That Day of Wrath, O dreadful day, When Heaven and Earth shall pass away, As David and the Sibyl say

had not actually come upon us. And even the older members of the household were not untouched with misgivings when menacing spots of crimson appeared, breaking out now here, now there, in the shuddering sky. Toward the north the spectacle was appalling. A huge arch spanned an unnaturally dark segment resting on the horizon, and above this arch sprang up beams and streamers in a state of incessant agitation, sometimes shooting up to the zenith with a velocity that took one's breath, and sometimes suddenly falling into long ranks, and marching, marching, marching, like an endless phalanx of fiery specters, and moving, as I remember, always from east to west. The absolute silence with which these mysterious evolutions were performed and the quavering reflections which were thrown upon the ground increased the awfulness of the exhibition. Occasionally enormous curtains of lambent flame rolled and unrolled with a majestic motion, or were shaken to and fro as if by a mighty, noiseless wind. At times, too, a sudden billowing rush would be made toward the zenith, and for a minute the sky overhead would glow so brightly that the stars seemed to have been consumed. The spectacle continued with varying intensity for hours.

This exhibition occurred in Central New York, a latitude in which the Aurora Borealis is seldom seen with so much splendor. I remember another similar one seen from the city of New York in November, 1882. On this last occasion some observers saw a great upright beam of light which majestically moved across the heavens, stalking like an apparition in the midst of the auroral pageant, of whose general movements it seemed to be independent, maintaining always its upright posture, and following a magnetic parallel from east to west. This mysterious beam was seen by no less than twenty-six observers in different parts of the country, and a comparison of their observations led to a curious calculation indicating that the apparition was about one hundred and thirty-three miles tall and moved at the speed of ten miles per second!

But, as everybody knows, it is in the Arctic regions that the Aurora, or the "Northern Lights,'' can best be seen. There, in the long polar night, when for months together the sun does not rise, the strange coruscations in the sky often afford a kind of spectral daylight in unison with the weird scenery of the world of ice. The pages in the narratives of Arctic exploration that are devoted to descriptions of the wonderful effects of the Northern Lights are second to none that man has ever penned in their fascination. The lights, as I have already intimated, display astonishing colors, particularly shades of red and green, as they flit from place to place in the sky. The discovery that the magnetic needle is affected by the Aurora, quivering and darting about in a state of extraordinary excitement when the lights are playing in the sky, only added to the mystery of the phenomenon until its electro-magnetic nature had been established. This became evident as soon as it was known that the focus of the displays was the magnetic pole; and when the far South was visited the Aurora Australis was found, having its center at the South Magnetic Pole. Then, if not before, it was clear that the earth was a great globular magnet, having its poles of opposite magnetism, and that the auroral lights, whatever their precise cause might be, were manifestations of the magnetic activity of our planet. After the invention of magnetic telegraphy it was found that whenever a great Aurora occurred the telegraph lines were interrupted in their operation, and the ocean cables ceased to work. Such a phenomenon is called a "magnetic storm.''

The interest excited by the Aurora in scientific circles was greatly stimulated when, in the last half of the nineteenth century, it was discovered that it is a phenomenon intimately associated with disturbances on the sun. The ancient "Zurich Chronicles,'' extending from the year 1000 to the year 1800, in which both sun-spots visible to the naked eye and great displays of the auroral lights were recorded, first set Rudolf Wolf on the track of this discovery. The first notable proof of the suspected connection was furnished with dramatic emphasis by an occurrence which happened on September 1, 1859. Near noon on that day two intensely brilliant points suddenly broke out in a group of sun-spots which were under observation by Mr R. C. Carrington at his observatory at Redhill, England. The points remained visible for not more than five minutes, during which interval they moved thirty-five thousand miles across the solar disk. Mr R. Hodgson happened to see the same phenomenon at his observatory at Highgate, and thus all possibility of deception was removed. But neither of the startled observers could have anticipated what was to follow, and, indeed, it was an occurrence which has never been precisely duplicated. I quote the eloquent account given by Miss Clerke in her History of Astronomy During the Nineteenth Century.

This unique phenomenon seemed as if specially designed to accentuate the inference of a sympathetic relation between the earth and the sun. From August 28 to September 4, 1859, a magnetic storm of unparalleled intensity, extent, and duration was in progress over the entire globe. Telegraphic communication was everywhere interrupted — except, indeed, that it was in some cases found practicable to work the lines without batteries by the agency of the earth-currents alone; sparks issued from the wires; gorgeous auroras draped the skies in solemn crimson over both hemispheres, and even in the tropics; the magnetic needle lost all trace of continuity in its movements and darted to and fro as if stricken with inexplicable panic. The coincidence was even closer. At the very instant of the solar outburst witnessed by Carrington and Hodgson the photographic apparatus at Kew registered a marked disturbance of all the three magnetic elements; while shortly after the ensuing midnight the electric agitation culminated, thrilling the whole earth with subtle vibrations, and lighting up the atmosphere from pole to pole with coruscating splendors which perhaps dimly recall the times when our ancient planet itself shone as a star.

If this amazing occurrence stood alone, and as I have already said it has never been exactly duplicated, doubt might be felt concerning some of the inferences drawn from it; but in varying forms it has been repeated many times, so that now hardly anyone questions the reality of the assumed connection between solar outbursts and magnetic storms accompanied by auroral displays on the earth. It is true that the late Lord Kelvin raised difficulties in the way of the hypothesis of a direct magnetic action of the sun upon the earth, because it seemed to him that an inadmissible quantity of energy was demanded to account for such action. But no calculation like that which he made is final, since all calculations depend upon the validity of the data; and no authority is unshakable in science, because no man can possess omniscience. It was Lord Kelvin who, but a few years before the thing was actually accomplished, declared that aerial navigation was an impracticable dream, and demonstrated its impracticability by calculation. However the connection may be brought about, it is as certain as evidence can make it that solar outbursts are coincident with terrestial magnetic disturbances, and coincident in such a way as to make the inference of a causal connection irresistible. The sun is only a little more than a hundred times its own diameter away from the earth. Why, then, with the subtle connection between them afforded by the ether which conveys to us the blinding solar light and the life-sustaining solar heat, should it be so difficult to believe that the sun's enormous electric energies find a way to us also? No doubt the impulse coming from the sun acts upon the earth after the manner of a touch upon a trigger, releasing energies which are already stored up in our planet.

But besides the evidence afforded by such occurrences as have been related of an intimate connection between solar outbreaks and terrestial magnetic flurries, attended by magnificent auroral displays, there is another line of proof pointing in the same direction. Thus, it is known that the sun-spot period, as remarked in a preceding chapter, coincides in a most remarkable manner with the periodic fluctuations in the magnetic state of the earth. This coincidence runs into the most astonishing details. For instance, when the sun-spot period shortens, the auroral period shortens to precisely the same extent; as the short sun-spot periods usually bring the most intense outbreaks of solar activity, so the corresponding short auroral periods are attended by the most violent magnetic storms; a secular period of about two hundred and twenty-two years affecting sun-spots is said to have its auroral duplicate; a shorter period of fifty-five and a half years, which some observers believe that they have discovered appears also to be common to the two phenomena; and yet another "superposed'' period of about thirty-five years, which some investigators aver exists, affects sun-spots and aurora alike. In short, the coincidences are so numerous and significant that one would have to throw the doctrine of probability to the winds in order to be able to reject the conclusion to which they so plainly lead.

But still the question recurs: How is the influence transmitted? Here Arrhenius comes once more with his hypothesis of negative corpuscles, or ions, driven away from the sun by light-pressure — a hypothesis which seems to explain so many things — and offers it also as an explanation of the way in which the sun creates the Aurora. He would give the Aurora the same lineage with the Zodiacal Light. To understand the application of this theory we must first recall the fact that the earth is a great magnet having its two opposite poles of magnetism, one near the Arctic and the other near the Antarctic Circle. Like all magnets, the earth is surrounded with "lines of force,'' which, after the manner of the curved rays we saw in the photograph of a solar eclipse, start from a pole, rising at first nearly vertically, then bend gradually over, passing high above the equator, and finally descending in converging sheaves to the opposite pole. Now the axis of the earth is so placed in space that it lies at nearly a right angle to the direction of the sun, and as the streams of negatively charged particles come pouring on from the sun (see the last preceding chapter), they arrive in the greatest numbers over the earth's equatorial regions. There they encounter the lines of magnetic force at the place where the latter have their greatest elevation above the earth, and where their direction is horizontal to the earth's surface. Obeying a law which has been demonstrated in the laboratory, the particles then follow the lines of force toward the poles. While they are above the equatorial regions they do not become luminescent, because at the great elevation that they there occupy there is virtually no atmosphere; but as they pass on toward the north and the south they begin to descend with the lines of force, curving down to meet at the poles; and, encountering a part of the atmosphere comparable in density with what remains in an exhausted Crookes tube, they produce a glow of cathode rays. This glow is conceived to represent the Aurora, which may consequently be likened to a gigantic exhibition of vacuum-tube lights. Anybody who recalls his student days in the college laboratory and who has witnessed a display of Northern Lights will at once recognize the resemblance between them in colors, forms, and behavior. This resemblance had often been noted before Arrhenius elaborated his hypothesis.

