In some apparent kinship with the meteorites may be classed the comets. The peculiarity of these bodies is that they appear in most cases to be more or less completely vaporous. Rushing down from the depths of the heavens, these bodies commonly appear as faintly shining, cloudlike masses. As they move in toward the sun long trails of vapour stream back from the somewhat consolidated head. Swinging around that centre, they journey again into the outer realm. As they retreat, their tail-like streamers appear to gather again upon their centres, and when they fade from view they are again consolidated. In some cases it has been suspected that a part at least of the cometary mass was solid. The evidence goes to show, however, that the matter is in a dustlike or vaporous condition, and that the weight of these bodies is relatively very small.



Owing to their strange appearance, comets were to the ancients omens of calamity. Sometimes they were conceived as flaming swords; their forms, indeed, lend themselves to this imagining. They were thought to presage war, famine, and the death of kings. Again, in more modern times, when they were not regarded as portents of calamity, it was feared that these wanderers moving vagariously through our solar system might by chance come in contact with the earth with disastrous results. Such collisions are not impossible, for the reason that the planets would tend to draw these errant bodies toward them if they came near their spheres; yet the chance of such collisions happening to the earth is so small that they may be disregarded.

MOTIONS OF THE SPHERES.

Although little is known of the motions which occur among the celestial bodies beyond the sphere of our solar family, that which has been ascertained is of great importance, and serves to make it likely that all the suns in space are upon swift journeys which in their speed equal, if they do not exceed, the rate of motion among the planetary spheres, which may, in general, be reckoned at about twenty miles a second. Our whole solar system is journeying away from certain stars, and in the direction of others which are situated in the opposite part of the heavens. The proof of this fact is found in the observations which show that on one side of us the stars are apparently coming closer together, while on the other side they are going farther apart. The phenomenon, in a word, is one of perspective, and may be made real to the understanding by noting what takes place when we travel down a street along which there are lights. We readily note that these lights appear to close in behind us, and widen their intervals in the direction in which we journey. By such evidence astronomers have become convinced that our sphere, along with the sun which controls it, is each second a score of miles away from the point where it was before.

There is yet other and most curious evidence which serves to show that certain of the stars are journeying toward our part of the heavens at great speed, while others are moving away from us by their own proper motion. These indications are derived from the study of the lines in the light which the spectrum reveals to us when critically examined. The position of these cross lines is, as we know, affected by the motion of the body whence the light comes, and by close analysis of the facts it has been pretty well determined that the distortion in their positions is due to very swift motions of the several stars. It is not yet certain whether these movements of our sun and of other solar bodies are in straight lines or in great circles.

It should be noted that, although the evidence from the spectroscope serves to show that the matter in the stars is akin to that of our own earth, there is reason to believe that those great spheres differ much from each other in magnitude.

We have now set forth some of the important facts exhibited by the stellar universe. The body of details concerning that realm is vast, and the conclusions drawn from it important; only a part, however, of the matter with which it deals is of a nature to be apprehended by the student who does not approach it in a somewhat professional way. We shall therefore now turn to a description of the portion of the starry world which is found in the limits of our solar system. There the influences of the several spheres upon our planet are matters of vital importance; they in a way affect, if they do not control, all the operations which go on upon the surface of the earth.

THE SOLAR SYSTEM.

We have seen that the matter in the visible universe everywhere tends to gather into vast associations which appear to us as stars, and that these orbs are engaged in ceaseless motion in journeys through space. In only one of these aggregations—that which makes our own solar system—are the bodies sufficiently near to our eyes for us, even with the resources of our telescopes and other instruments, to divine something of the details which they exhibit. In studying what we may concerning the family of the sun, the planets, and their satellites, we may reasonably be assured that we are tracing a history which with many differences is in general repeated in the development of each star in the firmament. Therefore the inquiry is one of vast range and import.

Following, as we may reasonably do, the nebular hypothesis—a view which, though not wholly proved, is eminently probable—we may regard our solar system as having begun when the matter of which it is composed, then in a finely divided, cloudy state, was separated from the similar material which went to make the neighbouring fixed stars. The period when our solar system began its individual life was remote beyond the possibility of conception. Naturalists are pretty well agreed that living beings began to exist upon the earth at least a hundred million years ago; but the beginnings of our solar system must be placed at a date very many times as remote from the present day.[1]

[Footnote 1: Some astronomers, particularly the distinguished Professor Newcomb, hold that the sun can not have been supplying heat as at present for more than about ten million years, and that all geological time must be thus limited. The geologist believes that this reckoning is far too short.]

According to the nebular theory, the original vapour of the solar system began to fall in toward its centre and to whirl about that point at a time long before the mass had shrunk to the present limits of the solar system as defined by the path of the outermost planets. At successive stages of the concentration, rings after the manner of those of Saturn separated from the disklike mass, each breaking up and consolidating into a body of nebulous matter which followed in the same path, generally forming rings which became by the same process the moons or satellites of the sphere. In this way the sun produced eight planets which are known, and possibly others of small size on the outer verge of the system which have eluded discovery. According to this view, the planetary masses were born in succession, the farthest away being the oldest. It is, however, held by an able authority that the mass of the solar system would first form a rather flat disk, the several rings forming and breaking into planets at about the same time. The conditions in Saturn, where the inner ring remains parted, favours the view just stated.

Before making a brief statement of the several planets, the asteroids, and the satellites, it will be well to consider in a general way the motions of these bodies about their centres and about the sun. The most characteristic and invariable of these movements is that by which each of the planetary spheres, as well as the satellites, describes an orbit around the gravitative centre which has the most influence upon it—the sun. To conceive the nature of this movement, it will be well to imagine a single planet revolving around the sun, each of these bodies being perfect spheres, and the two the only members of the solar system. In this condition the attraction of the two bodies would cause them to circle around a common centre of gravity, which, if the planet were not larger or the sun smaller than is the case in our solar system, would lie within the mass of the sun. In proportion as the two bodies might approach each other in size, the centre of gravity would come the nearer to the middle point in a line connecting the two spheres. In this condition of a sun with a single planet, whatever were the relative size of sun and planet, the orbits which they traverse would be circular. In this state of affairs it should be noted that each of the two bodies would have its plane of rotation permanently in the same position. Even if the spheres were more or less flattened about the poles of their axes, as is the case with all the planets which we have been able carefully to measure, as well as with the sun, provided the axes of rotation were precisely parallel to each other, the mutual attraction of the masses would cause no disturbance of the spheres. The same would be the case if the polar axis of one sphere stood precisely at right angles to that of the other. If, however, the spheres were somewhat flattened at the poles, and the axes inclined to each other, then the pull of one mass on the other would cause the polar axes to keep up a constant movement which is called nutation, or nodding.

The reason why this nodding movement of the polar axes would occur when these lines were inclined to each other is not difficult to see if we remember that the attraction of masses upon each other is inversely as the square of the distance; each sphere, pulling on the equatorial bulging of the other, pulls most effectively on the part of it which is nearest, and tends to draw it down toward its centre. The result is that the axes of the attracted spheres are given a wobbling movement, such as we may note in the spinning top, though in the toy the cause of the motion is not that which we are considering.

If, now, in that excellent field for the experiment we are essaying, the mind's eye, we add a second planet outside of the single sphere which we have so far supposed to journey about the sun, or rather about the common centre of gravity, we perceive at once that we have introduced an element which leads to a complication of much importance. The new sphere would, of course, pull upon the others in the measure of its gravitative value—i.e., its weight. The centre of gravity of the system would now be determined not by two distinct bodies, but by three. If we conceive the second planet to journey around the sun at such a rate that a straight line always connected the centres of the three orbs, then the only effect on their gravitative centre would be to draw the first-mentioned planet a little farther away from the centre of the sun; but in our own solar system, and probably in all others, this supposition is inadmissible, because the planets have longer journeys to go and also move slower, the farther they are from the sun. Thus Mercury completes the circle of its year in eighty-eight of our days, while the outermost planet requires sixty thousand days (more than one hundred and sixty-four years) for the same task. The result is not only that the centre of gravity of the system is somewhat displaced—itself a matter of no great account—but also that the orbit of the original planet ceases to be circled and becomes elliptical, and this for the evident reason that the sphere will be drawn somewhat away from the sun when the second planet happens to lie in the part of its orbit immediately outside of its position, in which case the pull is away from the solar centre; while, on the other hand, when the new planet was on the other side of the sun, its pull would serve to intensify the attraction which drew the first sphere toward the centre of gravity. As the pulling action of the three bodies upon each other, as well as upon their equatorial protuberances, would vary with every change in their relative position, however slight, the variations in the form of their orbits, even if the spheres were but three in number, would be very important. The consequences of these perturbations will appear in the sequel.

