All the moons lie outside the rings, and some at a very great distance from Saturn, so that they can only appear small as seen from him. Yet at the worst they must be brighter than ordinary stars, and add greatly to the variations in the sky scenery of this beautiful planet. In connection with Saturn's moons there is another of those astonishing facts that are continually cropping up to remind us that, however much we know, there is such a vast deal of which we are still ignorant. So far in dealing with all the planets and moons in the solar system we have made no remark on the way they rotate or revolve, because they all go in the same direction, and that direction is called counter-clockwise, which means that if you stand facing a clock and turn your hand slowly round the opposite direction to that in which the hands go, you will be turning it in the same way that the earth rotates on its axis and revolves in its orbit. It is, perhaps, just as well to give here a word of caution. Rotating of course means a planet's turning on its own axis, revolving means its course in its orbit round the sun. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and all their moons, as well as Saturn himself, rotate on their axes in this one direction—counter-clockwise—and revolve in the same direction as they rotate. Even the queer little moon of Mars, which runs round him quicker than he rotates, obeys this same rule. Nine of Saturn's moons follow this example, but one independent little one, which has been named Phoebe, and is far out from the planet, actually revolves in the opposite way. We cannot see how it rotates, but if, as we said just now, it turns the same face always to Saturn, then of course it rotates the wrong way too. A theory has been suggested to account for this curious fact, but it could not be made intelligible to anyone who has not studied rather high mathematics, so there we must just leave it, and put it in the cabinet of curiosities we have already collected on our way out to Saturn.

For ages past men have known and watched the planets lying within the orbit of Saturn, and they had made up their minds that this was the limit of our system. But in 1781 a great astronomer named Herschel was watching the heavens through a telescope when he noticed one strange object that he was certain was no star. The vast distance of the stars prevents their having any definite outline, or what is called a disc. The rays dart out from them in all directions and there is no 'edge' to them, but in the case of the planets it is possible to see a disc with a telescope, and this object which attracted Herschel's attention had certainly a disc. He did not imagine he had discovered a new planet, because at that time the asteroids had not been found, and no one thought that there could be any more planets. Yet Herschel knew that this was not a star, so he called it a comet! He was actually the first who discovered it, for he knew it was not a fixed star, but it was after his announcement of this fact that some one else, observing it carefully, found it to be a real planet with an orbit lying outside that of Saturn, then the furthest boundary of the solar system. Herschel suggested calling it Georgius Sidus, in honour of George III., then King; but luckily this ponderous name was not adopted, and as the other planets had been called after the Olympian deities, and Uranus was the father of Saturn, it was called Uranus. It was subsequently found that this new planet had already been observed by other astronomers and catalogued as a star no less than seventeen times, but until Herschel's clear sight had detected the difference between it and the fixed stars no one had paid any attention to it. Uranus is very far away from the sun, and can only sometimes be seen as a small star by people who know exactly where to look for him. In fact, his distance from the sun is nineteen times that of the earth.

Yet to show at all he must be of great size, and that size has actually been found out by the most delicate experiments. If we go back to our former comparison, we shall remember that if the earth were like a greengage plum, then Uranus would be in comparison about the size of one of those coloured balloons children play with; therefore he is much larger than the earth.

In this far distant orbit the huge planet takes eighty-four of our years to complete one of his own. A man on the earth will have grown from babyhood to boyhood, from boyhood to the prime of life, and lived longer than most men, while Uranus has only once circled in his path.

But in dealing with Uranus we come to another of those startling problems of which astronomy is full. So far we have dealt with planets which are more or less upright, which rotate with a rotation like that of a top. Now take a top and lay it on one side on the table, with one of its poles pointing toward the great lamp we used for the sun and the other pointing away. That is the way Uranus gets round his path, on his side! He rotates the wrong way round compared with the planets we have already spoken of, but he revolves the same way round the sun that all the others do. It seems wonderful that even so much can be found out about a body so far from us, but we know more: we have discovered that Uranus is made of lighter material than the earth; his density is less. How can that be known? Well, you remember every body attracts every other body in proportion to the atoms it contains. If, therefore, there were any bodies near to Uranus, it could be calculated by his influence on them what was his own mass, which, as you remember, is the word we use to express what would be weight were it at the earth's surface; and far away as Uranus is, the bodies from which such calculations may be made have been discovered, for he has no less than four satellites, or moons. Considering now the peculiar position of the planet, we might expect to find these moons revolving in a very different way from others, and this is indeed the case. They turn round the planet at about its Equator—that is to say, if you hold the top representing Uranus as was suggested just now, these moons would go above and below the planet in passing round it. Only we must remember there is really no such thing as above and below absolutely. We who are on one side of the world point up to the sky and down to the earth, while the people on the other side of the earth, say at New Zealand, also point up to the sky and down to the earth, but their pointings are directly the opposite of ours. So when we speak of moons going above and below that is only because, for the moment, we are representing Uranus as a top we hold in our hands, and so we speak of above and below as they are to us.

It was Herschel who discovered these satellites, as well as the planet, and for these great achievements he occupies one of the grandest places in the role of names of which England is proud. But he did much more than this: his improvements in the construction of telescopes, and his devotion to astronomy in many other ways, would have caused him to be remembered without anything else.

Of Uranus's satellites one, the nearest, goes round in about two and a half days, and the one that is furthest away takes about thirteen and a half days, so both have a shorter period than our moon.

The discovery of Uranus filled the whole civilized world with wonder. The astronomers who had seen him, but missed finding out that he was a planet, must have felt bitterly mortified, and when he was discovered he was observed with the utmost accuracy and care. The calculations made to determine his path in the sky were the easier because he had been noted as a star in several catalogues previously, so that his position for some time past was known. Everybody who worked at astronomy began to observe him. From these facts mathematicians set to work, and, by abstruse calculations, worked out exactly the orbit in which he ought to move; then his movements were again watched, and behold he followed the path predicted for him; but there was a small difference here and there: he did not follow it exactly. Now, in the heavens there is a reason for everything, though we may not always be clever enough to find it out, and it was easily guessed that it was not by accident that Uranus did not precisely follow the path calculated for him. The planets all act and react on one another, as we know, according to their mass and their distance, and in the calculations the pull of Jupiter on Saturn and of Saturn on Uranus were known and allowed for. But Uranus was pulled by some unseen influence also.