Without intending to treat his interesting theory as more than a possibly correct explanation of the phenomena of the Aurora, we may call attention to some apparently confirmatory facts. One of the most striking of these relates to a seasonal variation in the average number of auror. It has been observed that there are more in March and September than at any other time of the year, and fewer in June and December; moreover (and this is a delicate test as applied to the theory), they are slightly rarer in June than in December. Now all these facts seem to find a ready explanation in the hypothesis of Arrhenius, thus: (1) The particles issuing from the sun are supposed to come principally from the regions whose excitement is indicated by the presence of sun-spots (which accords with Hale's observation that sun-spots are columns of ionized vapors), and these regions have a definite location on either side of the solar equator, seldom approaching it nearer than within 5 or 10 north or south, and never extending much beyond 35 toward either pole; (2) The equator of the sun is inclined about 7 to the plane of the earth's orbit, from which it results that twice in a year — viz., in June and December — the earth is directly over the solar equator, and twice a year — viz., in March and September — when it is farthest north or south of the solar equator, it is over the inner edge of the sun-spot belts. Since the corpuscles must be supposed to be propelled radially from the sun, few will reach the earth when the latter is over the solar equator in June and December, but when it is over, or nearly over, the spot belts, in March and September, it will be in the line of fire of the more active parts of the solar surface, and relatively rich streams of particles will reach it. This, as will be seen from what has been said above, is in strict accord with the observed variations in the frequency of auror. Even the fact that somewhat fewer auror are seen in June than in December also finds its explanation in the known fact that the earth is about three million miles nearer the sun in the winter than in the summer, and the number of particles reaching it will vary, like the intensity of light, inversely as the square of the distance. These coincidences are certainly very striking, and they have a cumulative force. If we accept the theory, it would appear that we ought to congratulate ourselves that the inclination of the sun's equator is so slight, for as things stand the earth is never directly over the most active regions of the sun-spots, and consequently never suffers from the maximum bombardment of charged particles of which the sun is capable. Incessant auroral displays, with their undulating draperies, flitting colors, and marching columns might not be objectionable from the point of view of picturesqueness, but one magnetic storm of extreme intensity following closely upon the heels of another, for months on end, crazing the magnetic needle and continually putting the telegraph and cable lines out of commission, to say nothing of their effect upon "wireless telegraphy'', would hardly add to the charms of terrestrial existence.

One or two other curious points in connection with Arrhenius' hypothesis may be mentioned. First, the number of auror, according to his explanation, ought to be greatest in the daytime, when the face of the earth on the sunward side is directly exposed to the atomic bombardment. Of course visual observation can give us no information about this, since the light of the Aurora is never sufficiently intense to be visible in the presence of daylight, but the records of the magnetic observatories can be, and have been, appealed to for information, and they indicate that the facts actually accord with the theory. Behind the veil of sunlight in the middle of the afternoon, there is good reason to believe, auroral exhibitions often take place which would eclipse in magnificence those seen at night if we could behold them. Observation shows, too, that auror are more frequent before than after midnight, which is just what we should expect if they originate in the way that Arrhenius supposes. Second, the theory offers an explanation of the alleged fact that the formation of clouds in the upper air is more frequent in years when auror are most abundant, because clouds are the result of the condensation of moisture upon floating particles in the atmosphere (in an absolutely dustless atmosphere there would be no clouds), and it has been proved that negative ions like those supposed to come from the sun play a master part in the phenomena of cloud formation.

Yet another singular fact, almost mystical in its suggestions, may be mentioned. It seems that the dance of the auroral lights occurs most frequently during the absence of the moon from the hemisphere in which they appear, and that they flee, in greater part, to the opposite hemisphere when the moon's revolution in an orbit considerably inclined to the earth's equator brings her into that where they have been performing. Arrhenius himself discovered this curious relation of auroral frequency to the position of the moon north or south of the equator, and he explains it in this way. The moon, like the earth, is exposed to the influx of the ions from the sun; but having no atmosphere, or almost none, to interfere with them, they descend directly upon her surface and charge her with an electric negative potential to a very high degree. In consequence of this she affects the electric state of the upper parts of the earth's atmosphere where they lie most directly beneath her, and thus prevents, to a large extent, the negative discharges to which the appearance of the Aurora is due. And so "the extravagant and erring spirit'' of the Aurora avoids the moon as Hamlet's ghost fled at the voice of the cock announcing the awakening of the god of day.

There are even other apparent confirmations of the hypothesis, but we need not go into them. We shall, however, find one more application of it in the next chapter, for it appears to be a kind of cure-all for astronomical troubles; at any rate it offers a conceivable solution of the question, How does the sun manage to transmit its electric influence to the earth? And this solution is so grandiose in conception, and so novel in the mental pictures that it offers, that its acceptance would not in the least detract from the impression that the Aurora makes upon the imagination.

Strange Adventures of Comets

The fears and legends of ancient times before Science was born, and the superstitions of the Dark Ages, sedulously cultivated for theological purposes by monks and priests, have so colored our ideas of the influence that comets have had upon the human mind that many readers may be surprised to learn that it was the apparition of a wonderful comet, that of 1843, which led to the foundation of our greatest astronomical institution, the Harvard College Observatory. No doubt the comet superstition existed half a century ago, as, indeed, it exists yet today, but in this case the marvelous spectacle in the sky proved less effective in inspiring terror than in awakening a desire for knowledge. Even in the sixteenth century the views that enlightened minds took of comets tended powerfully to inspire popular confidence in science, and Halley's prediction, after seeing and studying the motion of the comet which appeared in 1682, that it would prove to be a regular member of the sun's family and would be seen returning after a period of about seventy-six years, together with the fulfillment of that prediction, produced a revulsion from the superstitious notions which had so long prevailed.

Then the facts were made plain that comets are subject to the law of gravitation equally with the planets; that there are many which regularly return to the neighborhood of the sun (perihelion); and that these travel in orbits differing from those of the planets only in their greater eccentricity, although they have the peculiarity that they do not, like the planets, all go round the sun in the same direction, and do not keep within the general plane of the planetary system, but traverse it sometimes from above and sometimes from below. Other comets, including most of the "great'' ones, appear to travel in parabolic or, in a few cases, hyperbolic orbits, which, not being closed curves, never bring them back again. But it is not certain that these orbits may not be extremely eccentric ellipses, and that after the lapse of hundreds, or thousands, of years the comets that follow them may not reappear. The question is an interesting one, because if all orbits are really ellipses, then all comets must be permanent members of the solar system, while in the contrary case many of them are simply visitors, seen once and never to be seen again. The hypothesis that comets are originally interlopers might seem to derive some support from the fact that the certainly periodic ones are associated, in groups, with the great outer planets, whose attraction appears to have served as a trap for them by turning them into elliptical orbits and thus making them prisoners in the solar system. Jupiter, owing to his great mass and his commanding situation in the system, is the chief "comet-catcher;'' but he catches them not for himself, but for the sun. Yet if comets do come originally from without the borders of the planetary system, it does not, by any means, follow that they were wanderers at large in space before they yielded to the overmastering attraction of the sun. Investigation of the known cometary orbits, combined with theoretical considerations, has led some astronomers to the conclusion that as the sun travels onward through space he "picks up en route'' cometary masses which, without belonging strictly to his empire, are borne along in the same vast "cosmical current'' that carries the solar system.

But while no intelligent person any longer thinks that the appearance of a great comet is a token from the heavenly powers of the approaching death of a mighty ruler, or the outbreak of a devastating war, or the infliction of a terrible plague upon wicked mankind, science itself has discovered mysteries about comets which are not less fascinating because they are more intellectual than the irrational fancies that they have displaced. To bring the subject properly before the mind, let us see what the principal phenomena connected with a comet are.

