° in little more than two hours. It seems utterly incredible that in such a case it is one and the same material object which is thus brandished. If there could be conceived such a thing as a _negative shadow_, a momentary impression made upon the luminiferous ether behind the comet, this would represent in some degree the conception such a phenomenon irresistibly calls up. But this is not all. Even such an extraordinary excitement of the ether, conceive it as we will, will afford no account of the projection of lateral streamers; of the effusion of light from the nucleus of a comet toward the sun; and its subsequent _re_jection; of the irregular and capricious mode in which that effusion has been seen to take place; none of the clear indications of alternate evaporation and condensation going on in the immense regions of space occupied by the tail and coma—none, in short, of innumerable other facts which link themselves with almost equally irresistible cogency to our ordinary notions of matter and force.

LIFE IN OTHER WORLDS.—J. E. GORE

The question is often asked, Are the stars inhabited? To this we can confidently answer, No. The stars themselves are certainly not habitable by any forms of life with which we are familiar. That the stars are luminous incandescent bodies, similar to the sun, seems almost self-evident. That they shine by their own inherent light, and not by light reflected from another body, like the planets of the Solar System, is a fact which scarcely needs demonstration. There are no bright objects near them from which they could derive their light, and they are too far from the sun to obtain any illumination from that source. But if any proofs were necessary, we have the evidence of the spectroscope, which shows unmistakably that their light emanates from incandescent bodies. Many of the stars show spectra very similar to that of the sun. The light of others, although differing somewhat in quality when analyzed by the prism, indicates clearly that they are at a very high temperature—in many cases, indeed, suggesting that they are actually hotter than the sun. It may be objected, however, that in the case of binary or revolving double stars, the smaller component may possibly shine by light reflected from the brighter star. Indeed, this has been suggested in the case of Sirius and its faint companion. But, if the companion of Sirius shone merely by reflected light from its primary, it would be much fainter than it is, and, indeed, would be utterly invisible in our largest telescopes. Further, in some double stars, spectroscopic observations suggest that the component stars have different spectra. This is, of course, conclusive evidence against the hypothesis of borrowed light; for were the smaller star to shine by reflected light from the larger, the spectra of both would be identical, as in the case of the sun and moon. We may therefore conclude that all the visible stars are suns, and totally unfit for the habitation of living creatures.

But may not the stars have planets revolving round them, forming solar systems similar to our own? As they are evidently suns shining by inherent light, may they not form centres of planetary systems? In the case of those stars having spectra differing from the solar spectrum, we can not speak with any confidence; but for those which show spectra similar to that of our sun, and having, therefore, probably a similar chemical constitution, the existence of planets revolving round them seems from analogy very probable. I refer to _single_ stars, that is stars which have no telescopic close companion; for the double stars may, perhaps, form systems differently constituted. In any case these binary systems would not be strictly comparable with ours, for the sun is certainly a single star.

Whether systems of planets really revolve round the stars referred to, is a question which, unfortunately, can not be decided by observation. If a planet equal in size to the “giant planet,” Jupiter, were revolving round the nearest star—Alpha Centauri—at the same distance from that star that Jupiter is from the sun, it would be utterly invisible in our largest telescopes. The invisibility of planets circling round the stars is therefore no proof whatever of their non-existence. Each star of the solar type may possibly be attended by a retinue of planets which may, perhaps, remain forever invisible in the largest telescopes which man can construct. We can, therefore, draw our conclusions only from analogy. If other suns exist resembling our own sun in chemical constitution, which we know to be a fact, is it not reasonable to suppose that they also form centres of planetary systems similar to the Solar System?

“Consult with reason, reason will reply,
Each lucid point which glows in yonder sky,
Informs a system in the boundless space,
And fills with glory its appointed place;
With beams unborrowed brighten other skies,
And worlds to the unknown with heat and light supplies.”

The suns, which we call stars, were clearly not created for our benefit. They are of very little practical use to the earth’s inhabitants. They give us very little light; an additional small satellite—one considerably smaller than the moon—would have been much more useful in this respect than the millions of suns revealed by the telescope. They must, therefore, have been formed for some other purpose.

On Laplace’s Nebular Hypothesis, the condensation of an original nebulous mass endowed with a motion of rotation would result not only in the formation of a sun, similar to ours, but also in a system of planets revolving round the central body. If, indeed, the primitive nebula had no rotation or motions of any kind, the result would be a sun without planets or satellites; but the motions with which all the stars seem to be animated lead us to suppose that this would be a case of very rare occurrence. We may therefore conclude, with a high degree of probability, that the stars—at least those with spectra of the solar type—form centres of planetary systems somewhat similar to our own.