In our solar system, though there are but eight great planets, the group of asteroids, and perhaps a score of satellites, the variety of orbital and axial movement which is developed taxes the computing genius of the ablest astronomer. The path which our earth follows around the sun, though it may in general and for convenience be described as a variable ellipse, is, in fact, a line of such complication that if we should essay a diagram of it on the scale of this page it would not be possible to represent any considerable part of its deviations. These, in fact, would elude depiction, even if the draughtsman had a sheet for his drawing as large as the orbit itself, for every particle of matter in space, even if it be lodged beyond the limits of the farthest stars revealed to us by the telescope, exercises a certain attraction, which, however small, is effective on the mass of the earth. Science has to render its conclusions in general terms, and we can safely take them as such; but in this, as in other instances, it is well to qualify our acceptance of the statements by the memory that all things are infinitely more complicated than we can possibly conceive or represent them to be.

We have next to consider the rotations of the planetary spheres upon their axes, together with the similar movement, or lack of it, in the case of their satellites. This rotation, according to the nebular hypothesis, may be explained by the movements which would set up in the share of matter which was at first a ring of the solar nebula, and which afterward gathered into the planetary aggregation. The way of it may be briefly set forth as follows: Such a ring doubtless had a diameter of some million miles; we readily perceive that the particles of matter in the outer part of the belt would have a swifter movement around the sun than those on the inside. When by some disturbance, as possibly by the passage of a great meteoric body of a considerable gravitative power, this ring was broken in two, the particles composing it on either side would, because of their mutual attraction, tend to draw away from the breach, widening that gap until the matter of the broken ring was aggregated into a sphere of the star dust or vapour. When the nebulous matter originally in the ring became aggregated into a spherical form, it would, on account of the different rates at which the particles were moving when they came together, be the surer to fall in toward the centre, not in straight lines, but in curves—in other words, the mass would necessarily take on a movement of rotation essentially like that which we have described in setting forth the nebular hypothesis.

In the stages of concentration the planetary nebulae might well repeat those through which the greater solar mass proceeded. If the volume of the material were great, subordinate rings would be formed, which when they broke and concentrated would constitute secondary planets or satellites, such as our moon. For some reason as yet unknown the outer planets—in fact, all those in the solar system except the two inner, Venus and Mercury and the asteroids—formed such attendants. All these satellite-forming rings have broken and concentrated except the inner of Saturn, which remains as an intellectual treasure of the solar system to show the history of its development.

To the student who is not seeking the fulness of knowledge which astronomy has to offer, but desires only to acquaint himself with the more critical and important of the heavenly phenomena which help to explain the earth, these features of planetary movement should prove especially interesting for the reason that they shape the history of the spheres. As we shall hereafter see, the machinery of the earth's surface, all the life which it bears, its winds and rains—everything, indeed, save the actions which go on in the depths of the sphere—is determined by the heat and light which come from the sun. The conditions under which this vivifying tide is received have their origin in the planetary motion. If our earth's path around the centre of the system was a perfect circle, and if its polar axis lay at right angles to the plane of its journey, the share of light and heat which would fall upon any one point on the sphere would be perfectly uniform. There would be no variations in the length of day or night; no changes in the seasons; the winds everywhere would blow with exceeding steadiness—in fact, the present atmospheric confusion would be reduced to something like order. From age to age, except so far as the sun itself might vary in the amount of energy which it radiated, or lands rose up into the air or sunk down toward the sea level, the climate of each region would be perfectly stable. In the existing conditions the influences bring about unending variety. First of all, the inclined position of the polar axis causes the sun apparently to move across the heavens, so that it comes in an overhead position once or twice in the year in quite half the area of the lands and seas. This apparent swaying to and fro of the sun, due to the inclination of the axis of rotation, also affects the width of the climatal belts on either side of the equator, so that all parts of the earth receive a considerable share of the sun's influence. If the axis of the earth's rotation were at right angles to the plane of its orbit, there would be a narrow belt of high temperature about the equator, north and south of which the heat would grade off until at about the parallels of fifty degrees we should find a cold so considerable and uniform that life would probably fade away; and from those parallels to the poles the conditions would be those of permanent frost, and of days which would darken into the enduring night or twilight in the realm of the far north and south. Thus the wide habitability of the earth is an effect arising from the inclination of its polar axis.



As the most valuable impression which the student can receive from his study of Nature is that sense of the order which has made possible all life, including his own, it will be well for him to imagine, as he may readily do, what would be the effect arising from changes in relations of earth and sun. Bringing the earth's axis in imagination into a position at right angles to the plane of the orbit, he will see that the effect would be to intensify the equatorial heat, and to rob the high latitudes of the share which they now have. On moving the axis gradually to positions where it approaches the plane of the orbit, he will note that each stage of the change widens the tropic belt. Bringing the polar axis down to the plane of the orbit, one hemisphere would receive unbroken sunshine, the other remaining in perpetual darkness and cold. In this condition, in place of an equatorial line we should have an equatorial point at the pole nearest the sun; thence the temperatures would grade away to the present equator, beyond which half the earth would be in more refrigerating condition than are the poles at the present day. In considering the movements of our planet, we shall see that no great changes in the position of the polar axis can have taken place. On this account the suggested alterations of the axis should not be taken as other than imaginary changes.

It is easy to see that with a circular orbit and with an inclined axis winter and summer would normally come always at the same point in the orbit, and that these seasons would be of perfectly even length. But, as we have before noted, the earth's path around the sun is in its form greatly affected by the attractions which are exercised by the neighbouring planets, principally by those great spheres which lie in the realm without its orbit, Jupiter and Saturn. When these attracting bodies, as is the case from time to time, though at long intervals, are brought together somewhere near to that part of the solar system in which the earth is moving around the sun, they draw our planet toward them, and so make its path very elliptical. When, however, they are so distributed that their pulling actions neutralize each other, the orbit returns more nearly to a circular form. The range in its eccentricity which can be brought about by these alterations is very great. When the path is most nearly circular, the difference in the major and minor axis may amount to as little as about five hundred thousand miles, or about one one hundred and eighty-sixth of its average diameter. When the variation is greatest the difference in these measurements may be as much as near thirteen million miles, or about one seventh of the mean width of the orbit.

The first and most evident effect arising from these changes of the orbit comes from the difference in the amount of heat which the earth may receive according as it is nearer or farther from the sun. As in the case of other fires, the nearer a body is to it the larger the share of light and heat which it will receive. In an orbit made elliptical by the planetary attraction the sun necessarily occupies one of the foci of the ellipse. The result is, of course, that the side of the earth which is toward the sun, while it is thus brought the nearer to the luminary, receives more energy in the form of light and heat than come to any part which is exposed when the spheres are farther away from each other in the other part of the orbit. Computations clearly show that the total amount of heat and the attendant light which the earth receives in a year is not affected by these changes in the form of its path. While it is true that it receives heat more rapidly in the half of the ellipse which is nearest the source of the inundation, it obtains less while it is farther away, and these two variations just balance each other.

Although the alterations in the eccentricity of its orbit do not vary the annual supply of heat which the earth receives, they are capable of changing the character of the seasons, and this in the way which we will now endeavour to set forth, though we must do it at the cost of considerable attention on the part of the reader, for the facts are somewhat complicated. In the first place, we must note that the ellipticity of the earth's orbit is not developed on fixed lines, but is endlessly varied, as we can readily imagine it would be for the reason that its form depends upon the wandering of the outer planetary spheres which pull the earth about. The longer axis of the ellipse is itself in constant motion in the direction in which the earth travels. This movement is slow, and at an irregular rate. It is easy to see that the effect of this action, which is called the revolution of the apsides, or, as the word means, the movement of the poles of the ellipse, is to bring the earth, when a given hemisphere is turned toward the sun, sometimes in the part of the orbit which is nearest the source of light and heat, and sometimes farther away. It may thus well come about that at one time the summer season of a hemisphere arrives when it is nearest the sun, so that the season, though hot, will be very short, while at another time the same season will arrive when the earth is farthest from the sun, and receives much less heat, which would tend to make a long and relatively cool summer. The reason for the difference in length of the seasons is to be found in the relative swiftness of the earth's revolution when it is nearest the sun, and the slowness when it is farther away.