At the present day comets are ordinarily "picked up'' with the telescope or the photographic plate before any one except their discoverer is aware of their existence, and usually they remain so insignificant in appearance that only astronomers ever see them. Yet so great is the prestige of the word "comet'' that the discovery of one of these inconspicuous wanderers, and its subsequent movements, become items of the day's news which everybody reads with the feeling, perhaps, that at least he knows what is going on in the universe even if he doesn't understand it. But a truly great comet presents quite a different proposition. It, too, is apt to be detected coming out of the depths of space before the world at large can get a glimpse of it, but as it approaches the sun its aspect undergoes a marvelous change. Agitated apparently by solar influence, it throws out a long streaming tail of nebulous light, directed away from the sun and looking as if blown out like a pennon by a powerful wind. Whatever may be the position of the comet with regard to the sun, as it circles round him it continually keeps its tail on the off side. This, as we shall soon see, is a fact of capital importance in relation to the probable nature of comets' tails. Almost at the same time that the formation of the tail is observed a remarkable change takes place in the comet's head, which, by the way, is invariably and not merely occasionally its most important part. On approaching the sun the head usually contracts. Coincidently with this contraction a nucleus generally makes its appearance. This is a bright, star-like point in the head, and it probably represents the totality of solid matter that the comet possesses. But it is regarded as extremely unlikely that even the nucleus consists of a uniformly solid mass. If it were such, comets would be far more formidable visitors when they pass near the planets than they have been found to be. The diameter of the nucleus may vary from a few hundred up to several thousand miles; the heads, on the average, are from twenty-five thousand to one hundred thousand miles in diameter, although a few have greatly exceeded these dimensions; that of the comet of 1811, one of the most stupendous ever seen, was a million and a quarter miles in diameter! As to the tails, not withstanding their enormous length — some have been more than a hundred million miles long — there is reason to believe that they are of extreme tenuity, "as rare as vacuum.'' The smallest stars have been seen shining through their most brilliant portions with undiminished luster.

After the nucleus has been formed it begins to throw out bright jets directed toward the sun. A stream, and sometimes several streams, of light also project sunward from the nucleus, occasionally appearing like a stunted tail directed oppositely to the real tail. Symmetrical envelopes which, seen in section, appear as half circles or parabolas, rise sunward from the nucleus, forming a concentric series. The ends of these stream backward into the tail, to which they seem to supply material. Ordinarily the formation of these ejections and envelopes is attended by intense agitation of the nucleus, which twists and turns, swinging and gyrating with an appearance of the greatest violence. Sometimes the nucleus is seen to break up into several parts. The entire heads of some comets have been split asunder in passing close around the sun; The comet of 1882 retreated into space after its perihelion passage with five heads instead of the one that it had originally, and each of these heads had its own tail!

The possession of the spectroscope has enabled astronomers during later years to study the chemical composition of comets by analyzing their light. At first the only substances thus discovered in them were hydro-carbon compounds, due evidently to the gaseous envelopes in which some combination of hydrogen with carbon existed. Behind this gaseous spectrum was found a faint continuous spectrum ascribed to the nucleus, which apparently both reflects the sunlight and gives forth the light of a glowing solid or liquid. Subsequently sodium and iron lines were found in cometary spectra. The presence of iron would seem to indicate that some of these bodies may be much more massive than observations on their attractive effects have indicated. In some recent comets, such as Morehouse's, in 1908, several lines have been found, the origin of which is unknown.

Without going back of the nineteenth century we may find records of some of the most extraordinary comets that man has ever looked upon. In 1811, still spoken of as "the year of the comet,'' because of the wonderful vintage ascribed to the skyey visitor, a comet shaped like a gigantic sword amazed the whole world, and, as it remained visible for seventeen months, was regarded by superstitious persons as a symbol of the fearful happenings of Napoleon's Russian campaign. This comet, the extraordinary size of whose head, greatly exceeding that of the sun itself, has already been mentioned, was also remarkable for exhibiting so great a brilliancy without approaching even to the earth's distance from the sun. But there was once a comet (and only once — in the year 1729) which never got nearer to the sun than four times the distance of the earth and yet appeared as a formidable object in the sky. As Professor Young has remarked, "it must have been an enormous comet to be visible from such a distance.'' And we are to remember that there were no great telescopes in the year 1729. That comet affects the imagination like a phantom of space peering into the solar system, displaying its enormous train afar off (which, if it had approached as near as other comets, would probably have become the celestial wonder of all human memory), and then turning away and vanishing in the depths of immensity.

In 1843 a comet appeared which was so brilliant that it could be seen in broad day close beside the sun! This was the first authenticated instance of that kind, but the occurrence was to be repeated, as we shall see in a moment, less than forty years later.

The splendid comet of 1858, usually called Donati's, is remembered by many persons yet living. It was, perhaps, both as seen by the naked eye and with the telescope, the most beautiful comet of which we have any record. It too marked a rich vintage year, still remembered in the vineyards of France, where there is a popular belief that a great comet ripens the grape and imparts to the wine a flavor not attainable by the mere skill of the cultivator. There are "comet wines,'' carefully treasured in certain cellars, and brought forth only when their owner wishes to treat his guests to a sip from paradise.

The year 1861 saw another very remarkable comet, of an aspect strangely vast and diffuse, which is believed to have swept the earth with its immense tail when it passed between us and the sun on the night of June 30th, an event which produced no other known effect than the appearance of an unwonted amount of scattered light in the sky.

The next very notable comet was the "Great Southern Comet'' of 1880, which was not seen from the northern hemisphere. It mimicked the aspect of the famous comet of 1843, and to the great surprise of astronomers appeared to be traveling in the same path. This proved to be the rising of the curtain for an astronomical sensation unparalleled in its kind; for two years later another brilliant comet appeared, first in the southern hemisphere, and it too followed the same track. The startling suggestion was now made that this comet was identical with those of 1843 and 1880, its return having been hastened by the resistance experienced in passing twice through the coronal envelope, and there were some who thought that it would now swing swiftly round and then plunge straight into the sun, with consequences that might be disastrous to us on account of the "flash of heat'' that would be produced by the impact. Nervous people were frightened, but observation soon proved that the danger was imaginary, for although the comet almost grazed the sun, and must have rushed through two or three million miles of the coronal region, no retardation of its immense velocity was perceptible, and it finally passed away in a damaged condition, as before remarked, and has never since appeared.

Then the probable truth was perceived — viz., that the three comets (1843, 1880, and 1882) were not one identical body, but three separate ones all traveling in the same orbit. It was found, too, that a comet seen in 1668 bore similar insignia of relationship. The natural inference was that these four bodies had once formed a single mass which had been split apart by the disruptive action of the sun. Strength was lent to this hypothesis by the fact that the comet of 1882 was apparently torn asunder during its perihelion passage, retreating into space in a dissevered state. But Prof. George Forbes has a theory that the splitting of the original cometary mass was effected by an unknown planet, probably greater than Jupiter, situated at a hundred times the earth's distance from the sun, and revolving in a period of a thousand years. He supposes that the original comet was not that of 1668, but one seen in 1556, which has since been "missing,'' and that its disruption occurred from an encounter with the supposititious planet about the year 1700. Truly from every point of view comets are the most extraordinary of adventurers!

The comet of 1882 was likewise remarkable for being visible, like its predecessor of 1843, in full daylight in close proximity to the sun. The story of its detection when almost in contact with the solar disk is dramatic. It had been discovered in the southern hemisphere only a couple of weeks before its perihelion, which occurred on September 17th, and on the forenoon of that day it was seen by Doctor Common in England, and by Doctor Elkin and Mr Finlay at the Cape of Good Hope, almost touching the sun. It looked like a dazzling white bird with outspread wings. The southern observers watched it go right into the sun, when it instantly disappeared. What had happened was that the comet in passing its perihelion point had swung exactly between the earth and the sun. On the following morning it was seen from all parts of the world close by the sun on the opposite side, and it remained thus visible for three days, gradually receding from the solar disk. It then became visible for northern observers in the morning sky before sunrise, brandishing a portentous sword-shaped tail which, if it had been in the evening sky, would have excited the wonder of hundreds of millions, but situated where it was, comparatively few ever saw it.

The application of photography to the study of comets has revealed many curious details which might otherwise have escaped detection, or at best have remained subject to doubt. It has in particular shown not only the precise form of the tails, but the remarkable vicissitudes that they undergo. Professor Barnard's photographs of Brooks' comet in 1893 suggested, by the extraordinary changes in the form of the tail which they revealed, that the comet was encountering a series of obstructions in space which bent and twisted its tail into fantastic shapes. The reader will observe the strange form into which the tail was thrown on the night of October 21st. A cloud of meteors through which the comet was passing might have produced such deformations of its tail. In the photograph of Daniels' comet of 1907, a curious striping of the tail will be noticed. The short bright streaks seen in the photograph, it may be explained, are the images of stars which are drawn out into lines in consequence of the fact that the photographic telescope was adjusted to follow the motion of the comet while the stars remained at rest.