This being surmised, let us consider the conditions necessary for the existence of life on these planets. There are various conditions which must be complied with before we can imagine life, as we know it, to be possible on any planet. Perhaps the most important of these is the question of temperature. We know that in the universe a great range of temperature exists, from the cold of interstellar space—estimated at about 460° below the freezing-point of water—to the intense heat which rages in the solar photosphere. In this long thermal scale life is, at least on the earth, restricted within rather narrow limits. Below a certain low temperature life can not exist. The point is, however, far above the temperature of space. On the other hand, above a certain high temperature—a low one, however, compared with the intense heat of the solar surface—life is also impossible, at least for highly organized beings like man and the larger animals. For minute microscopic organisms the scale may, perhaps, be somewhat extended; but even in its widest limits, the range of temperature within which life is possible is, so far as we know, certainly a narrow one.

For the support of life and vegetation, light is also necessary, for without it no flowers would bloom, nor corn grow and ripen to maturity. To obtain this supply of light and heat it is necessary that a life-bearing planet should revolve at a suitable distance from, and in a nearly circular orbit round, a central sun. These conditions, it is hardly necessary to say, are fulfilled in the case of the earth. Were we much nearer to the sun than we are, we should suffer from excessive heat, and were we much further away, we should probably perish from the cold. For this reason the existence of life on the other planets of the Solar System seems very doubtful. Mercury is probably too hot, and the other planets are certainly too cold, so far as heat from the sun is concerned, unless, indeed, their internal heat is sufficient to raise the temperature of their surface to a point sufficient for the maintenance of life. Indeed, there is good reason to suppose that in the planets Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune, this internal heat is still so great that life would be quite impossible on their surface. Venus, inside the earth’s orbit, and Mars, outside, are the two planets which seem to approach nearest to the required conditions. We know that both these planets possess atmospheres somewhat similar to ours, and, in Mars at least, land and water most probably exist on its surface. Venus is, of course, much hotter than the earth, and Mars much colder, but possibly the polar regions of Venus and the equatorial regions of Mars may form suitable abodes for some forms, at least, of animal and vegetable life.

Let us proceed, however, to consider some other conditions necessary for the existence of life on a planet. A suitable temperature is, of course, indispensable, but this is not all. There are other conditions which must be complied with. The planet must have a rotation on its axis, so that every portion shall in turn receive its due share of light and heat. Each point on its surface must have its day and night, the day for work and the night for rest. The axis of rotation must not lie in the plane of the planet’s orbit, but must have a suitable inclination, so that each hemisphere may enjoy its seasons, summer and winter, “seed-time and harvest,” in due course. Further the velocity of rotation on its axis must not be too rapid. If the earth rotated in a period of one and a quarter hours, bodies at the equator would have no weight, and life would be impossible in those regions.

The planet must also possess a mass sufficient to retain bodies on its surface by the force of gravity. In the case of very small bodies, such as the moons of Mars and some of the minor planets between Mars and Jupiter, objects thrown into the air would pass away into space never to return.

The planet should also have a mean density greater than that of water, otherwise the seas would possess no stability, and destructive waves would quickly destroy all life on its surface. All these conditions are fulfilled in the case of Mars as well as on the earth. In the planet Saturn, however, the density is less than that of water, and in Uranus and Neptune only slightly greater.

The planet must also possess a suitable atmosphere. This is an all-important condition for the support of animal life—at least for the existence of man and the higher orders of animals. This atmosphere must consist—so far as we know—of oxygen and nitrogen gases mechanically mixed in proper proportions, and with a small quantity of carbonic acid gas. Were the oxygen in smaller quantity than it exists in the earth’s atmosphere, life could not be supported. On the other hand, were it much in excess of its present amount, a fever would be produced in the blood which would very soon put an end to animal life. The presence of other gases in excessive quantities would also render the air unfit for breathing. We see, therefore, that a comparatively slight change in the composition of a planet’s atmosphere would—so far as our experience goes—render the planet uninhabitable by any of the higher forms of life with which we are familiar.

For the support of life on a planet, water is also absolutely necessary. Without this useful fluid the world would soon become a desert, and life and vegetation would speedily vanish from its surface.

Geological conditions must also be considered. It is clearly necessary for the welfare of human beings at least that the surface soil and rocks should contain coal, iron, lime, and other minerals, substances almost indispensable for the ordinary wants of civilized existence.

1, Nov. 26, 1864; 2, June 29, 1873; 3, Oct. 28, 1879; 4, June 2, 1888; 5, June 20, 1890; 6, Aug. 6, 1892; 7, Oct., 1894; 8, Dec. 3, 1896; 9, Dec. 7, 1896]

That all or any of the conditions considered would be complied with in the case of a planet revolving round a star it is, of course, impossible to say. But when we find stars showing by their spectra that they contain chemical elements identical with those which exist in the sun and the earth, analogy would lead us to suppose that very possibly a planet resembling our earth may revolve round each of these distant suns. I say _a_ planet, for evidently there would be only _one_ distance from the central luminary—a distance depending on its size—at which the temperature necessary for the support of life would exist, as in the case of the earth, over the whole of the planet’s surface. For other planets of the stellar system, life would be, if it existed at all, most probably confined to restricted regions of the planet’s surface. There would, therefore, be in each system one planet, and only one, _especially_ suitable for the support of animal life as we know it. This is with reference to light and heat. If the other conditions were not complied with, then life would probably not exist even on this one planet. In the case of a star larger than the sun, the planet should be placed at a greater distance than the earth is from the sun, but in this case the length of the year and the seasons would be longer than ours.