There is a further complication arising from that curious phenomenon called the precession of the equinoxes, which has to be taken into account before we can sufficiently comprehend the effect of the varying eccentricity of the orbit on the earth's seasons. To understand this feature of precession we should first note that it means that each year the change from the winter to the summer—or, as we phrase it, the passage of the equinoctial line—occurs a little sooner than the year before. The cause of this is to be found in the attraction which the heavenly bodies, practically altogether the moon, exercises on the equatorial protuberance of the earth. We know that the diameter of our sphere at the equator is, on the average, something more than twenty-six miles greater than it is through the poles. We know, furthermore, that the position of the moon in relation to the earth is such that it causes the attraction on one half of this protuberance to be greater than it is upon the other. We readily perceive that this action will cause the polar axis to make a certain revolution, or, what comes to the same thing, that the plane of the equator will constantly be altering its position. Now, as the equinoctial points in the orbit depend for their position upon the attitude of the equatorial plane, we can conceive that the effect is a change in position of the place in that orbit where summer and winter begin. The actual result is to bring the seasonal points backward, step by step, through the orbit in a regular measure until in twenty-two thousand five hundred years they return to the place where they were before. This cycle of change was of old called the Annus Magnus, or great year.

If the earth's orbit were an ellipse, the major axis of which remained in the same position, we could readily reckon all the effects which arise from the variations of the great year. But this ellipse is ever changing in form, and in the measure of its departure from a circle the effects on the seasons distributed over a great period of time are exceedingly irregular. Now and then, at intervals of hundreds of thousands or millions of years, the orbit becomes very elliptical; then again for long periods it may in form approach a circle. When in the state of extreme ellipticity, the precession of the equinoxes will cause the hemispheres in turn each to have their winter and summer alternately near and far from the sun. It is easily seen that when the summer season comes to a hemisphere in the part of the orbit which is then nearest the sun the period will be very hot. When the summer came farthest from the sun that part of the year would have the temperature mitigated by its removal to a greater distance from the source of heat. A corresponding effect would be produced in the winter season. As long as the orbit remained eccentric the tendency would be to give alternately intense seasons to each hemisphere through periods of about twelve thousand years, the other hemisphere having at the same time a relatively slight variation in the summer and winter.

At first sight it may seem to the reader that these studies we have just been making in matters concerning the shape of the orbit and the attendant circumstances which regulate the seasons were of no very great consequence; but, in the opinion of some students of climate, we are to look to these processes for an explanation of certain climatal changes on the earth, including the Glacial periods, accidents which have had the utmost importance in the history of man, as well as of all the other life of the planet.

It is now time to give some account as to what is known concerning the general conditions of the solar bodies—the planets and satellites of our own celestial group. For our purpose we need attend only to the general physical state of these orbs so far as it is known to us by the studies of astronomers. The nearest planet to the sun is Mercury. This little sphere, less than half the diameter of our earth, is so close to the sun that even when most favourably placed for observation it is visible for but a few minutes before sunrise and after sunset. Although it may without much difficulty be found by the ordinary eye, very few people have ever seen it. To the telescope when it is in the full moon state it appears as a brilliant disk; it is held by most astronomers that the surface which we see is made up altogether of clouds, but this, as most else that has been stated concerning this planet, is doubtful. The sphere is so near to the sun that if it were possessed of water it would inevitably bear an atmosphere full of vapour. Under any conceivable conditions of a planet placed as Mercury is, provided it had an atmosphere to retain the heat, its temperature would necessarily be very high. Life as we know it could not well exist upon such a sphere.

Next beyond Mercury is Venus, a sphere only a little less in diameter than the earth. Of this sphere we know more than we do of Mercury, for the reason that it is farther from the sun and so appears in the darkened sky. Most astronomers hold that the surface of this planet apparently is almost completely and continually hidden from us by what appears to be a dense cloud envelope, through which from time to time certain spots appear of a dark colour. These, it is claimed, retain their place in a permanent way; it is, indeed, by observing them that the rotation period of the planet has, according to some observers, been determined. It therefore seems likely that these spots are the summits of mountains, which, like many of our own earth, rise above the cloud level.

Recent observations on Venus made by Mr. Percival Lowell appear to show that the previous determinations of the rotation of that planet, as well as regards its cloud wrap, are in error. According to these observations, the sphere moves about the sun, always keeping the same side turned toward the solar centre, just as the moon does in its motion around the earth. Moreover, Mr. Lowell has failed to discover any traces of clouds upon the surface of the planet. As yet these results have not been verified by the work of other astronomers; resting, however, as they do on studies made with an excellent telescope and in the very translucent and steady air of the Flagstaff Station, they are more likely to be correct than those obtained by other students. If it be true that Venus does not turn upon its axis, such is likely to be the case also with the planet Mercury.

Next in the series of the planets is our own earth. As the details of this planet are to occupy us during nearly all the remainder of this work, we shall for the present pass it by.

Beyond the earth we pass first to the planet Mars, a sphere which has already revealed to us much concerning its peculiarities of form and physical state, and which is likely in the future to give more information than we shall obtain from any other of our companions in space, except perhaps the moon. Mars is not only nearer to us than any other planet, but it is so placed that it receives the light of the sun under favourable conditions for our vision. Moreover, its sky appears to be generally almost cloudless, so that when in its orbital course the sphere is nearest our earth it is under favourable conditions for telescopic observation. At such times there is revealed to the astronomer a surface which is covered with an amazing number of shadings and markings which as yet have been incompletely interpreted. The faint nature of these indications has led to very contradictory statements as to their form; no two maps which have been drawn agree except in their generalities. There is reason to believe that Mars has an atmosphere; this is shown by the fact that in the appropriate season the region about either pole is covered by a white coating, presumably snow. This covering extends rather less far toward the planet's equator than does the snow sheet on our continents. Taking into account the colour of the coating, and the fact that it disappears when the summer season comes to the hemisphere in which it was formed, we are, in fact, forced to believe that the deposit is frozen water, though it has been suggested that it may be frozen carbonic acid. Taken in connection with what we have shortly to note concerning the apparent seas of this sphere, the presumption is overwhelmingly to the effect that Mars has seasons not unlike our own.

The existence of snow on any sphere may safely be taken as evidence that there is an atmosphere. In the case of Mars, this supposition is borne out by the appearance of its surface. The ruddy light which it sends back to us, and the appearance on the margin of the sphere, which is somewhat dim, appears to indicate that its atmosphere is dense. In fact, the existence of an atmosphere much denser than that of our own earth appears to be demanded by the fact that the temperatures are such as to permit the coming and going of snow. It is well known that the temperature of any point on the earth, other things being equal, is proportionate to the depth of atmosphere above its surface. If Mars had no more air over its surface than has an equal area of the earth, it would remain at a temperature so low that such seasonal changes as we have observed could not take place. The planet receives one third less heat than an equal area of the earth, and its likeness to our own temperature, if such exists, is doubtless brought about by the greater density of its atmosphere, that serves to retain the heat which comes upon its surface. The manner in which this is effected will be set forth in the study of the earth's atmosphere.



As is shown by the maps of Mars, the surface is occupied by shadings which seem to indicate the existence of water and lands. Those portions of the area which are taken to be land are very much divided by what appear to be narrow seas. The general geographic conditions differ much from those of our own sphere in that the parts of the planet about the water level are not grouped in great continents, and there are no large oceans. The only likeness to the conditions of our earth which we can perceive is in a general pointing of the somewhat triangular masses of what appears to be land toward one pole. As a whole, the conditions of the Martial lands and seas as regards their form, at least, is more like that of Europe than that of any other part of the earth's surface. Europe in the early Tertiary times had a configuration even more like that of Mars than it exhibits at present, for in that period the land was very much more divided than it now is.

If the lands of Mars are framed as are those of our own earth, there should be ridges of mountains constituting what we may term the backbones of the continent. As yet such have not been discerned, which may be due to the fact that they have not been carefully looked for. The only peculiar physical features which have as yet been discerned on the lands of Mars are certain long, straight, rather narrow crevicelike openings, which have received the name of "canals." These features are very indistinct, and are just on the limit of visibility. As yet they have been carefully observed by but few students, so that their features are not yet well recorded; as far as we know them, these fissures have no likeness in the existing conditions of our earth. It is difficult to understand how they are formed or preserved on a surface which is evidently subjected to rainfalls.

It will require much more efficient telescopes than we now have before it will be possible to begin any satisfactory study on the geography of this marvellous planet. We can not hope as yet to obtain any indications as to the details of its structure; we can not see closely enough to determine whether rivers exist, or whether there is a coating which we may interpret as vegetation, changing its hues in the different seasons of the year. An advance in our instruments of research during the coming century, if made with the same speed as during the last, will perhaps enable us to interpret the nature of this neighbour, and thereby to extend the conception of planetary histories which we derive from our own earth.