But the adventures of comets are not confined to possible encounters with unknown obstacles. We have referred to the fact that the great planets, and especially Jupiter, frequently interfere with the motions of comets. This interference is not limited to the original alteration of their orbits from possible parabolas to ellipses, but is sometimes exercised again and again, turning the bewildered comets into elliptical paths of all degrees of eccentricity. A famous example of this kind of planetary horse-play is furnished by the story of Lexell's missing comet. This comet was first seen in 1770. Investigation showed that it was moving in an orbit which should bring it back to perihelion every five and a half years; yet it had never been seen before and, although often searched for, has never been seen since. Laplace and Leverrier proved mathematically that in 1767 it had approached so close to Jupiter as to be involved among the orbits of his satellites. What its track had been before is not known, but on that occasion the giant planet seized the interloper, threw it into a short elliptic orbit and sent it, like an arrested vagrant, to receive sentence at the bar of the sun. On this journey it passed within less than 1,500,000 miles of the earth. The form of orbit which Jupiter had impressed required, as we have said, its return in about five and a half years; but soon after 1770 it had the misfortune a second time to encounter Jupiter at close range, and he, as if dissatisfied with the leniency of the sun, or indignant at the stranger's familiarity, seized the comet and hurled it out of the system, or at any rate so far away that it has never since been able to rejoin the family circle that basks in the immediate rays of the solar hearth. Nor is this the only instance in which Jupiter has dealt summarily with small comets that have approached him with too little deference.

The function which Jupiter so conspicuously fulfills as master of the hounds to the sun is worth considering a little more in detail. To change the figure, imagine the sun in its voyage through space to be like a majestic battleship surrounded by its scouts. Small vessels (the comets, as they are overhauled by the squadron, are taken in charge by the scouts, with Jupiter for their chief, and are forced to accompany the fleet, but not all are impressed. If a strange comet undertakes to run across Jupiter's bows the latter brings it to, and makes prize of it by throwing it into a relatively small ellipse with the sun for its focus. Thenceforth, unless, as happened to the unhappy comet of Lexell, it encounters Jupiter again in such a way as to be diverted by him into a more distant orbit, it can never get away. About thirty comets are now known to have thus been captured by the great planet, and they are called "Jupiter's Comet Family.'' But, on the other hand, if a wandering comet crosses the wake of the chief planetary scout the latter simply drives it away by accelerating its motion and compels it to steer off into open space. The transformation of comets into meteors will be considered in the next chapter, but here, in passing, mention may be made of the strange fate of one member of Jupiter's family, Biela's comet, which, having become over bold in its advances to its captor, was, after a few revolutions in is impressed orbit, torn to pieces and turned into a flock of meteors.

And now let us return to the mystery of comets' tails. That we are fully justified in speaking of the tails of comets as mysterious is proved by the declaration of Sir John Herschel, who averred, in so many words, that "there is some profound secret and mystery of nature concerned in this phenomenon,'' and this profound secret and mystery has not yet been altogether cleared up. Nevertheless, the all-explaining hypothesis of Arrhenius offers us once more a certain amount of aid. Comets' tails, Arrhenius assures us, are but another result of the pressure of light. The reader will recall the applications of this theory to the Zodiacal Light and the Aurora. In the form in which we now have to deal with it, the supposition is made that as a comet approaches the sun eruptions of vapor, due to the solar heat, occur in its nucleus. These are naturally most active on the side which is directly exposed to the sun, whence the appearance of the immense glowing envelopes that surround the nucleus on the sunward side. Among the particles of hydro-carbon, and perhaps solid carbon in the state of fine dust, which are thus set free there will be many whose size is within the critical limit which enables the light-waves from the sun to drive them away. Clouds of such particles, then, will stream off behind the advancing comet, producing the appearance of a tail. This accounts for the fact that the tails of comets are always directed away from the sun, and it also explains the varying forms of the tails and the extraordinary changes that they undergo. The speed of the particles driven before the light-waves must depend upon their size and weight, the lightest of a given size traveling the most swiftly. By accretion certain particles might grow, thus losing velocity and producing the appearance of bunches in the tail, such as have been observed. The hypothesis also falls in with the researches of Bredichin, who has divided the tails of comets into three principal classes — viz.: (1) Those which appear as long, straight rays; (2) Those which have the form of curved plumes or scimitars; (3) Those which are short, brushy, and curved sharply backward along the comet's path. In the first type he calculates the repulsive force at from twelve to fifteen times the force of gravity; in the second at from two to four times; and in the third at about one and a half times. The straight tails he ascribes to hydrogen because the hydrogen atom is the lightest known; the sword-shaped tails to hydro-carbons; and the stumpy tails to vaporized iron. It will be seen that, if the force driving off the tails is that which Arrhenius assumes it to be, the forms of those appendages would accord with those that Bredichin's theory calls for. At the same time we have an explanation of the multiple tails with which some comets have adorned themselves. The comet of 1744, for instance, had at one time no less than seven tails spread in a wide curved brush behind it. Donati's comet of 1858 also had at least two tails, the principal one sword-shaped and the other long, narrow, and as straight as a rule. According to Bredichin, the straight tail must have been composed of hydrogen, and the other of some form of hydro-carbon whose atoms are heavier than those of hydrogen, and, consequently, when swept away by the storm of light-waves, followed a curvature depending upon the resultant of the forces operating upon them. The seven tails of the comet of 1744 presented a kind of diagram graphically exhibiting its complex composition, and, if we knew a little more about the constituents of a comet, we might be able to say from the amount of curvature of the different tails just what were the seven substances of which that comet consisted.

If these theories seem to the reader fantastic, at any rate they are no more fantastic than the phenomena that they seek to explain.

Meteors, Fire-Balls, and Meteorites

One of the most terrorizing spectacles with which the heavens have ever caused the hearts of men to quake occurred on the night of November 13, 1833. On that night North America, which faced the storm, was under a continual rain of fire from about ten o'clock in the evening until daybreak.

The fragments of a comet had struck the earth.

But the meaning of what had happened was not discovered until long afterward. To the astronomers who, with astonishment not less than that of other people, watched the wonderful scene, it was an unparalleled "shower of meteors.'' They did not then suspect that those meteors had once formed the head of a comet. Light dawned when, a year later, Prof. Denison Olmsted, of Yale College, demonstrated that the meteors had all moved in parallel orbits around the sun, and that these orbits intersected that of the earth at the point where our planet happened to be on the memorable night of November 13th. Professor Olmsted even went so far as to suggest that the cloud of meteors that had encountered the earth might form a diffuse comet; but full recognition of the fact that they were cometary dbris came later, as the result of further investigation. The key to the secret was plainly displayed in the spectacle itself, and was noticed without being understood by thousands of the terror-stricken beholders. It was an umbrella of fire that had opened overhead and covered the heavens; in other words, the meteors all radiated from a particular point in the constellation Leo, and, being countless as the snowflakes in a winter tempest, they ribbed the sky with fiery streaks. Professor Olmsted showed that the radiation of the meteors from a fixed point was an effect of perspective, and in itself a proof that they were moving in parallel paths when they encountered the earth. The fact was noted that there had been a similar, but incomparably less brilliant, display of meteors on the same day of November, 1832, and it was rightly concluded that these had belonged to the same stream, although the true relationship of the phenomena was not immediately apprehended. Olmsted ascribed to the meteors a revolution about the sun once in every six months, bringing them to the intersection of their orbit with that of the earth every November 13th; but later investigators found that the real period was about thirty-three and one-quarter years, so that the great displays were due three times in a century, and their return was confidently predicted for the year 1866. The appearance of the meteors in 1832, a year before the great display, was ascribed to the great length of the stream which they formed in space — so great that they required more than two years to cross the earth's orbit. In 1832 the earth had encountered a relatively rare part of the stream, but in 1833, on returning to the crossing-place, it found there the richest part of the stream pouring across its orbit. This explanation also proved to be correct, and the predicted return in 1866 was duly witnessed, although the display was much less brilliant than in 1833. It was followed by another in 1867.