The star which more nearly resembles the sun in the character of the light which it emits is the bright star Capella. Arcturus has a somewhat similar spectrum. But these are probably suns of enormous size, if any reliance can be placed on the measures of their distance from the earth. Other bright stars with spectra of the solar type are Pollux, Aldebaran, Beta Andromedæ, Alpha Arietis, Alpha Cassiopeiæ, Alpha Cygni, and Alpha Ursæ Majoris. Another star is Eta Herculis. The magnitude of this star as measured with the photometer is about 3½. A parallax found by Bélopolsky and Wagner places it at a distance of 515,660 times the sun’s distance from the earth. If the sun were placed at this distance, I find that it would be reduced to a star of the third magnitude. This result would imply that Eta Herculis is a slightly smaller sun than ours; and a planet placed a little nearer to the star than the earth is to the sun might, perhaps, fulfil the conditions of a life-bearing world.

The number of stars visible in our largest telescopes is usually estimated at 100,000,000. Of these we may perhaps assume that 10,000,000 have a spectrum of the solar type, and therefore closely resemble our sun in their chemical constitution. If we suppose that only one in ten of these is similar in size to the sun, and has a habitable planet revolving round it, we have a total of 1,000,000 worlds in the visible universe fitted for the support of animal life.

We may therefore conclude, with a high degree of probability, that among the “multitudinous” stellar hosts there are probably many stars having life-bearing planets revolving round them.

THE SUN—WHAT WE LEARN FROM IT.—RICHARD A. PROCTOR

The Sun, the central and ruling body of the planetary system, and the source of light and heat to our earth and all the members of that system, is a globe about 852,900 miles in diameter. So far as observation extends, his figure is perfectly spherical, no difference having been observed between his polar and spherical diameters. It has been well remarked, indeed, by Sir G. Airy, that if any observer could by ordinary modes of measurement satisfy himself that a real difference existed between the diameters, that observer would have proved the inexactness of his own work; for the absence of any measurable compression comes out as the result of comparisons between thousands of observations of the sun’s limbs made at Greenwich and other leading observatories. The volume of the sun exceeds the earth’s 1,252,700 times. His mean density is almost exactly one-fourth of the earth’s, and his mass exceeds hers about 316,000 times. Gravity at the surface of the sun exceeds terrestrial gravity about 27.1 times, so that a body dropped from rest near the sun’s surface would fall through 436 feet in the first second, and have acquired a velocity of 872 feet per second.

Let the reader consider a terrestrial globe three inches in diameter, and search out on that globe the tiny triangular speck which represents Great Britain. Then let him endeavor to picture the town in which he lives as represented by the minutest pin-mark that could possibly be made upon this speck. He will then have formed some conception, though but an inadequate one, of the enormous dimensions of the earth’s globe, compared with the scene in which his daily life is cast. Now, on the same scale, the sun would be represented by a globe about twice the height of an ordinary sitting-room. A room about twenty-six feet in length, and height, and breadth, would be required to contain the representation of the sun’s globe on this scale, while the globe representing the earth could be placed in a moderately large goblet.

Such is the body which sways the motions of the Solar System. The largest of his family, the giant Jupiter, though of dimensions which dwarf those of the earth or Venus almost to nothingness, would yet only be represented by a thirty-two inch globe, on the scale which gives to the sun the enormous volume I have spoken of. Saturn would have a diameter of about twenty-eight inches, his ring measuring about five feet in its extreme span. Uranus and Neptune would be little more than a foot in diameter, and all the minor planets would be less than the three-inch earth. It will thus be seen that the sun is a worthy centre of the great scheme he sways, even when we merely regard his dimensions.

The sun outweighs fully seven hundred and forty times the combined mass of all the planets which circle around him, so that, when we regard the energy of his attraction, we still find him a worthy ruler of the planetary scheme.

Viewed with the naked eye, the sun appears only as a luminous mass of intense and uniform brightness; but when examined with the telescope, his surface is frequently observed to be mottled over with a number of dark spots, of irregular and ill-defined forms, constantly varying in appearance, situation, and magnitude. These spots are occasionally of immense size, so as to be visible even without the aid of the telescope; and their number is frequently so great that they occupy a considerable portion of the sun’s surface. Sir W. Herschel observed one in 1779 the diameter of which exceeded 50,000 miles, more than six times the diameter of the earth; and Scheiner affirms that he has seen no less than fifty on the sun’s disk at once. Most of them have a deep black nucleus, surrounded by a fainter shade, or _umbra_, of which the inner part, nearest to the nucleus, is brighter than the exterior portion. The boundary between the nucleus and umbra is in general tolerably well defined; and beyond the umbra a stripe of light appears more vivid than the rest of the sun.