A young Englishman named Adams, by some abstruse and difficult mathematical work far beyond the power of ordinary brains, found out not only the fact that there must be another planet nearly as large as Uranus in an orbit outside his, but actually predicted where such a planet might be seen if anyone would look for it. He gave his results to a professor of astronomy at Cambridge. Now, it seems an easy thing to say to anyone, 'Look out for a planet in such and such a part of the sky,' but in reality, when the telescope is turned to that part of the sky, stars are seen in such numbers that, without very careful comparison with a star chart, it is impossible to say which are fixed stars and which, if any, is an intruder. There happened to be no star chart of this kind for the particular part of the sky wanted, and thus a long time elapsed and the planet was not identified. Meantime a young Frenchman named Leverrier had also taken up the same investigation, and, without knowing anything of Adams' work, had come to the same conclusion. He sent his results to the Berlin Observatory, where a star chart such as was wanted was actually just being made. By the use of this the Berlin astronomers at once identified this new member of our system, and announced to the astonished world that another large planet, making eight altogether, had been discovered. Then the English astronomers remembered that they too held in their hands the means for making this wonderful discovery, but, by having allowed so much time to elapse, they had let the honour go to France. However, the names of Adams and Leverrier will always be coupled together as the discoverers of the new planet, which was called Neptune. The marvel is that by pure reasoning the mind of man could have achieved such results.

If the observation of Uranus is difficult, how much more that of Neptune, which is still further plunged in space! Yet by patience a few facts have been gleaned about him. He is not very different in size from Uranus. He also is of very slight density. His year includes one hundred and sixty-five of ours, so that since his discovery in 1846 he has only had time to get round less than a third of his path. His axis is even more tilted over than that of Uranus, so that if we compare Uranus to a top held horizontally, Neptune will be like a top with one end pointing downwards. He rotates in this extraordinary position, in the same manner as Uranus—namely, the other way over from all the other planets, but he revolves, as they all do, counter-clockwise.

Seen from Neptune the sun can only appear about as large as Venus appears to us at her best, and the light and heat received are but one nine-hundreth part of what he sends us. Yet so brilliant is sunshine that even then the light that falls on Neptune must be very considerable, much more than that which we receive from Venus, for the sun itself glows, and from Venus the light is only reflected. The sun, small as it must appear, will shine with the radiance of a glowing electric light. To get some idea of the brilliance of sunlight, sit near a screen of leaves on some sunny day when the sun is high overhead, and note the intense radiance of even the tiny rays which shine through the small holes in the leaves. The scintillating light is more glorious than any diamond, shooting out coloured rays in all directions. A small sun the apparent size of Venus would, therefore, give enough light for practical purposes to such a world as Neptune, even though to us a world so illuminated would seem to be condemned to a perpetual twilight.



CHAPTER VII

THE SUN

So far we have referred to the sun just so much as was necessary to show the planets rotating round him, and to acknowledge him as the source of all our light and heat; but we have not examined in detail this marvellous furnace that nourishes all the life on our planet and burns on with undiminished splendour from year to year, without thought or effort on our part. To sustain a fire on the earth much time and care and expense are necessary; fuel has to be constantly supplied, and men have to stoke the fire to keep it burning. Considering that the sun is not only vastly larger than all the fires on the earth put together, but also than the earth itself, the question very naturally occurs to us, Who supplies the fuel, and who does the stoking on the sun? Before we answer this we must try to get some idea of the size of this stupendous body. It is not the least use attempting to understand it by plain figures, for the figures would be too great to make any impression on us—they would be practically meaningless; we must turn to some other method. Suppose, for instance, that the sun were a hollow ball; then, if the earth were set at the centre, the moon could revolve round her at the same distance she is now, and there would be as great a distance between the moon and the shell of the sun as there is between the moon and the earth. This gives us a little idea of the size of the sun. Again, if we go back to that solar system in which we represented the planets by various objects from a pea to a football, and set a lamp in the centre to do duty for the sun, what size do you suppose that lamp would have to be really to represent the sun in proportion to the planets? Well, if our greengage plum which did duty for the earth were about three-quarters of an inch in diameter we should want a lamp with a flame as tall as the tallest man you know, and even then it would not give a correct idea unless you imagined that man extending his arms widely, and you drew round him a circle and filled in all the circle with flame! If this glorious flame burnt clear and fair and bright, radiating beams of light all around, the little greengage plum would not have to be too near, or it would be shrivelled up as in the blast of a furnace. To place it at anything resembling the distance it is from the sun in reality you would have to walk away from the flaming light for about three hundred steps, and set it down there; then, after having done all this, you would have some little idea of the relative sizes of the sun and the earth, and of the distance between them.

Of course, all the other planets would have to be at corresponding distances. On this same scale, Neptune, the furthest out, would be three miles from our artificial sun! It seems preposterous to think that some specks so small as to be quite invisible, specks that crawl about on that plum, have dared to weigh and measure the gigantic sun; but yet they have done it, and they have even decided what he is made of. The result of the experiments is that we know the sun to be a ball of glowing gas at a temperature so high that nothing we have on earth could even compare with it. Of his radiating beams extending in all directions few indeed fall on our little plum, but those that do are the source of all life, whether animal or vegetable. If the sun's rays were cut off from us, we should die at once. Even the coal we use to keep us warm is but sun's heat stored up ages ago, when the luxuriant tropical vegetation sprang up in the warmth and then fell down and was buried in the earth. At night we are still enjoying the benefit of the sun's rays—that is, of those which are retained by our atmosphere; for if none remained even the very air itself would freeze, and by the next morning not one inhabitant would be left alive to tell the awful tale. Yet all this life and growth and heat we receive on the whole earth is but one part in two thousand two hundred millions of parts that go out in all directions into space. It has been calculated that the heat which falls on to all the planets together cannot be more than one part in one hundred millions and the other millions of parts seem to us to be simply wasted.