In the mean time Olmsted's idea of a cometary relationship of the meteors was demonstrated to be correct by the researches of Schiaparelli and others, who showed that not only the November meteors, but those of August, which are seen more or less abundantly every year, traveled in the tracks of well-known comets, and had undoubtedly an identical origin with those comets. In other words the comets and the meteor-swarms were both remnants of original masses which had probably been split up by the action of the sun, or of some planet to which they had made close approaches. The annual periodicity of the August meteors was ascribed to the fact that the separation had taken place so long ago that the meteors had become distributed all around the orbit, in consequence of which the earth encountered some of them every year when it arrived at the crossing-point. Then Leverrier showed that the original comet associated with the November meteors was probably brought into the system by the influence of the planet Uranus in the year 126 of the Christian era. Afterward Alexander Herschel identified the tracks of no less than seventy-six meteor-swarms (most of them inconspicuous) with those of comets. The still more recent researches of Mr W. F. Denning make it probable that there are no meteors which do not belong to a flock or system probably formed by the disintegration of a cometary mass; even the apparently sporadic ones which shoot across the sky, "lost souls in the night,'' being members of flocks which have become so widely scattered that the earth sometimes takes weeks to pass through the region of space where their paths lie.

The November meteors should have exhibited another pair of spectacles in 1899 and 1900, and their failure to do so caused at first much disappointment, until it was made plain that a good reason existed for their absence. It was found that after their last appearance, in 1867, they had been disturbed in their movements by the planets Jupiter and Saturn, whose attractions had so shifted the position of their orbit that it no longer intersected that of the earth, as it did before. Whether another planetary interference will sometime bring the principal mass of the November meteors back to the former point of intersection with the earth's orbit is a question for the future to decide. It would seem that there may be several parallel streams of the November meteors, and that some of them, like those of August, are distributed entirely around the orbit, so that every mid-November we see a few of them.

We come now to a very remarkable example of the disintegration of a comet and the formation of a meteor-stream. In 1826 Biela, of Josephstadt, Austria, discovered a comet to which his name was given. Calculation showed that it had an orbital period of about six and a half years, belonging to Jupiter's "family.'' On one of its returns, in 1846, it astonished its watchers by suddenly splitting in two. The two comets thus formed out of one separated to a distance of about one hundred and sixty thousand miles, and then raced side by side, sometimes with a curious ligature connecting them, like Siamese twins, until they disappeared together in interplanetary space. In 1852 they came back, still nearly side by side, but now the distance between them had increased to a million and a quarter of miles. After that, at every recurrence of their period, astronomers looked for them in vain, until 1872, when an amazing thing happened. On the night of November 28th, when the earth was crossing the plane of the orbit of the missing comet, a brilliant shower of meteors burst from the northern sky, traveling nearly in the track which the comet should have pursued. The astronomers were electrified. Klinkerfues, of Gttingen, telegraphed to Pogson, of Madras: "Biela touched earth; search near Theta Centauri.'' Pogson searched in the place indicated and saw a cometary mass retreating into the southern heavens, where it was soon swallowed from sight!

Since then the Biela meteors have been among the recognized periodic spectacles of the sky, and few if any doubt that they represent a portion of the missing comet whose disintegration began with the separation into two parts in 1846. The comet itself has never since been seen. The first display of these meteors, sometimes called the "Andromedes,'' because they radiate from the constellation Andromeda, was remarkable for the great brilliancy of many of the fire-balls that shot among the shower of smaller sparks, some of which were described as equaling the full moon in size. None of them is known to have reached the earth, but during the display of the same meteors in 1885 a meteoric mass fell at Mazapil in Northern Mexico (it is now in the Museum at Vienna), which many have thought may actually be a piece of the original comet of Biela. This brings us to the second branch of our subject.

More rare than meteors or falling stars, and more startling, except that they never appear in showers, are the huge balls of fire which occasionally dart through the sky, lighting up the landscapes beneath with their glare, leaving trains of sparks behind them, often producing peals of thunder when they explode, and in many cases falling upon the earth and burying themselves from a few inches to several feet in the soil, from which, more than once, they have been picked up while yet hot and fuming. These balls are sometimes called bolides. They are not really round in shape, although they often look so while traversing the sky, but their forms are fragmentary, and occasionally fantastic. It has been supposed that their origin is different from that of the true meteors; it has even been conjectured that they may have originated from the giant volcanoes of the moon or have been shot out from the sun during some of the tremendous explosions that accompany the formation of eruptive prominences. By the same reasoning some of them might be supposed to have come from some distant star. Others have conjectured that they are wanderers in space, of unknown origin, which the earth encounters as it journeys on, and Lord Kelvin made a suggestion which has become classic because of its imaginative reach — viz., that the first germs of life may have been brought to the earth by one of these bodies, "a fragment of an exploded world.''

It is a singular fact that astronomers and scientific men in general were among the last to admit the possibility of solid masses falling from the sky. The people had believed in the reality of such phenomena from the earliest times, but the savants shook their heads and talked of superstition. This was the less surprising because no scientifically authenticated instance of such an occurrence was known, and the stones popularly believed to have fallen from the sky had become the objects of worship or superstitious reverence, a fact not calculated to recommend them to scientific credence. The celebrated "black stone'' suspended in the Kaaba at Mecca is one of these reputed gifts from heaven; the "Palladium'' of ancient Troy was another; and a stone which fell near Ensisheim, in Germany, was placed in a church as an object to be religiously venerated. Many legends of falling stones existed in antiquity, some of them curiously transfigured by the imagination, like the "Lion of the Peloponnesus,'' which was said to have sprung down from the sky upon the Isthmus of Corinth. But near the beginning of the nineteenth century, in 1803, a veritable shower of falling stones occurred at L'Aigle, in Northern France, and this time astronomers took note of the phenomenon and scientifically investigated it. Thousands of the strange projectiles came from the sky on this occasion, and were scattered over a wide area of country, and some buildings were hit. Four years later another shower of stones occurred at Weston, Conn., numbering thousands of individuals. The local alarm created in both cases was great, as well it might be, for what could be more intimidating than to find the blue vault of heaven suddenly hurling solid missiles at the homes of men? After these occurrences it was impossible for the most skeptical to doubt any longer, and the regular study of "aerolites,'' or "meteorites,'' began.

One of the first things recognized was the fact that fire-balls are solid meteorites in flight, and not gaseous exhalations in the air, as some had assumed. They burn in the air during their flight, and sometimes, perhaps, are entirely consumed before reaching the ground. Their velocity before entering the earth's atmosphere is equal to that of the planets in their orbits — viz., from twenty to thirty miles per second — a fact which proves that the sun is the seat of the central force governing them. Their burning in the air is not difficult to explain; it is the heat of friction which so quickly brings them to incandescence. Calculation shows that a body moving through the air at a velocity of about a mile per second will be brought, superficially, to the temperature of "red heat'' by friction with the atmosphere. If its velocity is twenty miles per second the temperature will become thousands of degrees. This is the state of affairs with a meteorite rushing into the earth's atmosphere; its surface is liquefied within a few seconds after the friction begins to act, and the melted and vaporized portion of its mass is swept backward, forming the train of sparks that follows every great fire-ball. However, there is one phenomenon connected with the trains of meteorites which has never been satisfactorily explained: they often persist for long periods of time, drifting and turning with the wind, but not ceasing to glow with a phosphorescent luminosity. The question is, Whence comes this light? It must be light without heat, since the fine dust or vapor of which the train can only consist would not retain sufficient heat to render it luminous for so long a time. An extremely remarkable incident of this kind occurred on February 22, 1909, when an immense fire-ball that passed over southern England left a train that remained visible during two hours, assuming many curious shapes as it was drifted about by currents in the air.

But notwithstanding the enormous velocity with which meteorites enter the air they are soon slowed down to comparatively moderate speed, so that when they disappear they are usually traveling not faster than a mile a second. The courses of many have been traced by observers situated along their track at various points, and thus a knowledge has been obtained of their height above the ground during their flight and of the length of their visible courses. They generally appear at an elevation of eighty or a hundred miles, and are seldom visible after having descended to within five miles of the ground, unless the observer happens to be near the striking-point, when he may actually witness the fall. Frequently they burst while high in the air and their fragments are scattered like shrapnel over the surface of the ground, sometimes covering an area of several square miles, but of course not thickly; different fragments of the same meteorite may reach the ground at points several miles apart. The observed length of their courses in the atmosphere varies from fifty to five hundred miles. If they continued a long time in flight after entering the air, even the largest of them would probably be consumed to the last scrap, but their fiery career is so short on account of their great speed that the heat does not have time to penetrate very deeply, and some that have been picked up immediately after their fall have been found cold as ice within. Their size after reaching the ground is variable within wide limits; some are known which weigh several tons, but the great majority weigh only a few pounds and many only a few ounces.