Beyond Mars we find one of the most singular features of our solar system in a group of small planetary bodies, the number of which now known amounts to some two hundred, and the total may be far greater. These bodies are evidently all small; it is doubtful if the largest is three hundred and the smaller more than twenty miles in diameter. So far as it has been determined by the effect of their aggregate mass in attracting the other spheres, they would, if put together, make a sphere far less in diameter than our earth, perhaps not more than five hundred miles through. The forms of these asteroids is as yet unknown; we therefore can not determine whether their shapes are spheroidal, as are those of the other planets, or whether they are angular bits like the meteorites. We are thus not in a position to conjecture whether their independence began when the nebulous matter of the ring to which they belonged was in process of consolidation, or whether, after the aggregation of the sphere was accomplished, and the matter solidified, the mass was broken into bits in some way which we can not yet conceive. It has been conjectured that such a solid sphere might have been driven asunder by a collision with some wandering celestial body; but all we can conceive of such actions leads us to suppose that a blow of this nature would tend to melt or convert materials subjected to it into the state of vapour, rather than to drive them asunder in the manner of an explosion.

The four planets which lie beyond the asteroids give us relatively little information concerning their physical condition, though they afford a wide field for the philosophic imagination. From this point of view the reader is advised to consult the writings of the late R.A. Proctor, who has brought to the task of interpreting the planetary conditions the skill of a well-trained astronomer and a remarkable constructive imagination.

The planet Jupiter, by far the largest of the children of the sun, appears to be still in a state where its internal heat has not so far escaped that the surface has cooled down in the manner of our earth. What appear to be good observations show that the equatorial part of its area, at least, still glows from its own heat. The sphere is cloud-wrapped, but it is doubtful whether the envelope be of watery vapour; it is, indeed, quite possible that besides such vapour it may contain some part of the many substances which occupy the atmosphere of the sun. If the Jovian sphere were no larger than the earth, it would, on account of its greater age, long ago have parted with its heat; but on account of its great size it has been able, notwithstanding its antiquity, to retain a measure of temperature which has long since passed away from our earth.

In the case of Saturn, the cloud bands are somewhat less visible than on Jupiter, but there is reason to suppose in this, as in the last-named planet, that we do not behold the more solid surface of the sphere, but see only a cloud wrap, which is probably due rather to the heat of the sphere itself than to that which comes to it from the sun. At the distance of Saturn from the centre of the solar system a given area of surface receives less than one ninetieth of the sun's heat as compared with the earth; therefore we can not conceive that any density of the atmosphere whatever would suffice to hold in enough temperature to produce ordinary clouds. Moreover, from time to time bright spots appear on the surface of the planet, which must be due to some form of eruptions from its interior.

Beyond Saturn the two planets Uranus and Neptune, which occupy the outer part of the solar system, are so remote that even our best telescopes discern little more than their presence, and the fact that they have attendant moons.

From the point of view of astronomical science, the outermost planet Neptune, of peculiar interest for the reason that it was, as we may say, discovered by computation. Astronomers had for many years remarked the fact that the next inner planetary sphere exhibited peculiarities in its orbit which could only be accounted for on the supposition that it was subjected to the attraction of another wandering body which had escaped observation. By skilful computation the place in the heavens in which this disturbing element lay was so accurately determined that when the telescope was turned to the given field a brief study revealed the planet. Nothing else in the history of the science of astronomy, unless it be the computation of eclipses, so clearly and popularly shows the accuracy of the methods by which the work of that science may be done.

As we shall see hereafter, in the chapters which are devoted to terrestrial phenomena, the physical condition of the sun determines the course of all the more important events which take place on the surface of the earth. It is therefore fit that in this preliminary study of the celestial bodies, which is especially designed to make the earth more interpretable to us, we should give a somewhat special attention to what is known under the title of "Solar Physics."

The reader has already been told that the sun is one of many million similar bodies which exist in space, and, furthermore, that these aggregations of matter have been developed from an original nebulous condition. The facts indicate that the natural history of the sun, as well as that of its attendant spheres, exhibits three momentous stages: First, that of vapour; second, that of igneous fluidity; third, that in which the sphere is so far congealed that it becomes dark. Neither of these states is sharply separated from the other; a mass may be partly nebulous and partly fluid; even when it has been converted into fluid, or possibly into the solid state, it may still retain on the exterior some share of its original vaporous condition. In our sun the concentration has long since passed beyond the limits of the nebulous state; the last of the successively developed rings has broken, and has formed itself into the smallest of the planets, which by its distance from the sun seems to indicate that the process of division by rings long ago attained in our solar system its end, the remainder of its nebulous material concentrating on its centre without sign of any remaining tendency to produce these planet-making circles.

THE CONSTITUTION OF THE SUN.

Before the use of the telescope in astronomical work, which was begun by the illustrious Galileo in 1608, astronomers were unable to approach the problem of the structure of the sun. They could discern no more than can be seen by any one who looks at the great sphere through a bit of smoked glass, as we know this reveals a disklike body of very uniform appearance. The only variation in this simple aspect occurs at the time of a total eclipse, when for a minute or two the moon hides the whole body of the sun. On such occasions even the unaided eye can see that there is about the sphere a broad, rather bright field, of an aspect like a very thin cloud or fog, which rises in streamer like projections at points to a quarter of a million miles or more above the surface of the sphere. The appearance of this shining field, which is called the corona, reminds one of the aurora which glows in the region about either pole of the earth.

One of the first results of the invention of the telescope was the revelation of the curious dark objects on the sun's disk, known by the name of spots from the time of their discovery, or, at least, from the time when it was clearly perceived that they were not planets, but really on the solar body. The interest in the constitution of the sphere has increased during the last fifty years. This interest has rapidly grown until at the present time a vast body of learning has been gathered for the solution of the many problems concerning the centre of our system. As yet there is great divergence in the views of astronomers as to the interpretation of their observations, but certain points of great general interest have been tolerably well determined. These may be briefly set forth by an account of what would meet the eye if an observer were able to pass from the surface of the earth to the central part of the sun.



In passing from the earth to a point about a quarter of a million miles from the sun's surface—a distance about that of the moon from our sphere—the observer would traverse the uniformly empty spaces of the heavens, where, but for the rare chance of a passing meteorite or comet, there would be nothing that we term matter. Arriving at a point some two or three hundred thousand miles from the body of the sun, he would enter the realm of the corona; here he would find scattered particles of matter, the bits so far apart that there would perhaps be not more than one or two in the cubic mile; yet, as they would glow intensely in the central light, they would be sufficient to give the illumination which is visible in an eclipse. These particles are most likely driven up from the sun by some electrical action, and are constantly in motion, much as are the streamers of the aurora.

Below the corona and sharply separated from it the observer finds another body of very dense vapour, which is termed the chromosphere, and which has been regarded as the atmosphere of the sun. This layer is probably several thousand miles thick. From the manner in which it moves, in the way the air of our own planet does in great storms, it is not easy to believe that it is a fluid, yet its sharply defined upper surface leads us to suppose that it can not well be a mere mass of vapour. The spectroscope shows us that this chromosphere contains in the state of vapour a number of metallic substances, such as iron and magnesium. To an observer who could behold this envelope of the sun from the distance at which we see the moon, the spectacle would be more magnificent than the imagination, guided by the sight of all the relatively trifling fractures of our earth, can possibly conceive. From the surface of the fiery sea vast uprushes of heated matter rise to the height of two or three hundred thousand miles, and then fall back upon its surface. These jets of heated matter have the aspect of flames, but they would not be such in fact, for the materials are not burning, but merely kept at a high temperature by the heat of the great sphere beneath. They spring up with such energy that they at times move with a speed of one hundred and fifty miles a second, or at a rate which is attained by no other matter in the visible universe, except that strange, wandering star known to astronomers as "Grombridge, 1830," which is traversing the firmament with a speed of not less than two hundred miles a second.

Below the chromosphere is the photosphere, the lower envelope of the sun, if it be not indeed the body of the sphere itself; from this comes the light and heat of the mass. This, too, can not well be a firm-set mass, for the reason that the spots appear to form in and move over it. It may be regarded as an extremely dense mass of gas, so weighed down by the vast attraction of the great sphere below it that it is in effect a fluid. The near-at-hand observer would doubtless find this photosphere, as it appears in the telescope, to be sharply separated from the thinner and more vaporous envelopes—the chromosphere and the corona—which are, indeed, so thin that they are invisible even with the telescope, except when the full blaze of the sun is cut off in a total eclipse. The fact that the photosphere, except when broken by the so-called spots, lies like a great smooth sea, with no parts which lie above the general line, shows that it has a very different structure from the envelope which lies upon it. If they were both vaporous, there would be a gradation between them.