The discovery of the sun’s spots has been attributed to Fabricius, Galileo, and Scheiner, and has been claimed for the English astronomer Harriot. Amid these conflicting pretensions it is perhaps impossible to arrive at the truth; but the matter is of little importance; the discovery is one which followed inevitably that of the telescope, and an accidental priority of observation can hardly be considered as establishing any claim to merit.

The study of solar physics may be said to have commenced with the discovery of the sun spots, about two hundred and sixty years ago. These spots were presently found to traverse the solar disk in such a way as to indicate that the sun turns upon an axis once in about twenty-six days. Nor will this rotation appear slow, when we remember that it implies a motion of the equatorial parts of the sun’s surface at a rate exceeding some seventy times the motion of our swiftest express train.

Next came the discovery that the solar spots are not surface stains, but deep cavities in the solar substance. The changes of appearance presented by the spots as they traverse the solar disk led Dr. Wilson to form this theory so far back as 1779; but, strangely enough, it is only in comparatively recent times that the hypothesis has been finally established, since even within the last ten years a theory was put forward which accounted satisfactorily for most of the changes of appearance observed in the spots, by supposing them to be due to solar clouds hanging suspended at a considerable elevation above the true photosphere.

Sir William Herschel, reasoning from terrestrial analogies, was led to look on the spot-cavities as apertures through a double layer of clouds. He argued that, were the solar photosphere of any other nature, it would be past comprehension that vast openings should form in it, to remain open for months before they close up again. Whether we consider the enormous rapidity with which the spots form and with which their figure changes, or the length of time that many of them remain visible, we find ourselves alike perplexed, unless we assume that the solar photosphere resembles a bed of clouds. Through a stratum of terrestrial clouds openings may be formed by atmospheric disturbances, but while undisturbed the clouds will retain any form once impressed upon them, for a length of time corresponding to the weeks and months during which the solar spots endure.

And because the solar spots present two distinct varieties of light, the faint penumbra and the dark umbra or nucleus, Herschel saw the necessity of assuming that there are two beds of clouds, the outer self-luminous and constituting the true solar photosphere, the inner reflecting the light received from the outer layer, and so shielding the real surface of the sun from the intense light and heat which it would otherwise receive.

But while recent discoveries have confirmed Sir William Herschel’s theory about the solar cloud-envelopes, they have by no means given countenance to his view that the body of the sun may possibly be cool. The darkness of the nucleus of a spot is found, on the contrary, to give proof that in that neighborhood the sun is hotter, because it parts less readily with its heat. We shall see presently how this is. Meantime let it be noticed, in passing, that a close scrutiny of large solar spots has revealed the existence of an intensely black spot in the midst of the umbra. This black spot must be regarded as the true nucleus.

The circumstance that the spots appear only on two bands of the sun’s globe, corresponding to the sub-tropical zones on our own earth, led the younger Herschel to conclusions as important as those which his father had formed. He reasoned, like his father, from terrestrial analogies. On our own earth the sub-tropical zones are the regions where the great cyclonic storms have their birth, and rage with their chief fury. Here, therefore, we have the analogue of the solar spots, if only we can show reason for believing that any causes resembling those which generate the terrestrial cyclone operate upon those regions of the sun where the solar spots make their appearance.

We know that the cyclone is due to the excess of heat at the earth’s equator. It is true that this excess of heat is always in operation, whereas cyclones are not perpetually raging in sub-tropical climates. Ordinarily, therefore, the excess of heat does not cause tornadoes. Certain aerial currents are generated whose uniform motion suffices, as a rule, to adjust the conditions which the excess of heat at the equator would otherwise tend to disturb. But when through any cause the uniform action of the aerial currents is either interfered with or is insufficient to maintain equilibrium, then cyclonic or whirling motions are generated in the disturbed atmosphere, and propagated over a wide area of the earth’s surface.

Now we recognize the reason of the excess of heat at the earth’s equator in the fact that the sun shines more directly upon that part of the earth than on the zones which lie in higher latitudes. Can we find any reason for suspecting that the sun, which is not heated from without as the earth is, should exhibit a similar peculiarity? Sir John Herschel considers that we can. If the sun has an atmosphere extending to a considerable distance from his surface, then there can be little doubt that, owing to his rotation upon his axis, this atmosphere would assume the figure of an oblate spheroid, and would be deepest over the solar equator. Here, then, more of the sun’s heat would be retained than at the poles, where the atmosphere is shallowest. Thus, that excess of heat at the solar equator which is necessary to complete the analogy between the sun spots and terrestrial cyclones seems satisfactorily established.