Meteorites are of two kinds: stony meteorites and iron meteorites. The former outnumber the latter twenty to one; but many stone meteorites contain grains of iron. Nickel is commonly found in iron meteorites, so that it might be said that that redoubtable alloy nickel-steel is of cosmical invention. Some twenty-five chemical elements have been found in meteorites, including carbon and the "sun-metal,'' helium. The presence of the latter is certainly highly suggestive in connection with the question of the origin of meteorites. The iron meteorites, besides metallic iron and nickel, of which they are almost entirely composed, contain hydrogen, helium, and carbonic oxide, and about the only imaginable way in which these gases could have become absorbed in the iron would be through the immersion of the latter while in a molten or vaporized state in a hot and dense atmosphere composed of them, a condition which we know to exist only in the envelopes of the sun and the stars.

The existence of carbon in the Canyon Diablo iron meteorites is attended by a circumstance of the most singular character — a very "fairy tale of science.'' In some cases the carbon has become diamond! These meteoric diamonds are very small; nevertheless, they are true diamonds, resembling in many ways the little black gems produced by Moissan's method with the aid of the electric furnace. The fact that they are found embedded in these iron meteorites is another argument in favor of the hypothesis of the solar or stellar origin of the latter. To appreciate this it is necessary to recall the way in which Moissan made his diamonds. It was by a combination of the effects of great heat, great pressure, and sudden or rapid superficial cooling on a mass of iron containing carbon. When he finally broke open his iron he found it a pudding stuffed with miniature black diamonds. When a fragment of the Canyon Diablo meteoric iron was polished in Philadelphia over fifteen years ago it cut the emery-wheel to pieces, and examination showed that the damage had been effected by microscopic diamonds peppered through the mass. How were those diamonds formed? If the sun or Sirius was the laboratory that prepared them, we can get a glimpse at the process of their formation. There is plenty of heat, plenty of pressure, and an abundance of vaporized iron in the sun and the stars. When a great solar eruption takes place, masses of iron which have absorbed carbon may be shot out with a velocity which forbids their return. Plunged into the frightful cold of space, their surfaces are quickly cooled, as Moissan cooled his prepared iron by throwing it into water, and thus the requisite stress is set up within, and, as the iron solidifies, the included carbon crystallizes into diamonds. Whether this explanation has a germ of truth in it or not, at any rate it is evident that iron meteorites were not created in the form in which they come to us; they must once have been parts of immeasurably more massive bodies than themselves.

The fall of meteorites offers an appreciable, though numerically insignificant, peril to the inhabitants of the earth. Historical records show perhaps three or four instances of people being killed by these bodies. But for the protection afforded by the atmosphere, which acts as a very effective shield, the danger would doubtless be very much greater. In the absence of an atmosphere not only would more meteorites reach the ground, but their striking force would be incomparably greater, since, as we have seen, the larger part of their original velocity is destroyed by the resistance of the air. A meteorite weighing many tons and striking the earth with a velocity of twenty or thirty miles per second, would probably cause frightful havoc.

It is a singular fact that recent investigations seem to have proved that an event of this kind actually happened in North America — perhaps not longer than a thousand or two thousand years ago. The scene of the supposed catastrophe is in northern central Arizona, at Coon Butte, where there is a nearly circular crater in the middle of a circular elevation or small mountain. The crater is somewhat over four thousand feet in diameter, and the surrounding rim, formed of upturned strata and ejected rock fragments, rises at its highest point one hundred and sixty feet above the plain. The crater is about six hundred feet in depth — that is, from the rim to the visible floor or bottom of the crater. There is no evidence that volcanic action has ever taken place in the immediate neighborhood of Coon Butte. The rock in which the crater has been made is composed of horizontal sandstone and limestone strata. Between three hundred and four hundred million tons of rock fragments have been detached, and a large portion hurled by some cause out of the crater. These fragments lie concentrically distributed around the crater, and in large measure form the elevation known as Coon Butte. The region has been famous for nearly twenty years on account of the masses of meteoric iron found scattered about and known as the "Canyon Diablo'' meteorites. It was one of these masses, which consist of nickel-iron containing a small quantity of platinum, and of which in all some ten tons have been recovered for sale to the various collectors throughout the world, that as before mentioned destroyed the grinding-tool at Philadelphia through the cutting power of its embedded diamonds. These meteoric irons are scattered about the crater-hill, in concentric distribution, to a maximum distance of about five miles. When the suggestion was first made in 1896 that a monster meteorite might have created by its fall this singular lone crater in stratified rocks, it was greeted with incredulous smiles; but since then the matter has assumed a different aspect. The Standard Iron Company, formed by Messrs. D. M. Barringer, B. C. Tilghman, E. J. Bennitt, and S. J. Holsinger, having become, in 1903, the owner of this freak of nature, sunk shafts and bored holes to a great depth in the interior of the crater, and also trenched the slopes of the mountain, and the result of their investigations has proved that the meteoric hypothesis of origin is correct. (See the papers published in the Proceedings of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia, December, 1905, wherein it is proved that the United States Geological Survey was wrong in believing this crater to have been due to a steam explosion. Since that date there has been discovered a great amount of additional confirmatory proof). Material of unmistakably meteoric origin was found by means of the drills, mixed with crushed rock, to a depth of six hundred to seven hundred feet below the floor of the crater, and a great deal of it has been found admixed with the ejected rock fragments on the outer slopes of the mountain, absolutely proving synchronism between the two events, the formation of this great crater and the falling of the meteoric iron out of the sky. The drill located in the bottom of the crater was sent, in a number of cases, much deeper (over one thousand feet) into unaltered horizontal red sandstone strata, but no meteoric material was found below this depth (seven hundred feet, or between eleven and twelve hundred feet below the level of the surrounding plain), which has been assumed as being about the limit of penetration. It is not possible to sink a shaft at present, owing to the water which has drained into the crater, and which forms, with the finely pulverized sandstone, a very troublesome quicksand encountered at about two hundred feet below the visible floor of the crater. As soon as this water is removed by pumping it will be easy to explore the depths of the crater by means of shafts and drifts. The rock strata (sandstone and limestone) of which the walls consist present every appearance of having been violently upturned by a huge body penetrating the earth like a cannon-ball. The general aspect of the crater strikingly resembles the impression made by a steel projectile shot into an armor-plate. Mr Tilghman has estimated that a meteorite about five hundred feet in diameter and moving with a velocity of about five miles per second would have made just such a perforation upon striking rocks of the character of those found at this place. There was some fusion of the colliding masses, and the heat produced some steam from the small amount of water in the rocks. As a result there has been found at depth a considerable amount of fused quartz (original sandstone), and with it innumerable particles or sparks of fused nickel-iron (original meteorite). A projectile of that size penetrating eleven to twelve hundred feet into the rocky shell of the globe must have produced a shock which was perceptible several hundred miles away.

The great velocity ascribed to the supposed meteorite at the moment of striking could be accounted for by the fact that it probably plunged nearly vertically downward, for it formed a circular crater in the rocky crust of the earth. In that case it would have been less retarded by the resistance of the atmosphere than are meteorites which enter the air at a lower angle and shoot ahead hundreds of miles until friction has nearly destroyed their original motion when they drop upon the earth. Some meteoric masses of great size, such as Peary's iron meteorite found at Cape York, Greenland, and the almost equally large mass discovered at Bacubirito, Mexico, appear to have penetrated but slightly on striking the earth. This may be explained by supposing that they pursued a long, horizontal course through the air before falling. The result would be that, their original velocity having been practically destroyed, they would drop to the ground with a velocity nearly corresponding to that which gravity would impart within the perpendicular distance of their final fall. A six-hundred-and-sixty-pound meteorite, which fell at Knyahinya, Hungary, striking at an angle of 27 from the vertical, penetrated the ground to a depth of eleven feet.

It has been remarked that the Coon Butte meteorite may have fallen not longer ago than a few thousand years. This is based upon the fact that the geological indications favor the supposition that the event did not occur more than five thousand years ago, while on the other hand the rings of growth in the cedar-trees growing on the slopes of the crater show that they have existed there about seven hundred years. Prof. William H. Pickering has recently correlated this with an ancient chronicle which states that at Cairo, Egypt, in the year 1029, "many stars passed with a great noise.'' He remarks that Cairo is about 100, by great circle, from Coon Butte, so that if the meteorite that made the crater was a member of a flock of similar bodies which encountered the earth moving in parallel lines, some of them might have traversed the sky tangent to the earth's surface at Cairo. That the spectacle spoken of in the chronicle was caused by meteorites he deems exceedingly probable because of what is said about "a great noise;'' meteorites are the only celestial phenomena attended with perceptible sounds. Professor Pickering conjectures that this supposed flock of great meteorites may have formed the nucleus of a comet which struck the earth, and he finds confirmation of the idea in the fact that out of the ten largest meteorites known, no less than seven were found within nine hundred miles of Coon Butte. It would be interesting if we could trace back the history of that comet, and find out what malicious planet caught it up in its innocent wanderings and hurled it with so true an aim at the earth! This remarkable crater is one of the most interesting places in the world, for there is absolutely no record of such a mass, possibly an iron-headed comet, from outer space having come into collision with our earth. The results of the future exploration of the depths of the crater will be awaited with much interest.