On the surface of the photosphere, almost altogether within thirty degrees of the equator of the sun, a field corresponding approximately to the tropical belt of the earth, there appear from time to time the curious disturbances which are termed spots. These appear to be uprushes of matter in the gaseous state, the upward movement being upon the margins of the field and a downward motion taking place in the middle of the irregular opening, which is darkened in its central part, thus giving it, when seen by an ordinary telescope, the aspect of a black patch on the glowing surface. These spots, which are from some hundred to some thousand miles in diameter, may endure for months before they fade away. It is clear that they are most abundant at intervals of about eleven years, the last period of abundance being in 1893. The next to come may thus be expected in 1904. In the times of least spotting more than half the days of a year may pass without the surface of the photosphere being broken, while in periods of plenty no day in the year is likely to fail to show them.



It is doubtful if the closest seeing would reveal the cause of the solar spots. The studies of the physicists who have devoted the most skill to the matter show little more than that they are tumults in the photosphere, attended by an uprush of vapours, in which iron and other metals exist; but whether these movements are due to outbreaks from the deeper parts of the sun or to some action like the whirling storms of the earth's atmosphere is uncertain. It is also uncertain what effect these convulsions of the sun have on the amount of the heat and light which is poured forth from the orb. The common opinion that the sun-spot years are the hottest is not yet fully verified.

Below the photosphere lies the vast unknown mass of the unseen solar realm. It was at one time supposed that the dark colour of the spots was due to the fact that the photosphere was broken through in those spaces, and that we looked down through them upon the surface of the slightly illuminated central part of the sphere. This view is untenable, and in its place we have to assume that for the eight hundred and sixty thousand miles of its diameter the sun is composed of matter such as is found in our earth, but throughout in a state of heat which vastly exceeds that known on or in our planet. Owing to its heat, this matter is possibly not in either the solid or the fluid state, but in that of very compressed gases, which are kept from becoming solid or even fluid by the very high temperature which exists in them. This view is apparently supported by the fact that, while the pressure upon its matter is twenty-seven times greater in the sun than it is in the earth, the weight of the whole mass is less than we should expect under these conditions.

As for the temperature of the sun, we only know that it is hot enough to turn the metals into gases in the manner in which this is done in a strong electric arc, but no satisfactory method of reckoning the scale of this heat has been devised. The probabilities are to the effect that the heat is to be counted by the tens of thousands of degrees Fahrenheit, and it may amount to hundreds of thousands; it has, indeed, been reckoned as high as a million degrees. This vast discharge is not due to any kind of burning action—i.e., to the combustion of substances, as in a fire. It must be produced by the gradual falling in of the materials, due to the gravitation of the mass toward its centre, each particle converting its energy of position into heat, as does the meteorite when it comes into the air.

It is well to close this very imperfect account of the learning which relates to the sun with a brief tabular statement showing the relative masses of the several bodies of the solar system. It should be understood that by mass is meant not the bulk of the object, but the actual amount of matter in it as determined by the gravitative attraction which it exercises on other celestial bodies. In this test the sun is taken as the measure, and its mass is for convenience reckoned at 1,000,000,000.

TABLE OF RELATIVE MASSES OF SUN AND PLANETS.[2] The sun 1,000,000,000 Mercury 200 Venus 2,353 Earth 3,060 Mars 339 Asteroids ? Saturn 285,580 Jupiter 954,305 Uranus 44,250 Neptune 51,600 Combined mass of the four inner planets 5,952 Combined mass of all the planets 1,341,687

[Footnote 2: See Newcomb's Popular Astronomy, p. 234. Harper Brothers, New York.]

It thus appears that the mass of all the planets is about one seven hundredth that of the sun.

Those who wish to make a close study of celestial geography will do well to procure the interesting set of diagrams prepared by the late James Freeman Clarke, in which transparencies placed in a convenient lantern show the grouping of the important stars in each constellation. The advantage of this arrangement is that the little maps can be consulted at night and in the open air in a very convenient manner. After the student has learned the position of a dozen of the constellations visible in the northern hemisphere, he can rapidly advance his knowledge in the admirable method invented by Dr. Clarke.

Having learned the constellations, the student may well proceed to find the several planets, and to trace them in their apparent path across the fixed stars. It will be well for him here to gain if he can the conception that their apparent movement is compounded of their motion around the sun and that of our own sphere; that it would be very different if our earth stood still in the heavens. At this stage he may well begin to take in mind the evidence which the planetary motion supplies that the earth really moves round the sun, and not the sun and planets round the earth. This discovery was one of the great feats of the human mind; it baffled the wits of the best men for thousands of years. Therefore the inquirer who works over the evidence is treading one of the famous paths by which his race climbed the steeps of science.

The student must not expect to find the evidence that the sun is the centre of the solar system very easy to interpret; and yet any youth of moderate curiosity, and that interest in the world about him which is the foundation of scientific insight, can see through the matter. He will best begin his inquiries by getting a clear notion of the fact that the moon goes round the earth. This is the simplest case of movements of this nature which he can see in the solar system. Noting that the moon occupies a different place at a given hour in the twenty-four, but is evidently at all times at about the same distance from the earth, he readily perceives that it circles about our sphere. This the people knew of old, but they made of it an evidence that the sun also went around our sphere. Here, then, is the critical point. Why does the sun not behave in the same manner as the moon? At this stage of his inquiry the student best notes what takes place in the motions of the planets between the earth and the sun. He observes that those so-called inferior planets Mercury and Venus are never very far away from the central body; that they appear to rise up from it, and then to go back to it, and that they have phases like the moon. Now and then Venus may be observed as a black spot crossing the disk of the sun. A little consideration will show that on the theory that bodies revolve round each other in the solar system these movements of the inner planets can only be explained on the supposition that they at least travel around the great central fire. Now, taking up the outer planets, we observe that they occasionally appear very bright, and that they are then at a place in the heavens where we see that they are far from the solar centre. Gradually they move down toward the sunset and disappear from view. Here, too, the movement, though less clearly so, is best reconcilable with the idea that these bodies travel in orbits, such as those which are traversed by the inner planets. The wonder is that with these simple facts before them, and with ample time to think the matter over, the early astronomers did not learn the great truth about the solar system—namely, that the sun is the centre about which the planets circled. Their difficulty lay mainly in the fact that they did not conceive the earth as a sphere, and even after they attained that conception they believed that our globe was vastly larger than the planets, or even than the sun. This misconception kept even the thoughtful Greeks, who knew that the earth was spherical in form, from a clear notion as to the structure of our system. It was not, indeed, until mathematical astronomy attained a considerable advance, and men began to measure the distances in the solar system, and until the Newtonian theory of gravitation was developed, that the planetary orbits and the relation of the various bodies in the solar system to each other could be perfectly discerned.

Care has been taken in the above statements to give the student indices which may assist him in working out for himself the evidence which may properly lead a person, even without mathematical considerations of a formal kind, to construct a theory as to the relation of the planets to the sun. It is not likely that he can go through all the steps of this argument at once, but it will be most useful to him to ponder upon the problem, and gradually win his way to a full understanding of it. With that purpose in mind, he should avoid reading what astronomers have to say on the matter until he is satisfied that he has done as much as he can with the matter on his own account. He should, however, state his observations, and as far as possible draw the results in his note-book in a diagrammatic form. He should endeavour to see if the facts are reconcilable with any other supposition than that the earth and the other planets move around the sun. When he has done his task, he will have passed over one of the most difficult roads which his predecessors had to traverse on their way to an understanding of the heavens. Even if he fail he will have helped himself to some large understandings.

The student will find it useful to make a map of the heavens, or rather make several representing their condition at different times in the year. On this plot he should put down only the stars whose places and names he has learned, but he should plot the position of the planets at different times. In this way, though at first his efforts will be very awkward, he will soon come to know the general geography of the heavens.

Although the possession or at least the use of a small astronomical telescope is a great advantage to a student after he has made a certain advance in his work, such an instrument is not at all necessary, or, indeed, desirable at the outset of his studies. An ordinary opera-glass, however, will help him in picking out the stars in the constellations, in identifying the planets, and in getting a better idea as to the form of the moon's surface—a matter which will be treated in this work in connection with the structure of the earth.