For untold ages the sun has been pouring out this prodigal profusion of glory, and as we know that this cannot go on without some sort of compensation, we want to understand what keeps up the fires in the sun. It is true that the sun is so enormous that he might go on burning for a very long time without burning right away; but, then, even if he is huge, his expenditure is also huge. If he had been made of solid coal he would have been all used up in about six thousand years, burning at the pace he does. Now, we know that the ancient Egyptians kept careful note of the heavenly bodies, and if the sun were really burning away he must have been very much larger in their time; but we have no record of this; on the contrary, all records of the sun even to five thousand years ago show that he was much the same as at present. It is evident that we must search elsewhere for an explanation. It has been suggested that his furnace is supplied by the number of meteors that fall into him. Meteors are small bodies of the same materials as the planets, and may be likened to the dust of the solar system. It is not difficult to calculate the amount of matter he would require on this assumption to keep him going, and the amount required is so great as to make it practically impossible that this is the source of his supply. We have seen that all matter influences all other matter, and the quantity of meteoric stuff that would be required to support the sun's expenditure would be enough to have a serious effect on Mercury, an effect that would certainly have been noticed. There can, therefore, be no such mass of matter near the sun, and though there is no doubt a certain number of meteors do fall into his furnaces day by day, it is not nearly enough to account for his continuous radiation. It seems after this as if nothing else could be suggested; but yet an answer has been found, an answer so wonderful that it is more like a fairy tale than reality.

To begin at the beginning, we must go back to the time when the sun was only a great gaseous nebula filling all the space included in the orbit of Neptune. This nebula was not in itself hot, but as it rotated it contracted. Now, heat is really only a form of energy, and energy and heat can be interchanged easily. This is a very startling thing when heard for the first time, but it is known as surely as we know anything and has been proved again and again. When a savage wants to make a fire he turns a piece of hard wood very very quickly between his palms—twiddles it, we should say expressively—into a hole in another piece of wood, until a spark bursts out. What is the spark? It is the energy of the savage's work turned to heat. When a horse strikes his iron-shod hoofs hard on the pavement you see sparks fly; that is caused by the energy of the horse's leg. When you pump hard at your bicycle you feel your pump getting quite hot, for part of the energy you are putting into your work is transformed into heat; and so on in numberless instances. No energetic action of any kind in this world takes place without some of the energy being turned into heat, though in many instances the amount is so small as to be unnoticeable. Nothing falls to the ground without some heat being generated. Now, when this great nebula first began its remarkable career, by the action of gravity all the particles in it were drawn toward the centre; little by little they fell in, and the nebula became smaller. We are not now concerned with the origin of the planets—we leave that aside; we are only contemplating the part of the nebula which remained to become the sun. Now these particles being drawn inward each generated some heat, so as the nebula contracted its temperature rose. Throughout the ages, over the space of millions and millions of miles, it contracted and grew hotter. It still remained gaseous, but at last it got to an immense temperature, and is the sun as we know it. What then keeps it shining? It is still contracting, but slowly, so slowly that it is quite imperceptible to our finest instruments. It has been calculated that if it contracts two hundred and fifty feet in diameter in a year, the energy thus gained and turned into heat is quite sufficient to account for its whole yearly output. This is indeed marvellous. In comparison with the sun's size two hundred and fifty feet is nothing. It would take nine thousand years at this rate before any diminution could be noticed by our finest instruments! Here is a source of heat which can continue for countless ages without exhaustion. Thus to all intents and purposes we may say the sun's shining is inexhaustible. Yet we must follow out the train of reasoning, and see what will happen in the end, in eras and eras of time, if nothing intervenes. Well, some gaseous bodies are far finer and more tenuous than others, and when a gaseous body contracts it is all the time getting denser; as it grows denser and denser it at last becomes liquid, and then solid, and then it ceases to contract, as of course the particles of a solid body cannot fall freely toward the centre, as those of a gaseous body can. Our earth has long ago reached this stage. When solid the action ceases, and the heat is no more kept up by this source of energy, therefore the body begins to cool—surface first, and lastly the interior; it cools more quickly the smaller it is. Our moon has parted with all her heat long ago, while the earth still retains some internally. In the sun, therefore, we have an object-lesson of the stages through which all the planets must have passed. They have all once been glowing hot, and some may be still hot even on the surface, as we have seen there is reason to believe is the case with Jupiter.

By this marvellous arrangement for the continued heat of the sun we can see that the warmth of our planets is assured for untold ages. There is no need to fear that the sun will wear out by burning. His brightness will continue for ages beyond the thoughts of man.

Besides this, a few other things have been discovered about him. He is, of course, exceptionally difficult to observe; for though he is so large, which should make it easy, he is so brilliant that anyone regarding him through a telescope without the precaution of prepared glasses to keep off a great part of the light would be blinded at once. One most remarkable fact about the sun is that his surface is flecked with spots, which appear sometimes in greater numbers and sometimes in less, and the reason and shape of these spots have greatly exercised men's minds. Sometimes they are large enough to be seen without a telescope at all, merely by looking through a piece of smoked or coloured glass, which cuts off the most overpowering rays. When they are visible like this they are enormous, large enough to swallow many earths in their depths. At other times they may be observed by the telescope, then they may be about five thousand miles across. Sometimes one spot can be followed by an astronomer as it passes all across the sun, disappears at the edge, and after a lapse of time comes back again round the other edge. This first showed men that the sun, like all the planets, rotated on his axis, and gave them the means of finding out how long he took in doing so. But the spots showed a most surprising result, for they took slightly different times in making their journey round the sun, times which differed according to their position. For instance, a spot near the equator of the sun took twenty-five days to make the circuit, while one higher up or lower down took twenty-six days, and one further out twenty-seven; so that if these spots are, as certainly believed, actually on the surface, the conclusion is that the sun does not rotate all in one piece, but that some parts go faster than others. No one can really explain how this could be, but it is certainly more easily understood in the case of a body of gas than of a solid body, when it would be simply impossible to conceive. The spots seem to keep principally a little north and a little south of the equator; there are very few actually at it, and none found near the poles, but no reason for this distribution has been discovered. It has been noted that about every eleven years the greatest number of spots appears, and that they become fewer again, mounting up in number to the next eleven years, and so on. All these curious facts show there is much yet to be solved about the sun. The spots were supposed for long to be eruptions bursting up above the surface, but now they are generally held to be deep depressions like saucers, probably caused by violent tempests, and it is thought that the inrush of cooler matter from above makes them look darker than the other parts of the sun's surface. But when we use the words 'cooler' and 'darker,' we mean only by comparison, for in reality the dark parts of the spots are brighter than electric light.



The fact that the spots are in reality depressions or holes is shown by their change of appearance as they pass over the face of the sun toward the edge; for the change of shape is exactly that which would be caused by foreshortening.