The Wrecking of the Moon

There are sympathetic moods under whose influence one gazes with a certain poignant tenderness at the worn face of the moon; that little "fossil world'' (the child of our mother earth, too) bears such terrible scars of its brief convulsive life that a sense of pity is awakened by the sight. The moon is the wonder-land of the telescope. Those towering mountains, whose "proud aspiring peaks'' cast silhouettes of shadow that seem drawn with india-ink; those vast plains, enchained with gentle winding hills and bordered with giant ranges; those oval "oceans,'' where one looks expectant for the flash of wind-whipped waves; those enchanting "bays'' and recesses at the seaward feet of the Alps; those broad straits passing between guardian heights incomparably mightier than Gibraltar; those locket-like valleys as secluded among their mountains as the Vale of Cashmere; those colossal craters that make us smile at the pretensions of Vesuvius, Etna, and Cotopaxi; those strange white ways which pass with the unconcern of Roman roads across mountain, gorge, and valley — all these give the beholder an irresistible impression that it is truly a world into which he is looking, a world akin to ours, and yet no more like our world than Pompeii is like Naples. Its air, its waters, its clouds, its life are gone, and only a skeleton remains — a mute but eloquent witness to a cosmical tragedy without parallel in the range of human knowledge.

One cannot but regret that the moon, if it ever was the seat of intelligent life, has not remained so until our time. Think what the consequences would have been if this other world at our very door had been found to be both habitable and inhabited! We talk rather airily of communicating with Mars by signals; but Mars never approaches nearer than 35,000,000 miles, while the moon when nearest is only a little more than 220,000 miles away. Given an effective magnifying power of five thousand diameters, which will perhaps be possible at the mountain observatories as telescopes improve, and we should be able to bring the moon within an apparent distance of about forty miles, while the corresponding distance for Mars would be more than seven thousand miles. But even with existing telescopic powers we can see details on the moon no larger than some artificial constructions on the earth. St Peter's at Rome, with the Vatican palace and the great piazza, if existing on the moon, would unquestionably be recognizable as something else than a freak of nature. Large cities, with their radiating lines of communication, would at once betray their real character. Cultivated tracts, and the changes produced by the interference of intelligent beings, would be clearly recognizable. The electric illumination of a large town at night would probably be markedly visible. Gleams of reflected sunlight would come to us from the surfaces of the lakes and oceans, and a huge "liner'' traversing a lunar sea could probably be followed by its trail of smoke. As to communications by "wireless'' signals, which certain enthusiasts have thought of in connection with Mars, in the case of the moon they should be a relatively simple matter, and the feat might actually be accomplished. Think what a literature would grow up about the moon if it were a living world! Its very differences from the earth would only accentuate its interest for us. Night and day on the moon are each two weeks in length; how interesting it would be to watch the manner in which the lunarians dealt with such a situation as that. Lunar and terrestrial history would keep step with each other, and we should record them both. Truly one might well wish to have a neighbor world to study; one would feel so much the less alone in space.

It is not impossible that the moon did at one time have inhabitants of some kind. But, if so, they vanished with the disappearance of its atmosphere and seas, or with the advent of its cataclysmic age. At the best, its career as a living world must have been brief. If the water and air were gradually absorbed, as some have conjectured, by its cooling interior rocks, its surface might, nevertheless, have retained them for long ages; but if, as others think, their disappearance was due to the escape of their gaseous molecules in consequence of the inability of the relatively small lunar gravitation to retain them, then the final catastrophe must have been as swift as it was inevitable. Accepting Darwin's hypothesis, that the moon was separated from the earth by tidal action while both were yet plastic or nebulous, we may reasonably conclude that it began its career with a good supply of both water and air, but did not possess sufficient mass to hold them permanently. Yet it may have retained them long enough for life to develop in many forms upon its surface; in fact, there are so many indications that air and water have not always been lacking to the lunar world that we are driven to invent theories to explain both their former presence and their present absence.

But whatever the former condition of the moon may have been, its existing appearance gives it a resistless fascination, and it bears so clearly the story of a vast catastrophe sculptured on its rocky face that the thoughtful observer cannot look upon it without a feeling of awe. The gigantic character of the lunar features impresses the beholder not less than the universality of the play of destructive forces which they attest. Let us make a few comparisons. Take the lunar crater called "Tycho'', which is a typical example of its kind. In the telescope Tycho appears as a perfect ring surrounding a circular depression, in the center of which rises a group of mountains. Its superficial resemblance to some terrestrial volcanic craters is very striking. Vesuvius, seen from a point vertically above, would no doubt look something like that (the resemblance would have been greater when the Monte del Cavallo formed a more complete circuit about the crater cone). But compare the dimensions. The remains of the outer crater ring of Vesuvius are perhaps half a mile in diameter, while the active crater itself is only two or three hundred feet across at the most; Tycho has a diameter of fifty-four miles! The group of relatively insignificant peaks in the center of the crater floor of Tycho is far more massive than the entire mountain that we call Vesuvius. The largest known volcanic crater on the earth, Aso San, in Japan, has a diameter of seven miles; it would take sixty craters like Aso San to equal Tycho in area! And Tycho, though one of the most perfect, is by no means the largest crater on the moon. Another, called "Theophilus,'' has a diameter of sixty-four miles, and is eighteen thousand feet deep. There are hundreds from ten to forty miles in diameter, and thousands from one to ten miles. They are so numerous in many places that they break into one another, like the cells of a crushed honeycomb.

The lunar craters differ from those of the earth more fundamentally than in the matter of mere size; they are not situated on the tops of mountains. If they were, and if all the proportions were the same, a crater like Tycho might crown a conical peak fifty or one hundred miles high! Instead of being cavities in the summits of mountains, the lunar craters are rather gigantic sink-holes whose bottoms in many cases lie two or three miles below the general surface of the lunar world. Around their rims the rocks are piled up to a height of from a few hundred to two or three thousand feet, with a comparatively gentle inclination, but on the inner side they fall away in gigantic broken precipices which make the dizzy cliffs of the Matterhorn seem but "lover's leaps.'' Down they drop, ridge below ridge, crag under crag, tottering wall beneath wall, until, in a crater named "Newton,'' near the south lunar pole, they attain a depth where the rays of the sun never reach. Nothing more frightful than the spectacle which many of these terrible chasms present can be pictured by the imagination. As the lazy lunar day slowly advances, the sunshine, unmitigated by clouds or atmospheric veil of any kind, creeps across their rims and begins to descend the opposite walls. Presently it strikes the ragged crest of a ridge which had lain hidden in such darkness as we never know on the earth, and runs along it like a line of kindling fire. Rocky pinnacles and needles shoot up into the sunlight out of the black depths. Down sinks the line of light, mile after mile, and continually new precipices and cliffs are brought into view, until at last the vast floor is attained and begins to be illuminated. In the meanwhile the sun's rays, darting across the gulf, have touched the summits of the central peaks, twenty or thirty miles from the crater's inmost edge, and they immediately kindle and blaze like huge stars amid the darkness. So profound are some of these awful craters that days pass before the sun has risen high enough above them to chase the last shadows from their depths.

Although several long ranges of mountains resembling those of the earth exist on the moon, the great majority of its elevations assume the crateriform aspect. Sometimes, instead of a crater, we find an immense mountain ring whose form and aspect hardly suggest volcanic action. But everywhere the true craters are in evidence, even on the sea-beds, although they attain their greatest number and size on those parts of the moon — covering sixty per cent of its visible surface — which are distinctly mountainous in character and which constitute its most brilliant portions. Broadly speaking, the southwestern half of the moon is the most mountainous and broken, and the northeastern half the least so. Right down through the center, from pole to pole, runs a wonderful line of craters and crateriform valleys of a magnitude stupendous even for the moon. Another similar line follows the western edge. Three or four "seas'' are thrust between these mountainous belts. By the effects of "libration'' parts of the opposite hemisphere of the moon which is turned away from the earth are from time to time brought into view, and their aspect indicates that that hemisphere resembles in its surface features the one which faces the earth. There are many things about the craters which seem to give some warrant for the hypothesis which has been particularly urged by Mr G. K. Gilbert, that they were formed by the impact of meteors; but there are also many things which militate against that idea, and, upon the whole, the volcanic theory of their origin is to be preferred.