CHAPTER IV.

THE EARTH.

In beginning the study of the earth it is important that the student should at once form the habit of keeping in mind the spherical form of the planet. Many persons, while they may blindly accept the fact that the earth is a sphere, do not think of it as having that form. Perhaps the simplest way of securing the correct image of the shape is to imagine how the earth would appear as seen from the moon. In its full condition the moon is apt to appear as a disk. When it is new, and also when in its waning stages it is visible in the daytime, the spherical form is very apparent. Imagining himself on the surface of the moon, the student can well perceive how the earth would appear as a vast body in the heavens; its eight thousand miles of diameter, about four times that of the satellite, would give an area sixteen times the size which the moon presents to us. On this scale the continents and oceans would appear very much more plain than do the relatively slight irregularities on the lunar surface.

With the terrestrial globe in hand, the student can readily construct an image which will represent, at least in outline, the appearance which the sphere he inhabits would present when seen from a distance of about a quarter of a million miles away. The continent of Europe-Asia would of itself appear larger than all the lunar surface which is visible to us. Every continent and all the greater islands would be clearly indicated. The snow covering which in the winter of the northern hemisphere wraps so much of the land would be seen to come and go in the changes of the seasons; even the permanent ice about either pole, and the greater regions of glaciers, such as those of the Alps and the Himalayas, would appear as brilliant patches of white amid fields of darker hue. Even the changes in the aspect of the vegetation which at one season clothes the wide land with a green mantle, and at another assumes the dun hue of winter, would be, to the unaided eye, very distinct. It is probable that all the greater rivers would be traceable as lines of light across the relatively dark surface of the continents. By such exercises of the constructive imagination—indeed, in no other way—the student can acquire the habit of considering the earth as a vast whole. From time to time as he studies the earth from near by he should endeavour to assemble the phenomena in the general way which we have indicated.

The reader has doubtless already learned that the earth is a slightly flattened sphere, having an average diameter of about eight thousand miles, the average section at the equator being about twenty-six miles greater than that from pole to pole. In a body of such large proportions this difference in measurement appears not important; it is, however, most significant, for it throws light upon the history of the earth's mass. Computation shows that the measure of flattening at the poles is just what would occur if the earth were or had been at the time when it assumed its present form in a fluid condition. We readily conceive that a soft body revolving in space, while all its particles by gravitation tended to the centre, would in turning around, as our earth does upon its axis, tend to bulge out in those parts which were remote from the line upon which the turning took place. Thus the flattening of our sphere at the poles corroborates the opinion that its mass was once molten—in a word, that its ancient history was such as the nebular theory suggests.

Although we have for convenience termed the earth a flattened spheroid, it is only such in a very general sense. It has an infinite number of minor irregularities which it is the province of the geographer to trace and that of the geologist to account for. In the first place, its surface is occupied by a great array of ridges and hollows. The larger of these, the oceans and continents, first deserve our attention. The difference in altitude of the earth's surface from the height of the continents to the deepest part of the sea is probably between ten and eleven miles, thus amounting to about two fifths of the polar flattening before noted. The average difference between the ocean floor and the summits of the neighbouring continents is probably rather less than four miles. It happens, most fortunately for the history of the earth, that the water upon its surface fills its great concavities on the average to about four fifths of their total depth, leaving only about one fifth of the relief projecting above the ocean level. We have termed this arrangement fortunate, for it insures that rainfall visits almost all the land areas, and thereby makes those realms fit for the uses of life. If the ocean had only half its existing area, the lands would be so wide that only their fringes would be fertile. If it were one fifth greater than it is, the dry areas would be reduced to a few scattered islands.

From all points of view the most important feature of the earth's surface arises from its division into land and water areas, and this for the reason that the physical and vital work of our sphere is inevitably determined by this distribution. The shape of the seas and lands is fixed by the positions at which the upper level of the great water comes against the ridges which fret the earth's surface. These elevations are so disposed that about two thirds of the hard mass is at the present time covered with water, and only one third exposed to the atmosphere. This proportion is inconstant. Owing to the endless up-and-down goings of the earth's surface, the place of the shore lines varies from year to year, and in the geological ages great revolutions in the forms and relative area of water and land are brought about.

Noting the greater divisions of land and water as they are shown on a globe, we readily perceive that those parts of the continental ridges which rise above the sea level are mainly accumulated in the northern hemisphere—in fact, far more than half the dry realm is in that part of the world. We furthermore perceive that all the continents more or less distinctly point to the southward; they are, in a word, triangles, with their bases to the northward, and their apices, usually rather acute, directed to the southward. This form is very well indicated in three of the great lands, North and South America and Africa; it is more indistinctly shown in Asia and in Australia. As yet we do not clearly understand the reason why the continents are triangular, why they point toward the south pole, or why they are mainly accumulated in the northern hemisphere. As stated in the chapter on astronomy, some trace of the triangular form appears in the land masses of the planet Mars. There, too, these triangles appear to point toward one pole.

Besides the greater lands, the seas are fretted by a host of smaller dry areas, termed islands. These, as inquiry has shown, are of two very diverse natures. Near the continents, practically never more than a thousand miles from their shores, we find isles, often of great size, such as Madagascar, which in their structure are essentially like the continents—that is, they are built in part or in whole of non-volcanic rocks, sandstones, limestones, etc. In most cases these islands, to which we may apply the term continental, have at some time been connected with the neighbouring mainland, and afterward separated from it by a depression of the surface which permitted the sea to flow over the lowlands. Geologists have traced many cases where in the past elevations which are now parts of a continent were once islands next its shore. In the deeper seas far removed from the margins of the continents the islands are made up of volcanic ejections of lava, pumice, and dust, which has been thrown up from craters and fallen around their margin or are formed of coral and other organic remains.

Next after this general statement as to the division of sea and land we should note the peculiarities which the earth's surface exhibits where it is bathed by the air, and where it is covered by the water. Beginning with the best-known region, that of the dry land, we observe that the surface is normally made up of continuous slopes of varying declivity, which lead down from the high points to the sea. Here and there, though rarely, these slopes centre in a basin which is occupied by a lake or a dead sea. On the deeper ocean floors, so far as we may judge with the defective information which the plumb line gives us, there is no such continuity in the downward sloping of the surface, the area being cast into numerous basins, each of great extent.

When we examine in some detail the shape of the land surface, we readily perceive that the continuous down slopes are due to the cutting action of rivers. In the basin of a stream the waters act to wear away the original heights, filling them into the hollows, until the whole area has a continuous down grade to the point where the waters discharge into the ocean or perhaps into a lake. On the bottom of the sea, except near the margin of the continent, where the floor may in recent geological times have been elevated into the air, and thus exposed to river action, there is no such agent working to produce continuous down grades.

Looking upon a map of a continent which shows the differences in altitude of the land, we readily perceive that the area is rather clearly divided into two kinds of surface, mountains and plains, each kind being sharply distinguished from the other by many important peculiarities. Mountains are characteristically made up of distinct, more or less parallel ridges and valleys, which are grouped in very elongated belts, which, in the case of the American Cordilleras, extend from the Arctic to the Antarctic Circle. Only in rare instances do we find mountains occupying an area which is not very distinctly elongated, and in such cases the elevations are usually of no great height. Plains, on the other hand, commonly occupy the larger part of the continent, and are distributed around the flanks of the mountain systems. There is no rule as to their shape; they normally grade away from the bases of the mountains toward the sea, and are often prolonged below the level of the water for a considerable distance beyond the shore, forming what is commonly known as the continental shelf or belt of shallows along the coast line. We will now consider some details concerning the form and structure of mountains.

In almost any mountain region a glance over the surface of the country will give the reader a clew to the principal factor which has determined the existence of these elevations. Wherever the bed rocks are revealed he will recognise the fact that they have been much disturbed. Almost everywhere the strata are turned at high angles; often their slopes are steeper than those of house roofs, and not infrequently they stand in attitudes where they appear vertical. Under the surface of plains bedded rocks generally retain the nearly horizontal position in which all such deposits are most likely to be found. If the observer will attentively study the details of position of these tilted rocks of mountainous districts, he will in most cases be able to perceive that the beds have been flexed or folded in the manner indicated by the diagram. Sometimes, though rarely, the tops of these foldings or arches have been preserved, so that the nature of the movement can be clearly discerned. More commonly the upper parts of the upward-arching strata have been cut off by the action of the decay-bringing forces—frost, flowing water, or creeping ice in glaciers—so that only the downward pointing folds which were formed in the mountain-making are well preserved, and these are almost invariably hidden within the earth.