It must be remarked, however, that this reasoning, so far as the excess of heat at the sun’s equator is concerned, only removes the difficulty a step. If there were indeed an increased depth of atmosphere over the sun’s equator sufficing to retain the requisite excess of heat, then the amount of heat we receive from the sun’s equatorial regions ought to be appreciably less than the amount emitted from the remaining portions of the solar surface. This is not found to be the case, so that either there is no such excess of absorption, or else the solar equator gives out more heat, in other words, is essentially hotter, than the rest of the sun. But this is just the peculiarity of which we want the interpretation.

It may be taken for granted, however, that there is an analogy between the sun spots and terrestrial cyclonic storms, though as yet we are not very well able to understand its nature.

Then next we come to one of the most interesting discoveries ever made respecting the sun—the discovery that the spots increase and diminish in frequency in a periodic manner. We owe this discovery to the laborious and systematic observations made by Herr Schwabe of Dessau.

Schwabe found, in the course of about ten and a half years, the solar spots pass through a complete cycle of changes. They become gradually more and more numerous up to a certain maximum, and then as gradually diminish. At length the sun’s face becomes not only clear of spots, but a certain well-marked darkening around the border of his disk disappears altogether for a brief season. At this time the sun presents a perfectly uniform disk. Then gradually the spots return, become more and more numerous, and so the cycle of changes is run through again.

The astronomers who have watched the sun from the Kew Observatory have found that the process of change by which the spots sweep in a sort of “wave of increase” over the solar disk is marked by several minor variations. As the surface of a great sea wave will be traversed by small ripples, so the gradual increase and diminution in the number of the solar spots are characterized by minor gradations of change, which are sufficiently well marked to be distinctly cognizable.

There seems every reason for believing that the periodic changes thus noticed are due to the influence of the planets upon the solar photosphere, though in what way that influence is exerted is not at present perfectly clear. Some have thought that the mere attraction of the planets tends to produce tides of some sort in the solar envelopes. Then, since the height of a tide so produced varies as the cube or third power of the distance, it has been thought that a planet when in perihelion would generate a much larger solar tide than when in aphelion. So that, as Jupiter has a period nearly equal to the sun-spot period, it has been supposed that the attractions of this planet are sufficient to account for the great spot period. Venus, Mercury, the Earth, and Saturn have, in a similar manner, been rendered accountable for the shorter and less distinctly marked periods.

Without denying that the planets may be, and probably are, the bodies to whose influence the solar-spot periods are to be ascribed, I yet venture to express very strong doubts whether the attraction of Jupiter is so much greater in perihelion than in aphelion as to account for the fact that, whereas at one season the face of the sun shows many spots, at another it is wholly free from them.[23]

However, we are not at present concerned so much with the explanation of facts as with the facts themselves. We have to consider rather what the sun is and what he does for the Solar System than why these things are so.

Let us note, before passing to other circumstances of interest connected with the sun, that the variable condition of his photosphere must cause him to change in brilliancy as seen from vast distances. If Herr Schwabe, for instance, instead of observing the sun’s spots from his watch-tower at Dessau, could have removed himself to a distance so enormous that the sun’s disk would have been reduced, even in the most powerful telescope, to a mere point of light, there can be no doubt that the only effect which he would have been able to perceive would have been a gradual increase and diminution of brightness, having a period of about ten and a half years.

Our sun, therefore, viewed from the neighborhood of any of the stars, whence undoubtedly he would simply appear as one among many fixed stars, would be a “variable,” having a period of ten and a half years. And further, if an observer, viewing the sun from so enormous a distance, had the means of very accurately measuring its light, he would undoubtedly discover that, while the chief variation of the sun takes place in a period of ten and a half years, its light is subjected to minor variations having shorter periods.

The discovery that the periodic changes of the sun’s appearance are associated with the periodic changes in the character of the earth’s magnetism is the next that we have to consider.

It had long been noticed that, during the course of a single day, the magnetic needle exhibits a minute change of direction, taking place in an oscillatory manner. And, when the character of this vibration came to be carefully examined, it was found to correspond to a sort of effort on the needle’s part to turn toward the sun. For example, when the sun is on the magnetic meridian, the needle has its mean position. This happens twice in a day, once when the sun is above the horizon and once when he is below it. Again, when the sun is midway between these two positions—which also happens twice in the day—the needle has its mean position, because the northern and the southern ends make equal efforts (so to speak) to direct themselves toward the sun. Four times in the day, then, the needle has its mean position, or is directed toward the magnetic meridian. But, when the sun is not in one of the four positions considered, that end of the needle which is nearest to him is slightly turned away from its mean position toward him. The change of position is very minute, and only the exact modes of observation made use of in the present age would have sufficed to reveal it. There it is, however, and this minute and seemingly unimportant peculiarity has been found to be full of meaning.