The enormous size of the lunar volcanoes is not so difficult to account for when we remember how slight is the force of lunar gravity as compared with that of the earth. With equal size and density, bodies on the moon weigh only one-sixth as much as on the earth. Impelled by the same force, a projectile that would go ten miles on the earth would go sixty miles on the moon. A lunar giant thirty-five feet tall would weigh no more than an ordinary son of Adam weighs on his greater planet. To shoot a body from the earth so that it would not drop back again, we should have to start it with a velocity of seven miles per second; a mile and a half per second would serve on the moon. It is by no means difficult to believe, then, that a lunar volcano might form a crater ring eight or ten times broader than the greatest to be found on the earth, especially when we reflect that in addition to the relatively slight force of gravity, the materials of the lunar crust are probably lighter than those of our terrestrial rocks.

For similar reasons it seems not impossible that the theory mentioned in a former chapter — that some of the meteorites that have fallen upon the earth originated from the lunar volcanoes — is well founded. This would apply especially to the stony meteorites, for it is hardly to be supposed that the moon, at least in its superficial parts, contains much iron. It is surely a scene most strange that is thus presented to the mind's eye — that little attendant of the earth's (the moon has only one-fiftieth of the volume, and only one-eightieth of the mass of the earth) firing great stones back at its parent planet! And what can have been the cause of this furious outbreak of volcanic forces on the moon? Evidently it was but a passing stage in its history; it had enjoyed more quiet times before. As it cooled down from the plastic state in which it parted from the earth, it became incrusted after the normal manner of a planet, and then oceans were formed, its atmosphere being sufficiently dense to prevent the water from evaporating and the would-be oceans from disappearing continually in mist. This, if any, must have been the period of life in the lunar world. As we look upon the vestiges of that ancient world buried in the wreck that now covers so much of its surface, it is difficult to restrain the imagination from picturing the scenes which were once presented there; and, in such a case, should the imagination be fettered? We give it free rein in terrestrial life, and it rewards us with some of our greatest intellectual pleasures. The wonderful landscapes of the moon offer it an ideal field with just enough half-hidden suggestions of facts to stimulate its powers.

The great plains of the Mare Imbrium and the Mare Serenitatis (the "Sea of Showers'' and the "Sea of Serenity''), bordered in part by lofty mountain ranges precisely like terrestrial mountains, scalloped along their shores with beautiful bays curving back into the adjoining highlands, and united by a great strait passing between the nearly abutting ends of the "Lunar Apennines'' and the "Lunar Caucasus,'' offer the elements of a scene of world beauty such as it would be difficult to match upon our planet. Look at the finely modulated bottom of the ancient sea in Mr Ritchey's exquisite photograph of the western part of the Mare Serenitatis, where one seems to see the play of the watery currents heaping the ocean sands in waving lines, making shallows, bars, and deeps for the mariner to avoid or seek, and affording a playground for the creatures of the main. What geologist would not wish to try his hammer on those rocks with their stony pages of fossilized history? There is in us an instinct which forbids us to think that there was never any life there. If we could visit the moon, there is not among us a person so prosaic and unimaginative that he would not, the very first thing, begin to search for traces of its inhabitants. We would look for them in the deposits on the sea bottoms; we would examine the shores wherever the configuration seemed favorable for harbors and the sites of maritime cities — forgetting that it may be a little ridiculous to ascribe to the ancient lunarians the same ideas that have governed the development of our race; we would search through the valleys and along the seeming courses of vanished streams; we would explore the mountains, not the terrible craters, but the pinnacled chains that recall our own Alps and Rockies; seeking everywhere some vestige of the transforming presence of intelligent life. Perhaps we should find such traces, and perhaps, with all our searching, we should find nothing to suggest that life had ever existed amid that universal ruin.

Look again at the border of the "Sea of Serenity'' — what a name for such a scene! — and observe how it has been rent with almost inconceivable violence, the wall of the colossal crater Posidonius dropping vertically upon the ancient shore and obliterating it, while its giant neighbor, Le Monnier, opens a yawning mouth as if to swallow the sea itself. A scene like this makes one question whether, after all, those may not be right who have imagined that the so-called sea bottoms are really vast plains of frozen lava which gushed up in floods so extensive that even the mighty volcanoes were half drowned in the fiery sea. This suggestion becomes even stronger when we turn to another of the photographs of Mr Ritchey's wonderful series, showing a part of the Mare Tranquilitatis ("Sea of Tranquility''!). Notice how near the center of the picture the outline of a huge ring with radiating ridges shows through the sea bottom; a fossil volcano submerged in a petrified ocean! This is by no means the only instance in which a buried world shows itself under the great lunar plains. Yet, as the newer craters in the sea itself prove, the volcanic activity survived this other catastrophe, or broke out again subsequently, bringing more ruin to pile upon ruin.

Yet notwithstanding the evidence which we have just been considering in support of the hypothesis that the "seas'' are lava floods, Messrs. Loewy and Puiseux, the selenographers of the Paris Observatory, are convinced that these great plains bear characteristic marks of the former presence of immense bodies of water. In that case we should be forced to conclude that the later oceans of the moon lay upon vast sheets of solidified lava; and thus the catastrophe of the lunar world assumes a double aspect, the earliest oceans being swallowed up in molten floods issuing from the interior, while the lands were reduced to chaos by a universal eruption of tremendous volcanoes; and then a period of comparative quiet followed, during which new seas were formed, and new life perhaps began to flourish in the lunar world, only to end in another cataclysm, which finally put a term to the existence of the moon as a life-supporting world.

Suppose we examine two more of Mr Ritchey's illuminating photographs, and, first, the one showing the crater Theophilus and its surroundings. We have spoken of Theophilus before, citing the facts that it is sixty-four miles in diameter and eighteen thousand feet deep. It will be noticed that it has two brother giants — Cyrillus the nearer, and Catharina the more distant; but Theophilus is plainly the youngest of the trio. Centuries, and perhaps thousands of years, must have elapsed between the periods of their upheaval, for the two older craters are partly filled with dbris, while it is manifest at a glance that when the south eastern wall of Theophilus was formed, it broke away and destroyed a part of the more ancient ring of Cyrillus. There is no more tremendous scene on the moon than this; viewed with a powerful telescope, it is absolutely appalling.

The next photograph shows, if possible, a still wilder region. It is the part of the moon lying between Tycho and the south pole. Tycho is seen in the lower left-hand part of the picture. To the right, at the edge of the illuminated portion of the moon, are the crater-rings, Longomontanus and Wilhelm I, the former being the larger. Between them are to be seen the ruins of two or three more ancient craters which, together with portions of the walls of Wilhelm I and Longomontanus, have been honeycombed with smaller craters. The vast crateriform depression above the center of the picture is Clavius, an unrivaled wonder of lunar scenery, a hundred and forty-two miles in its greatest length, while its whole immense floor has sunk two miles below the general surface of the moon outside the ring. The monstrous shadow-filled cavity above Clavius toward the right is Blancanus, whose aspect here gives a good idea of the appearance of these chasms when only their rims are in the sunlight. But observe the indescribable savagery of the entire scene. It looks as though the spirit of destruction had gone mad in this spot. The mighty craters have broken forth one after another, each rending its predecessor; and when their work was finished, a minor but yet tremendous outbreak occurred, and the face of the moon was gored and punctured with thousands of smaller craters. These relatively small craters (small, however, only in a lunar sense, for many of them would appear gigantic on the earth) recall once more the theory of meteoric impact. It does not seem impossible that some of them may have been formed by such an agency.

One would not wish for our planet such a fate as that which has overtaken the moon, but we cannot be absolutely sure that something of the kind may not be in store for it. We really know nothing of the ultimate causes of volcanic activity, and some have suggested that the internal energies of the earth may be accumulating instead of dying out, and may never yet have exhibited their utmost destructive power. Perhaps the best assurance that we can find that the earth will escape the catastrophe that has overtaken its satellite is to be found in the relatively great force of its gravitation. The moon has been the victim of its weakness; given equal forces, and the earth would be the better able to withstand them. It is significant, in connection with these considerations, that the little planet Mercury, which seems also to have parted with its air and water, shows to the telescope some indications that it is pitted with craters resembling those that have torn to pieces the face of the moon.

Upon the whole, after studying the dreadful lunar landscapes, one cannot feel a very enthusiastic sympathy with those who are seeking indications of the continued existence of some kind of life on the moon; such a world is better without inhabitants. It has met its fate; let it go! Fortunately, it is not so near that it cannot hide its scars and appear beautiful — except when curiosity impels us to look with the penetrating eyes of the astronomer.