It sounds odd to say that the best time for observing the sun is during a total eclipse, for then the sun's body is hidden by the moon. But yet to a certain extent this is true, and the reason is that the sun's own brilliance is our greatest hindrance in observing him, his rays are so dazzling that they light up our own atmosphere, which prevents us seeing the edges. Now, during a total eclipse, when nearly all the rays are cut off, we can see marvellous things, which are invisible at other times. But total eclipses are few and far between, and so when one is approaching astronomers make great preparations beforehand.

A total eclipse is not visible from all parts of the world, but only from that small part on which the shadow of the moon falls, and as the earth travels, this shadow, which is really a round spot, passes along, making a dark band. In this band astronomers choose the best observatories, and there they take up their stations. The dark body of the moon first appears to cut a little piece out of the side of the sun, and as it sails on, gradually blotting out more and more, eager telescopes follow it; at last it covers up the whole sun, and then a marvellous spectacle appears, for all round the edges of the black moon are seen glorious red streamers and arches and filaments of marvellous shapes, continually changing. These are thrown against a background of pale green light that surrounds the black moon and the hidden sun. In early days astronomers thought these wonderful coloured streamers belonged to the moon; but it was soon proved that they really are part of the sun, and are only invisible at ordinary times, because our atmosphere is too bright to allow them to be seen. An instrument has now been invented to cut off most of the light of the sun, and when this is attached to a telescope these prominences, as they are called, can be seen at any time, so that there is no need to wait for an eclipse.



What are these marvellous streamers and filaments? They are what they seem, eruptions of fiery matter discharged from the ever-palpitating sun thousands of miles into surrounding space. They are for ever shooting out and bursting and falling back, fireworks on a scale too enormous for us to conceive. Some of these brilliant flames extend for three hundred thousand miles, so that in comparison with one of them the whole world would be but a tiny ball, and this is going on day and night without cessation. Look at the picture where the artist has made a little black ball to represent the earth as she would appear if she could be seen in the midst of the flames shooting out from the sun. Do not make a mistake and think the earth really could be in this position; she is only shown there so that you may see how tiny she is in comparison with the sun. All the time you have lived and your father, and grandfather, and right back to the beginnings of English history, and far, far further into the dim ages, this stupendous exhibition of energy and power has continued, and only of late years has anyone known anything about it; even now a mere handful of people do know, and the rest, who are warmed and fed and kept alive by the gracious beams of this great revolving glowing fireball, never give it a thought.

I said just now a pale green halo surrounded the sun, extending far beyond the prominences; this is called the corona and can only be seen during an eclipse. It surrounds the sun in a kind of shell, and there is reason to believe that it too is made of luminous stuff ejected by the sun in its burning fury. It is composed of large streamers or filaments, which seem to shoot out in all directions; generally these are not much larger than the apparent width of the sun, but sometimes they extend much further. The puzzle is, this corona cannot be an atmosphere in any way resembling that of our earth; for the gravitational force of the sun, owing to its enormous size, is so great that it would make any such atmosphere cling to it much more densely near to the surface, while it would be thinner higher up, and the corona is not dense in any way, but thin and tenuous throughout. This makes it very difficult to explain; it is supposed that some kind of electrical force enters into the problem, but what it is exactly we are far from knowing yet.



CHAPTER VIII

SHINING VISITORS

Our solar system is set by itself in the midst of a great space, and so far as we have learnt about it in this book everything in it seems orderly: the planets go round the sun and the satellites go round the planets, in orbits more or less regular; there seems no place for anything else. But when we have considered the planets and the satellites, we have not exhausted all the bodies which own allegiance to the sun. There is another class, made up of strange and weird members, which flash in and out of the system, coming and going in all directions and at all times—sometimes appearing without warning, sometimes returning with a certain regularity, sometimes retiring to infinite depths of space, where no human eye will ever see them more. These strange visitors are called comets, and are of all shapes and sizes and never twice alike. Even as we watch them they grow and change, and then diminish in splendour. Some are so vast that men see them as flaming signs in the sky, and regard them with awe and wonder; some cannot be seen at all without the help of the telescope. From the very earliest ages those that were large enough to be seen without glasses have been regarded with astonishment. Men used to think that they were signs from heaven foretelling great events in the world. Timid people predicted that the end of the world would come by collision with one of them. Others, again, fancifully likened them to fishes in that sea of space in which we swim—fishes gigantic and terrifying, endowed with sense and will.

It is perhaps unnecessary to say that comets are no more alive than is our own earth, and as for causing the end of the world by collision, there is every reason to believe the earth has been more than once right through a comet's tail, and yet no one except scientific men even discovered it. These mysterious visitors from the outer regions of space were called comets from a Greek word signifying hair, for they often leave a long luminous trail behind, which resembles the filaments of a woman's hair. It is not often that one appears large and bright enough to be seen by the naked eye, and when it does it is not likely to be soon forgotten. In the year 1910 such a comet is expected, a comet which at its former appearance compelled universal attention by its brilliancy and strangeness. At the time of the Norman Conquest of England a comet believed to be the very same one was stretching its glorious tail half across the sky, and the Normans seeing it, took it as a good omen, fancying that it foretold their success. The history of the Norman Conquest was worked in tapestry—that is to say, in what we should call crewels on a strip of linen—and in this record the comet duly appears. Look at him in the picture as the Normans fancied him. He has a red head with blue flames starting from it, and several tails. The little group of men on the left are pointing and chattering about him. We can judge what an impression this comet must have made to be recorded in such an important piece of work.



But we are getting on too fast. We have yet to learn how anyone can know that the comet which appeared at the time of the Norman Conquest is the same as that which has come back again at different times, and above all, how anyone can tell that it will come again in the year 1910. All this involves a long story.

Before the invention of telescopes of course only those comets could be seen which were of great size and fine appearance. In those days men did not realize that our world was but one of a number and of no great importance except to ourselves, and they always took these blazing appearances in the heavens as a particular warning to the human race. But when astronomers, by the aid of the telescope, found that for one comet seen by the eye there were hundreds which no mortal eye unaided could see, this idea seemed, to say the least of it, unlikely. Yet even then comets were looked upon as capricious visitors from outer space; odd creatures drawn into our system by the attraction of the sun, who disappeared, never to return. It was Newton, the same genius who disclosed to us the laws of gravity, who first declared that comets moved in orbits, only that these orbits were far more erratic than any of those followed by the planets.