By walking across any considerable mountain chain, as, for instance, that of the Alleghanies, it is generally possible to trace a number of these parallel up-and-down folds of the strata, so that we readily perceive that the original beds had been packed together into a much less space than they at first occupied. In some cases we could prove that the shortening of the line has amounted to a hundred miles or more—in other words, points on the plain lands on either side of the mountain range which now exists may have been brought a hundred miles or so nearer together than they were before the elevations were produced. The reader can make for himself a convenient diagram showing what occurred by pressing a number of leaves of this book so that the sheets of paper are thrown into ridges and furrows. By this experiment he also will see that the easiest way to account for such foldings as we observe in mountains is by the supposition that some force residing in the earth tends to shove the beds into a smaller space than they originally occupied. Not only are the rocks composing the mountains much folded, but they are often broken through after the manner of masonry which has been subjected to earthquake shocks, or of ice which has been strained by the expansion that affects it as it becomes warmed before it is melted. In fact, many of our small lakes in New England and in other countries of a long winter show in a miniature way during times of thawing ice folds which much resemble mountain arches.

At first geologists were disposed to attribute all the phenomena of mountain-folding to the progressive cooling of the earth. Although this sphere has already lost a large part of the heat with which it was in the beginning endowed, it is still very hot in its deeper parts, as is shown by the phenomena of volcanoes. This internal heat, which to the present day at the depth of a hundred miles below the surface is probably greater than that of molten iron, is constantly flowing away into space; probably enough of it goes away on the average each day to melt a hundred cubic miles or more of ice, or, in more scientific phrase, the amount of heat rendered latent by melting that volume of frozen water. J.R. Meyer, an eminent physicist, estimated the quantity of heat so escaping each day of the year to be sufficient to melt two hundred and forty cubic miles of ice. The effect of this loss of heat is constantly to shrink the volume of the earth; it has, indeed, been estimated that the sphere on this account contracts on the average to the amount of some inches each thousand years. For the reason that almost all this heat goes from the depths of the earth, the cool outer portion losing no considerable part of it, the contraction that is brought about affects the interior portions of the sphere alone. The inner mass constantly shrinking as it loses heat, the outer, cold part is by its weight forced to settle down, and can only accomplish this result by wrinkling. An analogous action may be seen where an apple or a potato becomes dried; in this case the hard outer rind is forced to wrinkle, because, losing no water, it does not diminish in its extent, and can only accommodate itself to the interior by a wrinkling process. In one case it is water which escapes, in the other heat; but in both contraction of the part which suffers the loss leads to the folding of the outside of the spheroid.

Although this loss of heat on the part of the earth accounts in some measure for the development of mountains, it is not of itself sufficient to explain the phenomena, and this for the reason that mountains appear in no case to develop on the floors of the wide sea. The average depth of the ocean is only fifteen thousand feet, while there are hundreds, if not thousands, of mountain crests which exceed that height above the sea. Therefore if mountains grew on the sea floor as they do upon the land, there should be thousands of peaks rising above the plain of the waters, while, in fact, all of the islands except those near the shores of continents are of volcanic origin—that is, are lands of totally different nature.

Whenever a considerable mountain chain is formed, although the actual folding of the beds is limited to the usually narrow field occupied by these disturbances, the elevation takes place over a wide belt of country on one or both sides of the range. Thus if we approach the Rocky Mountains from the Mississippi Valley, we begin to mount up an inclined plane from the time we pass westward from the Mississippi River. The beds of rock as well as the surface rises gradually until at the foot of the mountain; though the rocks are still without foldings, they are at a height of four or five thousand feet above the sea. It seems probable—indeed, we may say almost certain—that when the crust is broken, as it is in mountain-building, by extensive folds and faults, the matter which lies a few score miles below the crust creeps in toward those fractures, and so lifts up the country on which they lie. When we examine the forms of any of our continents, we find that these elevated portions of the earth's crust appear to be made up of mountains and the table-lands which fringe those elevations. There is not, as some of our writers suppose, two different kinds of elevation in our great lands—the continents and the mountains which they bear—but one process of elevation by which the foldings and the massive uplifts which constitute the table-lands are simultaneously and by one process formed.

Looking upon continents as the result of mountain growth, we may say that here and there on the earth's crust these dislocations have occurred in such association and of such magnitude that great areas have been uplifted above the plain of the sea. In general, we find these groups of elevations so arranged that they produce the triangular form which is characteristic of the great lands. It will be observed, for instance, that the form of North America is in general determined by the position of the Appalachian and Cordilleran systems on its eastern and western margins, though there are a number of smaller chains, such as the Laurentians in Canada and the ice-covered mountains of Greenland, which have a measure of influence in fixing its shore lines.



The history of plains, as well as that of mountains, will have further light thrown upon it when in the next chapter we come to consider the effect of rain water on the land. We may here note the fact that the level surfaces which are above the seashores are divisible into two main groups—those which have been recently lifted above the sea level, composed of materials laid down in the shallows next the shore, and which have not yet shared in mountain-building disturbances, and those which have been slightly tilted in the manner before indicated in the case of the plains which border the Rocky Mountains on the east. The great southern plain of eastern and southern United States, extending from near New York to Mexico, is a good specimen of the level lands common on all the continents which have recently emerged from the sea. The table-lands on either side of the Mississippi Valley, sloping from the Alleghanies and the Cordilleras, represent the more ancient type of plain which has already shared in the elevation which mountain-building brings about. In rarer cases plains of small area are formed where mountains formerly existed by the complete moving down of the original ridges.

There is a common opinion that the continents are liable in the course of the geologic ages to very great changes of position; that what is now sea may give place to new great lands, and that those already existing may utterly disappear. This opinion was indeed generally held by geologists not more than thirty years ago. Further study of the problem has shown us that while parts of each continent may at any time be depressed beneath the sea, the whole of its surface rarely if ever goes below the water level. Thus, in the case of North America, we can readily note very great changes in its form since the land began to rise above the water. But always, from that ancient day to our own, some portion of the area has been above the level of the sea, thus providing an ark of refuge for the land life when it was disturbed by inundations. The strongest evidence in favour of the opinion that the existing continents have endured for many million years is found in the fact that each of the great lands preserves many distinct groups of animals and plants which have descended from ancient forms dwelling upon the same territory. If at any time the relatively small continent of Australia had gone beneath the sea, all of the curious pouched animals akin to the opossum and kangaroo which abound in that country—creatures belonging in the ancient life of the world—would have been overwhelmed.

We have already noted the fact that the uplifting of mountains and of the table-lands about them, which appears to have been the basis of continental growth, has been due to strains in the rocks sufficiently strong to disturb the beds. At each stage of the mountain-building movement these compressive strains have had to contend with the very great weight of the rocks which they had to move. These lands are not to be regarded as firm set or rigid arches, but as highly elastic structures, the shapes of which may be determined by any actions which put on or take off burden. We see a proof of this fact from numerous observations which geologists are now engaged in making. Thus during the last ice epoch, when almost all the northern part of this continent, as well as the northern part of Europe, was covered by an ice sheet several thousand feet thick, the lands sank down under their load, and to an extent roughly proportional to the depth of the icy covering. While the northern regions were thus tilted down by the weight which was upon them, the southern section of this land, the region about the Gulf of Mexico, was elevated much above its present level; it seems likely, indeed, that the peninsula of Florida rose to the height of several hundred feet above its present shore line. After the ice passed away the movements were reversed, the northern region rising and the southern sinking down. These movements are attested by the position of the old shore lines formed during the later stages of the Glacial epoch. Thus around Lake Ontario, as well as the other Great Lakes, the beaches which mark the higher positions of those inland seas during the closing stages of the ice time, and which, of course, were when formed horizontal, now rise to the northward at the rate of from two to five feet for each mile of distance. Recent studies by Mr. G.K. Gilbert show that this movement is still in progress.

Other evidence going to show the extent to which the movements of the earth's crust are affected by the weight of materials are found in the fact that wherever along the shores thick deposits of sediments are accumulated the tendency of the region where they lie is gradually to sink downward, so that strata having an aggregate thickness of ten thousand feet or more may be accumulated in a sea which was always shallow. The ocean floor, in general, is the part of the earth's surface where strata are constantly being laid down. In the great reservoir of the waters the debris washed from the land, the dust from volcanoes, and that from the stellar spaces, along with the vast accumulation of organic remains, almost everywhere lead to the steadfast accumulation of sedimentary deposits. On the other hand, the realms of the surface above the ocean level are constantly being worn away by the action of the rivers and glaciers, of the waves which beat against the shores, and of the winds which blow over desert regions. The result is that the lands are wearing down at the geologically rapid average rate of somewhere about one foot in five thousand years. All this heavy matter goes to the sea bottoms. Probably to this cause we owe in part the fact that in the wrinklings of the crust due to the contraction of the interior the lands exhibit a prevailing tendency to uprise, while the ocean floors sink down. In this way the continents are maintained above the level of the sea despite the powerful forces which are constantly wearing their substance away, while the seas remain deep, although they are continually being burdened with imported materials.