The minute vibrations of the magnetic needle, thus carefully watched—day after day, month after month, year after year—were found to exhibit a yet more minute oscillatory change. They waxed and waned within narrow limits of variation, but yet in a manner there was no mistaking. The period of this oscillatory change was not to be determined, however, by the observations of a few years. Between the time when the diurnal vibration was least until it had reached its greatest extent, and thence returned to its first value, no less than ten and a half years elapsed, and a much longer time passed before the periodic character of the change was satisfactorily determined.

The reader will at once see what these observations tend to. The sun spots vary in frequency within a period of ten and a half years, and the magnetic diurnal vibrations vary within a period of the same duration. It might seem fanciful to associate the two periodic series of changes together, and doubtless when the idea first occurred to Lamont, it was not with any great expectation of finding it confirmed that he examined the evidence bearing on the point. Judging from known facts, we may see reasons for such an expectation in the correspondence of the needle’s diurnal vibration with the sun’s apparent motion, and the law which has been found to associate the annual variations of the magnet’s power with the sun’s distance. But undoubtedly when the idea occurred to Lamont it was an exceedingly bold one, and the ridicule with which the first announcement of the supposed law was received, even in scientific circles, suffices to show how unexpected that relation was which is now so thoroughly established. For a careful comparison between the two periods has demonstrated that they agree most perfectly, not merely in length, but maximum for maximum, and minimum for minimum. When the sun spots are most numerous, then the daily vibration of the magnet is most extensive, while, when the sun’s face is clear of spots, the needle vibrates over its smallest diurnal arc.

Then the intensity of the magnetic action has been found to depend upon solar influences. The vibrations by which the needle indicates the progress of those strange disturbances of the terrestrial magnetism which are known as magnetic storms have been found not merely to be most frequent when the sun’s face is most spotted, but to occur simultaneously with the appearance of signs of disturbance in the solar photosphere. For instance, during the autumn of 1859, the eminent solar observer, Carrington, noticed the apparition of a bright spot upon the sun’s surface. The light of this spot was so intense that he imagined the dark glass which protected his eye had been broken. By a fortunate coincidence, another observer, Mr. Hodgson, happened to be watching the sun at the same instant, and witnessed the same remarkable appearance. Now it was found that the self-registering magnetic instruments of the Kew Observatory had been sharply disturbed at the instant when the bright spot was seen. And afterward it was learned that the phenomena which indicate the progress of a magnetic storm had been observed in many places. Telegraphic communication was interrupted, and in some cases, telegraphic offices were set on fire; auroras appeared both in the Northern and Southern Hemisphere during the night which followed; and the whole frame of the earth seemed to thrill responsively to the disturbance which had affected the great central luminary of the Solar System.

The reader will now see why I have discussed relations which hitherto he may perhaps have thought very little connected with my subject. He sees that there is a bond of sympathy between our earth and the sun; that no disturbance can affect the solar photosphere without affecting our earth to a greater or less degree. But if our earth, then also the other planets. Mercury and Venus, so much nearer the sun than we are, surely respond even more swiftly and more distinctly to the solar magnetic influences. But beyond our earth, and beyond the orbit of moonless Mars, the magnetic impulses speed with the velocity of light. The vast globe of Jupiter is thrilled from pole to pole as the magnetic wave rolls in upon it; then Saturn feels the shock, and then the vast distances beyond which lie Uranus and Neptune are swept by the ever-lessening yet ever-widening disturbance wave. Who shall say what outer planets it then seeks? or who, looking back upon the course over which it has traveled, shall say that planets alone have felt its effects? Meteoric and cometic systems have been visited by the great magnetic wave, and upon the dispersed members of the one and the subtle structure of the other effects even more important may have been produced than those striking phenomena which characterize the progress of the terrestrial or planetary magnetic storms.

When we remember that what is true of a relatively great solar disturbance, such as the one witnessed by Messrs. Carrington and Hodgson, is true also (however different in degree) of the magnetic influences which the sun is at every instant exerting, we see that a new and most important bond of union exists between the members of the solar family. The sun not only sways them by the vast attraction of his gravity, not only illumines them, not only warms them, but he pours forth on all his subtle yet powerful magnetic influences. A new analogy between the members of the Solar System is thus introduced to reinforce those other analogies which have been held so strikingly to indicate that the ends for which our earth has been created are not different from those which the Creator had in view when He planned the other members of the Solar System.

The real end and aim of the telescope, as applied by the astronomer to the examination of the celestial objects, is to gather together the light which streams from each luminous point throughout space. We may regard the space which surrounds us on every side as an ocean without bounds or limits, an ocean across which there are ever sweeping waves of light, either emitted directly from the various bodies subsisting throughout space, or else reflected from their surfaces. Other forms of waves also speed across those limitless depths in all directions, but the light-waves are those which at present concern us. Our earth is as a minute island placed within the ocean of space, and to the shores of this tiny isle the light-waves bear their message from the orbs which lie like other isles amid the fathomless depths around us. With the telescope the astronomer gathers together portions of light-waves which else would have traveled in diverging directions. By thus intensifying their action, he enables the eye to become cognizant of their true nature. Precisely as the narrow channels around our shores cause the tidal wave, which sweeps across the open ocean in almost insensible undulations, to rise and fall through a wide range of variation, so the telescope renders sensible the existence of light-waves which would escape the notice of the unaided eye.