So far we have supposed that the planets were all on what we should call a level—that is to say, we have regarded them as if they were floating in a sea of water around the sun; but this is only approximately correct, for the orbits of the planets are not all at one level. If you had a number of slender hoops or rings to represent the planetary orbits, you would have to tilt one a little this way and another a little that way, only never so far but that a line through the centre of the hoop from one side to another could pass through the sun. The way in which the planetary orbits are tilted is slight in comparison with that of the orbits of comets, for these are at all sorts of angles—some turned almost sideways, and others slanting, and all of them are ellipses long drawn out and much more irregular than the planetary orbits; but erratic as they are, in every case a line drawn through the sun and extended both ways would touch each side of the orbits.

A great astronomer called Halley, who was born in the time of the Commonwealth, was lucky enough to see a very brilliant comet, and the sight interested him so much that he made all the calculations necessary to find out just in what direction it was travelling in the heavens. He found out that it followed an ellipse which brought it very near to the sun at one part of its journey, and carried it far beyond the orbit of the earth, right out to that of Neptune, at the other. Then he began to search the records for other comets which had been observed before his time. He found that two particularly bright ones had been carefully noted—one about seventy-five years before that which he had seen, and the other seventy-five years before that again. Both these comets had been watched so scientifically that the paths in which they had travelled could be computed. A brilliant inspiration came to Halley. He believed that instead of these three, his own and the other two, being different comets, they were the same one, which returned to the sun about every seventy-five years. This could be proved, for if this idea were correct, of course the comet would return again in another seventy-five years, unless something unforeseen occurred. But Halley was in the prime of life: he could not hope to live to see his forecast verified. The only thing he could do was to note down exact particulars, by means of which others who lived after him might recognize his comet. And so when the time came for its return, though Halley was in his grave, numbers of astronomers were watching eagerly to see the fulfilment of his prediction. The comet did indeed appear, and since then it has been seen once again, and now we expect it to come back in the year 1910, when you and I may see it for ourselves. When the identity of the comet was fully established men began to search further back still, to compare the records of other previous brilliant comets, and found that this one had been noticed many times before, and once as I said, at the time of the Norman Conquest. Halley's comet is peculiar in many ways. For instance, it is unusual that so large and interesting a comet should return within a comparatively limited time. It is the smaller comets, those that can only be seen telescopically, that usually run in small orbits. The smallest orbits take about three and a half years to traverse, and some of the largest orbits known require a period of one hundred and ten thousand years. Between these two limits lies every possible variety of period. One comet, seen about the time Napoleon was born, was calculated to take two thousand years to complete its journey, and another, a very brilliant one seen in 1882, must journey for eight hundred years before it again comes near to the sun. But we never know what might happen, for at any moment a comet which has traversed a long solitary pathway in outer darkness may flash suddenly into our ken, and be for the first time noted and recorded, before flying off at an angle which must take it for ever further and further from the sun.

Everything connected with comets is mysterious and most fascinating. From out of the icy regions of space a body appears; what it is we know not, but it is seen at first as a hairy or softly-glowing star, and it was thus that Herschel mistook Uranus for a comet when he first discovered it. As it draws nearer the comet sends out some fan-like projections toward the sun, enclosing its nucleus in filmy wrappings like a cocoon of light, and it travels faster and faster. From its head shoots out a tail—it may be more than one—growing in splendour and width, and always pointing away from the sun. So enormous are some of these tails that when the comet's head is close to the sun the tail extends far beyond the orbit of the earth. Faster still and faster flies the comet, for as we have seen it is a consequence of the law of gravitation that the nearer planets are to the sun the faster they move in their orbits, and the same rule applies to comets too. As the comet dashes up to the sun his pace becomes something indescribable; it has been reckoned for some comets at three hundred miles a second! But behold, as the head flies round the sun the tail is always projected outwards. The nucleus or head may be so near to the sun that the heat it receives would be sufficient to reduce molten iron to vapour; but this does not seem to affect it: only the tail expands. Sometimes it becomes two or more tails, and as it sweeps round behind the head it has to cover a much greater space in the same time, and therefore it must travel even faster than the head. The pace is such that no calculations can account for it, if the tail is composed of matter in any sense as we know it. Then when the sun is passed the comet sinks away again, and as it goes the tail dies down and finally disappears. The comet itself dwindles to a hairy star once more and goes—whither? Into space so remote that we cannot even dream of it—far away into cold more appalling than anything we could measure, the cold of absolute space. More and more slowly it travels, always away and away, until the sun, a short time back a huge furnace covering all the sky, is now but a faint star. Thus on its lonely journey unseen and unknown the comet goes.

This comet which we have taken as an illustration is a typical one, but all are not the same. Some have no tails at all, and never develop any; some change utterly even as they are watched. The same comet is so different at different times that the only possible way of identifying it is by knowing its path, and even this is not a certain method, for some comets appear to travel at intervals along the same path!

Now we come to the question that must have been in the mind of everyone from the beginning of this chapter, What are comets? This question no one can answer definitely, for there are many things so puzzling about these strange appearances that it is difficult even to suggest an explanation. Yet a good deal is known. In the first place, we are certain that comets have very little density—that is to say, they are indescribably thin, thinner than the thinnest kind of gas; and air, which we always think so thin, would be almost like a blanket compared with the material of comets. This we judge because they exercise no sort of influence on any of the planetary bodies they draw near to, which they certainly would do if they were made of any kind of solid matter. They come sometimes very close to some of the planets. A comet was so near to Jupiter that it was actually in among his moons. The comet was violently agitated; he was pulled in fact right out of his old path, and has been going on a new one ever since; but he did not exercise the smallest effect on Jupiter, or even on the moons. And, as I said earlier in this chapter, we on the earth have been actually in the folds of a comet's tail. This astonishing fact happened in June, 1861. One evening after the sun had set a golden-yellow disc, surrounded with filmy wrappings, appeared in the sky. The sun's light, diffused throughout our atmosphere, had prevented its being seen sooner. This was apparently the comet's head. It is described as 'though a number of light, hazy clouds were floating around a miniature full moon.' From this a cone of light extended far up into the sky, and when the head disappeared below the horizon this tail was seen to reach to the zenith. But that was not all. Strange shafts of light seemed to hang right overhead, and could only be accounted for by supposing that they were caused by another tail hanging straight above us, so that we looked up at it foreshortened by perspective. The comet's head lay between the earth and the sun, and its tail, which extended over many millions of miles, stretched out behind in such a way that the earth must have gone right through it. The fact that the comet exercised no perceptible influence on the earth at all, and that there were not even any unaccountable magnetic storms or displays of electricity, may reassure us so that if ever we do again come in contact with one of these extremely fine, thin bodies, we need not be afraid.