It is easy to see that if the sea floors tend to sink downward, while the continental lands uprise, the movements which take place may be compared with those which occur in a lever about a fulcrum point. In this case the sea end of the bar is descending and the land end ascending. Now, it is evident that the fulcrum point may fall to the seaward or to the landward of the shore; only by chance and here and there would it lie exactly at the coast line. By reference to the diagram (Fig. 8), it will be seen that, while the point of rotation is just at the shore, a considerable movement may take place without altering the position of the coast line. Where the point of no movement is inland of the coast, the sea will gain on the continent; where, however, the point is to seaward, beneath the water, the land will gain on the ocean. In this way we can, in part at least, account for the endless changes in the attitude of the land along the coastal belt without having to suppose that the continents cease to rise or the sea floors to sink downward. It is evident that the bar or section of the rocks from the interior of the land to the bottoms of the seas is not rigid; it is also probable that the matter in the depths of the earth, which moves with the motions of this bar, would change the position of the fulcrum point from time to time. Thus it may well come about that our coast lines are swaying up and down in ceaseless variation.

In very recent geological times, probably since the beginning of the last Glacial period, the region about the Dismal Swamp in Virginia has swayed up and down through four alternating movements to the extent of from fifty to one hundred feet. The coast of New Jersey is now sinking at the rate of about two feet in a hundred years. The coast of New England, though recently elevated to the extent of a hundred feet or more, at a yet later time sank down, so that at some score of points between New York and Eastport, Me., we find the remains of forests with the roots of their trees still standing below high-tide mark in positions where the trees could not have grown. Along all the marine coasts of the world which have been carefully studied from this point of view there are similar evidences of slight or great modern changes in the level of the lands. At some points, particularly on the coast of Alaska and along the coast of Peru, these uplifts of the land have amounted to a thousand feet or more. In the peninsular district of Scandinavia the swayings, sometimes up and sometimes down, which are now going on have considerably changed the position of the shore lines since the beginning of the historical period.

There are other causes which serve to modify the shapes and sizes of the continents which may best be considered in the sequel; for the present we may pass from this subject with the statement that our great lands are relatively permanent features; their forms change from age to age, but they have remained for millions of years habitable to the hosts of animals and plants which have adapted their life to the conditions which these fields afford them.



CHAPTER V.

THE ATMOSPHERE.

The firm-set portion of the earth, composed of materials which became solid when the heat so far disappeared from the sphere that rocky matter could pass from its previous fluid condition to the solid or frozen state, is wrapped about by two great envelopes, the atmosphere and the waters. Of these we shall first consider the lighter and more universal air; in taking account of its peculiarities we shall have to make some mention of the water with which it is greatly involved; afterward we shall consider the structure and functions of that fluid.

Atmospheric envelopes appear to be common features about the celestial spheres. In the sun there is, as we have noted, a very deep envelope of this sort which is in part composed of the elements which form our own air; but, owing to the high temperature of the sphere, these are commingled with many substances which in our earth—at least in its outer parts—have entered in the solid state. Some of the planets, so far as we can discern their conditions, seem also to have gaseous wraps; this is certainly the case with the planet Mars, and even the little we know of the other like spheres justifies the supposition that Jupiter and Saturn, at least, have a like constitution. We may regard an atmosphere, in a word, as representing a normal and long-continued state in the development of the heavenly orbs. In only one of these considerable bodies of the solar system, the moon, do we find tolerably clear evidence that there is no atmosphere.

The atmosphere of the earth is composed mainly of very volatile elements, known as nitrogen and argon. This is commingled with oxygen, also a volatile element. Into this mass a number of other substances enter in varying but always relatively very small proportions. Of these the most considerable are watery vapour and carbon dioxide; the former of these rarely amounts to one per cent of the weight of the air, considering the atmosphere as a whole, and the latter is never more than a small fraction of one per cent in amount. As a whole, the air envelope of the earth should be regarded as a mass of nitrogen and argon, which only rarely, under the influence of conditions which exist in the soil, enters into combinations with other elements by which it assumes a solid form. The oxygen, though a permanent element in the atmosphere, tends constantly to enter into combinations which fix it temporarily or permanently in the earth, in which it forms, indeed, in its combined state about one half the weight of all the mineral substances we know. The carbon dioxide, or carbonic-acid gas, as it is commonly termed, is a most important substance, as it affords plants all that part of their bodies which disappear on burning. It is constantly returned to the atmosphere by the decay of organic matter, as well as by volcanic action.

In addition to the above-noted materials composing the air, all of which are imperatively necessary to the wonderful work accomplished by that envelope, we find a host of other substances which are accidentally, variably, and always in small quantities contained in this realm. Thus near the seashores, and indeed for a considerable distance into the continent, we find the air contains a certain amount of salt so finely divided that it floats in the atmosphere. So, too, we find the air, even on the mountain tops amid eternal snows, charged with small particles of dust, which, though not evident to the unassisted eye, become at once visible when we permit a slender ray of light to enter a dark chamber.

It is commonly asserted that the atmosphere does not effectively extend above the height of forty-five miles; we know that it is densest on the surface of the earth, the most so in those depressions which lie below the level of the sea. This is proved to us by the weight which the air imposes upon the mercury at the open end of a barometric tube. If we could deepen these cavities to the extent of a thousand miles, the pressure would become so great that if the pit were kept free from the heat of the earth the gaseous materials would become liquefied. Upward from the earth's surface at the sea level the atoms and molecules of the air become farther apart until, at the height of somewhere between forty and fifty miles, the quantity of them contained in the ether is so small that we can trace little effect from them on the rays of light which at lower levels are somewhat bent by their action. At yet higher levels, however, meteors appear to inflame by friction against the particles of air, and even at the height of eighty miles very faint clouds have at times been discerned, which are possibly composed of volcanic dust floating in the very rarefied medium, such as must exist at this great elevation.

The air not only exists in the region where we distinctly recognise it; it also occupies the waters and the under earth. In the waters it occurs as a mechanical mixture which is brought about as the rain forms and falls in the air, as the streams flow to the sea, and as the waves roll over the deep and beat against the shores. In the realm of the waters, as well as on the land, the air is necessary for the maintenance of all animal forms; but for its presence such life would vanish from the earth.

Owing to certain peculiarities in its constitution, the atmosphere of our earth, and that doubtless of myriad other spheres, serves as a medium of communication between different regions. It is, as we know, in ceaseless motion at rates which may vary from the speed in the greatest tempests, which may move at the rate of somewhere a hundred and fifty miles an hour, to the very slow movements which occur in caverns, where the transfer is sometimes effected at an almost microscopic rate in the space of a day. The motion of the atmosphere is brought about by the action of heat here and there, and in a trifling way, by the heat from the interior of the earth escaping through hot springs or volcanoes, but almost altogether by the heat of the sun. If we can imagine the earth cut off from the solar radiation, the air would cease to move. We often note how the variable winds fall away in the nighttime. Those who in seeking for the North Pole have spent winters in the long-continued dark of that region have noted that the winds almost cease to blow, the air being disturbed only when a storm originated in the sunlit realm forced its way into the circumpolar darkness.

The sun's heat does not directly disturb the atmosphere; if we could take the solid sphere of the world away, leaving the air, the rays would go straight through, and there would be no winds produced. This is due to the fact that the air permits the direct rays of heat, such as come from the sun, to pass through it with very slight resistance. In an aerial globe such as we have imagined, the rays impinging upon its surface would be slightly thrown out of their path as they are in passing through a lens, but they would journey on in space without in any considerable measure warming the mass. Coming, however, upon the solid earth, the heat rays warm the materials on which they are arrested, bringing them to a higher temperature than the air. Then these heated materials radiate the energy into the air; it happens, however, that this radiant heat can not journey back into space as easily as it came in; therefore the particles of air next the surface acquire a relatively high temperature. Thus a thermometer next the ground may rise to over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, while at the same time the fleecy clouds which we may observe floating at the height of five or six miles above the surface are composed of frozen water.