The telescope, then, is essentially a _light-gatherer_.

The spectroscope is used for another purpose. It might be called the _light-sifter_. It is applied by the astronomer to analyze the light which comes to him from beyond the ocean of space, and so to enable him to learn the character of the orbs from which that light proceeds.

The principle of the instrument is simple, though the appliances by which its full powers can alone be deduced are somewhat complicated.

A ray of sunlight falling on a prism of glass or crystal does not emerge unchanged in character. Different portions of the ray are differently bent, so that when they emerge from the prism they no longer travel side by side as before. The violet part of the light is bent most, the red least; the various colors from violet through blue, green, and yellow, to red being bent gradually less and less.

The prism then _sorts_, or _sifts_, the light-waves.

But we want the means of sifting the light-waves more thoroughly. The reader must bear with me while I describe, as exactly as possible in the brief space available to me, the way in which the first rough work of the prism has been modified into the delicate and significant work of the spectroscope. It is well worth while to form clear views on this point, because so many of the wonders of modern science are associated with spectroscopic analysis.

If, through a small round hole in a shutter, light is admitted into a darkened room, and a prism be placed with its refracting angle downward and horizontal, a vertical spectrum, having its violet end uppermost, will be formed on a screen suitably placed to receive it.

But now let us consider what this spectrum really is. If we take the light-waves corresponding to any particular color, we know, from optical considerations, that these waves emerge from the prism in a pencil exactly resembling in shape the pencil of white light which falls on the prism. They therefore form a small circular or oval image on their own proper part of the spectrum. Hence the spectrum is in reality formed of a multitude of overlapping images, varying in color from violet to red. It thus appears as a rainbow-tinted streak, presenting every gradation of color between the utmost limits of visibility at the violet and red extremities.

If we had a square aperture to admit the light, we should get a similar result. If the aperture were oblong, there would still be overlapping images; but if the length of the oblong were horizontal, then, since each image would also be a horizontally placed oblong, the overlapping would be less than when the images were square. Suppose we diminish the overlapping as much as possible? in other words, suppose we make the oblong slit as narrow as possible? Then, unless there were in reality an infinite number of images distributed all along the spectrum from top to bottom, the images might be so narrowed as not to overlap; in which case, of course, there would be horizontal dark spaces or gaps in our spectrum. Or, again, if we failed in finding gaps of this sort by simply narrowing the aperture, we might lengthen the spectrum by increasing the refracting angle of the prism, or by using several prisms, and so on.

The first great discovery in solar physics, by means of the analysis of the prism (though the discovery had little meaning at the time), consisted in the recognition of the fact that, by means of such devices as the above, dark gaps or cross-lines _can_ be seen in the solar spectrum. In other words, light-waves of the various gradations corresponding to all the tints of the spectrum from violet to red do _not_ travel to us from the great central luminary of our system. Remembering that the effect we call color is due to the length of the light-waves, the effect of red corresponding to light-waves of the greatest length, while the effect of violet corresponds to the shortest light-waves, we see that in effect the sun sends forth to the worlds which circle around him light-waves of many different lengths, but not of all. Of so complex and interesting a nature is ordinary daylight.

But spectroscopists sought to interpret these dark lines in the solar spectrum, and it was in carrying out this inquiry—which even to themselves seemed almost hopeless, and to many would appear an utter waste of time—that they lighted upon the noblest method of research yet revealed to man.

They examined the spectra of the light from incandescent substances (white-hot metals and the like), and found that in these spectra there are no dark lines.

They examined the spectra of the light from the stars, and found that these spectra are crossed by dark lines resembling those in the solar spectrum, but differently arranged.

They tried the spectra of glowing vapors, and they obtained a perplexing result. Instead of a number of dark lines across a rainbow-tinted streak, they found bright lines of various colors. Some gases would give a few such lines, others many, some only one or two.

Then they tried the spectrum of the electric spark, and they found here also a series of bright lines, but not always the same series. The spectrum varied according to the substances between which the spark was taken and the medium through which it passed.

Lastly, they found that the light from an incandescent solid or liquid, when shining through various vapors, no longer gives a spectrum without dark lines, but that the dark lines which then appear vary in position, according to the nature of the vapor through which the light has passed.

Here were a number of strange facts, seemingly too discordant and too perplexing to admit of being interpreted. Yet one discovery only was wanting to bring them all into unison.