There is another way in which we can judge of the wonderful tenuity or thinness of comets—that is, that the smallest stars can be seen through their tails, even though those tails must be many thousands of miles in thickness. Now, if the tails were anything approaching the density of our own atmosphere, the stars when seen through them would appear to be moved out of their places. This sounds odd, and requires a word of explanation. The fact is that anything seen through any transparent medium like water or air is what is called refracted—that is to say, the rays coming from it look bent. Everyone is quite familiar with this in everyday life, though perhaps they may not have noticed it. You cannot thrust a stick into the water without seeing that it looks crooked. Air being less dense than water has not quite so strong a refracting power, but still it has some. We cannot prove it in just the same way, because we are all inside the atmosphere ourselves, and there is no possibility of thrusting a stick into it from the outside! The only way we know it is by looking at something which is 'outside' already, and we find plenty of objects in the sky. As a matter of fact, the stars are all a little pulled out of their places by being seen through the air, and though of course we do not notice this, astronomers know it and have to make allowance for it. The effect is most noticeable in the case of the sun when he is going down, for the atmosphere bends his rays up, and though we see him a great glowing red ball on the horizon, and watch him, as we think, drop gradually out of sight, we are really looking at him for the last moment or two when he has already gone, for the rays are bent up by the air and his image lingers when the real sun has disappeared.



Therefore in looking through the luminous stuff that forms a comet's tail astronomers might well expect to see the stars displaced, but not a sign of this appears. It is difficult to imagine, therefore, what the tail can be made of. The idea is that the sun exercises a sort of repulsive effect on certain elements found in the comet's head—that is to say, it pushes them away, and that as the head approaches the sun, these elements are driven out of it away from the sun in vapour. This action may have something to do with electricity, which is yet little understood; anyway, the effect is that, instead of attracting the matter toward itself, in which case we should see the comet's tails stretching toward the sun, the sun drives it away! In the chapter on the sun we had to imagine something of the same kind to account for the corona, and the corona and the comet's tails may be really akin to each other, and could perhaps be explained in the same way. Now we come to a stranger fact still. Some comets go right through the sun's corona, and yet do not seem to be influenced by it in the smallest degree. This may not seem very wonderful at first perhaps, but if you remember that a dash through anything so dense as our atmosphere, at a pace much less than that at which a comet goes, is enough to heat iron to a white heat, and then make it fly off in vapour, we get a glimpse of the extreme fineness of the materials which make the corona.

Here is Herschel's account of a comet that went very near the sun:

'The comet's distance from the sun's centre was about the 160th part of our distance from it. All the heat we enjoy on this earth comes from the sun. Imagine the heat we should have to endure if the sun were to approach us, or we the sun, to one 160th part of its present distance. It would not be merely as if 160 suns were shining on us all at once, but, 160 times 160, according to a rule which is well known to all who are conversant with such matters. Now, that is 25,600. Only imagine a glare 25,600 times fiercer than that of the equatorial sunshine at noon day with the sun vertical. In such a heat there is no substance we know of which would not run like water, boil, and be converted into smoke or vapour. No wonder the comet gave evidence of violent excitement, coming from the cold region outside the planetary system torpid and ice-bound. Already when arrived even in our temperate region it began to show signs of internal activity; the head had begun to develop, and the tail to elongate, till the comet was for a time lost sight of—not for days afterwards was it seen; and its tail, whose direction was reversed, and which could not possibly be the same tail it had before, had already lengthened to an extent of about ninety millions of miles, so that it must have been shot out with immense force in a direction away from the sun.'

We remember that comets have sometimes more than one tail, and a theory has been advanced to account for this too. It is supposed that perhaps different elements are thrust away by the sun at different angles, and one tail may be due to one element and another to another. But if the comet goes on tail-making to a large extent every time it returns to the sun, what happens eventually? Do the tails fall back again into the head when out of reach of the sun's action? Such an idea is inconceivable; but if not, then every time a comet approaches the sun he loses something, and that something is made up of the elements which were formerly in the head and have been violently ejected. If this be so we may well expect to see comets which have returned many times to the sun without tails at all, for all the tail-making stuff that was in the head will have been used up, and as this is exactly what we do see, the theory is probably true.

Where do the comets come from? That also is a very large question. It used to be supposed they were merely wanderers in space who happened to have been attracted by our sun and drawn into his system, but there are facts which go very strongly against this, and astronomers now generally believe that comets really belong to the solar system, that their proper orbits are ellipses, and that in the case of those which fly off at such an angle that they can never return they must at some time have been pulled out of their original orbit by the influence of one of the planets.



To get a good idea of a really fine comet, until we have the opportunity of seeing one for ourselves, we cannot do better than look at this picture of a comet photographed in 1901 at the Cape of Good Hope. It is only comparatively recently that photography has been applied to comets. When Halley's comet appeared last time such a thing was not thought of, but when he comes again numbers of cameras, fitted up with all the latest scientific appliances, will be waiting to get good impressions of him.



CHAPTER IX

SHOOTING STARS AND FIERY BALLS

All the substances which we are accustomed to see and handle in our daily lives belong to our world. There are vegetables which grow in the earth, minerals which are dug out of it, and elementary things, such as air and water, which have always made up a part of this planet since man knew it. These are obvious, but there are other things not quite so obvious which also help to form our world. Among these we may class all the elements known to chemists, many of which have difficult names, such as oxygen and hydrogen. These two are the elements which make up water, and oxygen is an important element in air, which has nitrogen in it too. There are numbers and numbers of other elements perfectly familiar to chemists, of which many people never even hear the names. We live in the midst of these things, and we take them for granted and pay little attention to them; but when we begin to learn about other worlds we at once want to know if these substances and elements which enter so largely into our daily lives are to be found elsewhere in the universe or are quite peculiar to our own world. This question might be answered in several ways, but one of the most practical tests would be if we could get hold of something which had not been always on the earth, but had fallen upon it from space. Then, if this body were made up of elements corresponding with those we find here, we might judge that these elements are very generally diffused throughout the bodies in the solar system.