In 1859, Kirchhoff, while engaged in observing the solar spectrum, lighted on the discovery that a certain double dark line, which had already been found to correspond exactly in position with the double bright line forming the spectrum of the glowing vapor of sodium, was intensified when the light of the sun was allowed to pass through that vapor. This at once suggested the idea that the presence of this dark line (or, rather, pair of dark lines) in the spectrum of the sun is due to the existence of the vapor of sodium in the solar atmosphere, and that this vapor has the power of absorbing the same order of light-waves as it emits. It would of course follow from this that the other dark lines in the solar spectrum are due to the presence of other absorbent vapors in its atmosphere, and that the identity of these would admit of being established in the same way, supposing this general law to hold, that a vapor emits the same light-waves that it is capable of absorbing.

Kirchhoff was soon able to confirm his views by a variety of experiments. The general principles to which his researches led—in other words, the principles which form the basis of spectrum analysis—are as follows:

1. An incandescent solid or liquid gives a continuous spectrum.

2. A glowing vapor gives a spectrum of white lines, each vapor having its own set of bright lines, so that, from the appearance of a bright-line spectrum, one can tell the nature of the vapor or vapors whose light forms the spectrum.

3. An incandescent solid or liquid shining through absorbent vapors gives a rainbow-tinted spectrum crossed by dark lines, these dark lines having the same position as the bright lines belonging to the spectra of the vapors; so that, from the arrangement of the dark lines in such a spectrum, one can tell the nature of the vapor or vapors which surround the source of light.[24]

The application of the new method of research to the study of the solar spectrum quickly led to a number of most interesting discoveries. It was found that, besides sodium, the sun’s atmosphere contains the vapors of iron, calcium, magnesium, chromium, and other metals. The dark lines corresponding to these elements appear unmistakably in the solar spectrum. There are other metals, such as copper and zinc, which seem to exist in the sun, though some of the corresponding dark lines have not yet been recognized. As yet it has not been proved that gold, silver, mercury, tin, lead, arsenic, antimony, or aluminium exist in the sun—though we can by no means conclude, nor indeed is it at all probable, that they are absent from his substance. The dark lines belonging to hydrogen are very well marked indeed in solar spectrum, and, as we shall see presently, the study of these lines has afforded most interesting information respecting the physical constitution of the sun.

Now we notice at once how importantly these researches into the sun’s structure bear upon the subject of this treatise. It would be indeed interesting to consider the actual condition of the central orb of the planetary scheme, to picture in imagination the metallic oceans which exist upon his surface, the continual evaporation from those oceans, the formation of metallic clouds, and the downpour of metallic showers upon the surface of the sun. But apart from such considerations, and viewing Kirchhoff’s discoveries simply in their relation to the subject of other worlds, we have enough to occupy our attention.

If it could have been shown that, in all probability, the substance of the sun consists of materials wholly different from those which exist in this earth, the conclusion obviously to be drawn from such a discovery would be that the other planets also are differently constituted. We could not find any just reason for believing that in Jupiter or Mars there exist the elements with which we are acquainted, when we found that even the central orb of the planetary system exhibits no such feature of resemblance to the earth. But now that we know, quite certainly, that the familiar elements, iron, sodium, and calcium, exist in the sun’s substance, while we are led to believe, with almost perfect assurance, that all the elements we are acquainted with also exist there, we see at once that, in all probability, the other planets are constituted in the same way. There may of course be special differences: in one planet the proportionate distribution of the elements may differ, and even differ very markedly, from that which prevails in some other planet. But the general conclusion remains, that the planets are formed of the elements which have so long been known as terrestrial; for we can not recognize any reason for believing that our earth alone, of all the orbs which circle around the sun, resembles that great central orb in general constitution.

Now, we have in this general law a means of passing beyond the bounds of the Solar System, and forming no indistinct conceptions as to the existence and character of worlds circling around other suns. For these orbs, like our sun, contain in their substance many of the so-called terrestrial elements, while it may not unsafely be asserted that all, or nearly all, those elements, and few or no elements unknown to us, exist in the substance of every single star that shines upon us from the celestial concave. Hence we conclude that round those suns also there circle orbs constituted like themselves, and therefore containing the elements with which we are familiar. And the mind is immediately led to speculate on the uses which those elements are intended to subserve. If iron, for example, is present in some noble orb circling around Sirius, we speculate not unreasonably respecting the existence on that orb—either now or in the past, or at some future time—of beings capable of applying that metal to the useful purposes which man makes it subserve. The imagination suggests immediately the existence of arts and sciences, trades and manufactures, on that distant world. We know how intimately the use of iron has been associated with the progress of human civilization, and though we must ever remain in ignorance of the actual condition of intelligent beings in other worlds, we are yet led, by the mere presence of an element which is so closely related to the wants of man, to believe, with a new confidence, that for such beings those worlds must in truth have been fashioned.

I would fain dwell longer on the thoughts suggested by the researches of Kirchhoff. Gladly too would I enter at length on an account of those interesting discoveries which have been made in connection with the total eclipses of the sun. One point, however, remains which is too intimately connected with my subject to be passed over.

I refer to the sun’s corona.