It sounds in the highest degree improbable that anything should come hurling through the air and alight on our little planet, which we know is a mere speck in a great ocean of space; but we must not forget that the power of gravity increases the chances greatly, for anything coming within a certain range of the earth, anything small enough, that is, and not travelling at too great a pace, is bound to fall on to it. And, however improbable it seems, it is undoubtedly true that masses of matter do crash down upon the earth from time to time, and these are called meteorites. When we think of the great expanse of the oceans, of the ice round the poles, and of the desert wastes, we know that for every one of such bodies seen to fall many more must have fallen unseen by any human being. Meteors large enough to reach the earth are not very frequent, which is perhaps as well, and as yet there is no record of anyone's having been killed by them. Most of them consist of masses of stone, and a few are of iron, while various substances resembling those that we know here have been found in them. Chemists in analyzing them have also come across certain elements so far unknown upon earth, though of course there is no saying that these may not exist at depths to which man has not penetrated.

A really large meteor is a grand sight. If it is seen at night it appears as a red star, growing rapidly bigger and leaving a trail of luminous vapour behind as it passes across the sky. In the daytime this vapour looks like a cloud. As the meteor hurls itself along there may be a deep continuous roar, ending in one supreme explosion, or perhaps in several explosions, and finally the meteor may come to the earth in one mass, with a force so great that it buries itself some feet deep in the soil, or it may burst into numbers of tiny fragments, which are scattered over a large area. When a meteor is found soon after its fall it is very hot, and all its surface has 'run,' having been fused by heat. The heat is caused by the friction of our atmosphere. The meteor gets entangled in the atmosphere, and, being drawn by the attraction of the earth, dashes through it. Part of the energy of its motion is turned to heat, which grows greater and greater as the denser air nearer to the earth is encountered; so that in time all the surface of the meteor runs like liquid, and this liquid, rising to a still higher temperature, is blown off in vapour, leaving a new surface exposed. The vapour makes the trail of fire or cloud seen to follow the meteor. If the process went on for long the meteor would be all dissipated in vapour, and in any case it must reach the earth considerably reduced in size.

Numbers and numbers of comparatively small ones disappear, and for every one that manages to come to earth there must be hundreds seen only as shooting stars, which vanish and 'leave not a wrack behind.' When a meteor is seen to fall it is traced, and, whenever possible, it is found and placed in a museum. Men have sometimes come across large masses of stone and iron with their surfaces fused with heat. These are in every way like the recognized meteorites, except that no eye has noted their advent. As there can be no reasonable doubt that they are of the same origin as the others, they too are collected and placed in museums, and in any large museum you would be able to see both kinds—those which have been seen to come to earth and those which have been found accidentally.

The meteors which appear very brilliant in their course across the sky are sometimes called fire-balls, which is only another name for the same thing. Some of these are brighter than the full moon, so bright that they cause objects on earth to cast a shadow. In 1803 a fiery ball was noticed above a small town in Normandy; it burst and scattered stones far and wide, but luckily no one was hurt. The largest meteorites that have been found on the earth are a ton or more in weight; others are mere stones; and others again just dust that floats about in the atmosphere before gently settling. Of course, meteors of this last kind could not be seen to fall like the larger ones, yet they do fall in such numbers that calculations have been made showing that the earth must catch about a hundred millions of meteors daily, having altogether a total weight of about a hundred tons. This sounds enormous, but compared with the weight of the earth it is very small indeed.

Now that we have arrived at the fact that strange bodies do come hurtling down upon us out of space, and that we can actually handle and examine them, the next question is, Where do they come from? At one time it was thought that they were fragments which had been flung off by the earth herself when she was subject to violent explosions, and that they had been thrown far enough to resist the impulse to drop down upon her again, and had been circling round the sun ever since, until the earth came in contact with them again and they had fallen back upon her. It is not difficult to imagine a force which would be powerful enough to achieve the feat of speeding something off at such a velocity that it passed beyond the earth's power to pull it back, but nothing that we have on earth would be nearly strong enough to achieve such a feat. Imaginative writers have pictured a projectile hurled from a cannon's mouth with such tremendous force that it not only passed beyond the range of the earth's power to pull it back, but so that it fell within the influence of the moon and was precipitated on to her surface! Such things must remain achievements in imagination only; it is not possible for them to be carried out. Other ideas as to the origin of meteors were that they had been expelled from the moon or from the sun. It would need a much less force to send a projectile away from the moon than from the earth on account of its smaller size and less density, but the distance from the earth to the moon is not very great, and any projectile hurled forth from the moon would cross it in a comparatively short time. Therefore if the meteorites come from the moon, the moon must be expelling them still, and we might expect to see some evidence of it; but we know that the moon is a dead world, so this explanation is not possible. The sun, for its part, is torn by such gigantic disturbances that, notwithstanding its vast size, there is no doubt sufficient force there to send meteors even so far as the earth, but the chances of their encountering the earth would be small. Both these theories are now discarded. It is believed that the meteors are merely lesser fragments of the same kind of materials as the planets, circling independently round the sun; and a proof of this is that far more meteorites fall on that part of the earth which is facing forward in its journey than on that behind, and this is what we should expect if the meteors were scattered independently through space and it was by reason of our movements that we came in contact with them. There is no need to explain this further. Everyone knows that in cycling or driving along a road where there is a good deal of traffic both ways the people we meet are more in number than those who overtake us, and the same result would follow with the meteors; that is to say, in travelling through space where they were fairly evenly distributed we should meet more than we should be overtaken by.

You remember that it was suggested the sun's fuel might be obtained from meteors, and this was proved to be not possible, even though there are no doubt unknown millions of these strange bodies circling throughout the solar system.

There are so many names for these flashing bodies that we may get a little confused: when they are seen in the sky they are meteors, or fire-balls; when they reach the earth they are called meteorites, and also aerolites. Then there is another class of the same bodies called shooting stars, and these are in reality only meteors on a smaller scale; but there ought to be no confusion in our thoughts, for all these objects are small bodies travelling round the sun, and caught by the earth's influence.

When you watch the sky for some time on a clear night, you will seldom fail to see at least one star flash out suddenly in a path of thrilling light and disappear, and you cannot be certain whether that star had been shining in the sky a minute before, or if it had appeared suddenly only in order to go out. The last idea is right. We must get rid at once of the notion that it would be possible for any fixed star to behave in this manner. To begin with, the fixed stars are many of them actually travelling at a great velocity at present, yet so immeasurably distant are they that their movement makes no perceptible difference to us. For one of them to appear to dash across the heavens as a meteor does would mean a velocity entirely unknown to us, even comparing it with the speed of light. No, these shooting stars are not stars at all, though they were so named, long before the real motions of the fixed stars were even dimly guessed at. As we have seen, they belong to the same class as meteors.

I remember being told by a clergyman, years ago, that one night in November he had gone up to bed very late, and as he pulled up his blind to look at the sky, to his amazement he saw a perfect hail of shooting stars, some appearing every minute, and all darting in vivid trails of light, longer or shorter, though all seemed to come from one point. So marvellous was the sight that he dashed across the village street, unlocked the church door, and himself pulled the bell with all his might. The people in that quiet country village had long been in bed, but they huddled on their clothes and ran out of their pretty thatched cottages, thinking there must be a great fire, and when they saw the wonder in the sky they were amazed and cried out that the world must be coming to an end. The clergyman knew better than that, and was able to reassure them, and tell them he had only taken the most effectual means of waking them so that they might not miss the display, for he was sure as long as they lived they would never see such another sight. A star shower of this kind is certainly well worth getting up to see, but though uncommon it is not unique. There are many records of such showers having occurred in times gone by, and when men put together and examined the records they found that the showers came at regular intervals. For instance, every year about the same time in November there is a star shower, not comparable, it is true, with the brilliant one the clergyman saw, but still noticeable, for more shooting stars are seen then than at other times, and once in every thirty-three years there is a specially fine one. It happened in fact to be one of these that the village people were wakened up to see.

Not all at once, but gradually, the mystery of these shower displays was solved. It was realized that the meteors need not necessarily come from one fixed place in the sky because they seemed to us to do so, for that was only an effect of perspective. If you were looking down a long, perfectly straight avenue of tree-trunks, the avenue would seem to close in, to get narrower and narrower at the far end until it became a point; but it would not really do so, for you would know that the trees at the far end were just the same distance from each other as those between which you were standing. Now, two meteors starting from the same direction at a distance from each other, and keeping parallel, would seem to us to start from a point and to open out wider and wider as they approached, but they would not really do so; it would only be, as in the case of the avenue, an effect of perspective. If a great many meteors did the same thing, they would appear to us all to start from one point, whereas really they would be on parallel lines, only as they rushed to meet us or we rushed to meet them this effect would be produced. Therefore the first discovery was that these meteors were thousands and thousands of little bodies travelling in lines parallel to each other, like a swarm of little planets. To judge that their path was not a straight line but a circle or ellipse was the next step, and this was found to be the case. From taking exact measurements of their paths in the sky an astronomer computed they were really travelling round the sun in a lengthened orbit, an ellipse more like a comet's orbit than that of a planet. But next came the puzzling question, Why did the earth apparently hit them every year to some extent, and once in thirty-three years seem to run right into the middle of them? This also was answered. One has only to imagine a swarm of such meteors at first hastening busily along their orbit, a great cluster all together, then, by the near neighbourhood of some planet, or by some other disturbing causes, being drawn out, leaving stragglers lagging behind, until at last there might be some all round the path, but only thinly scattered, while the busy, important cluster that formed the nucleus was still much thicker than any other part. Now, if the orbit that the meteors followed cut the orbit or path of the earth at one point, then every time the earth came to what we may call the level crossing she must run into some of the stragglers, and if the chief part of the swarm took thirty-three years to get round, then once in about thirty-three years the earth must strike right into it. This would account for the wonderful display. So long drawn-out is the thickest part of the swarm that it takes a year to pass the points at the level crossing. If the earth strikes it near the front one year, she may come right round in time to strike into the rear part of the swarm next year, so that we may get fine displays two years running about every thirty-three years. The last time we passed through the swarm was in 1899, and then the show was very disappointing. Here in England thick clouds prevented our seeing much, and there will not be another chance for us to see it at its best until 1932.

These November meteors are called Leonids, because they seem to come from a group of stars named Leo, and though the most noticeable they are not the only ones. A shower of the same kind occurs in August too, but the August meteors, called Perseids, because they seem to come from Perseus, revolve in an orbit which takes a hundred and forty-two years to traverse! So that only every one hundred and forty-second year could we hope to see a good display. When all these facts had been gathered up, it seemed without doubt that certain groups of meteors travelled in company along an elliptical orbit. But there remained still something more—a bold and ingenious theory to be advanced. It was found that a comet, a small one, only to be seen with the telescope, revolved in exactly the same orbit as the November meteors, and another one, larger, in exactly the same orbit as the August ones; hence it could hardly be doubted that comets and meteors had some connection with each other, though what that connection is exactly no one knows. Anyway, we can have no shadow of doubt when we find the comet following a marked path, and the meteors pursuing the same path in his wake, that the two have some mysterious affinity. There are other smaller showers besides these of November and August, and a remarkable fact is known about one of them. This particular stream was found to be connected with a comet named Biela's Comet, that had been many times observed, and which returned about every seven years to the sun. After it had been seen several times, this astonishing comet split in two and appeared as two comets, both of which returned at the end of the next seven years. But on the next two occasions when they were expected they never came at all, and the third time there came instead a fine display of shooting stars, so it really seemed as if these meteors must be the fragments of the lost comet.

It is very curious and interesting to notice that in these star showers there is no certain record of any large meteorite reaching the earth; they seem to be made up of such small bodies that they are all dissipated in vapour as they traverse our air.



CHAPTER X

THE GLITTERING HEAVENS

On a clear moonless night the stars appear uncountable. You see them twinkling through the leafless trees, and covering all the sky from the zenith, the highest point above your head, down to the horizon. It seems as if someone had taken a gigantic pepper-pot and scattered them far and wide so that some had fallen in all directions. If you were asked to make a guess as to how many you can see at one time, no doubt you would answer 'Millions!' But you would be quite wrong, for the number of stars that can be seen at once without a telescope does not exceed two thousand, and this, after the large figures we have been dealing with, appears a mere trifle. With a telescope, even of small power, many more are revealed, and every increase in the size of the telescope shows more still; so that it might be supposed the universe is indeed illimitable, and that we are only prevented from seeing beyond a certain point by our limited resources. But in reality we know that this cannot be so. If the whole sky were one mass of stars, as it must be if the number of them were infinite, then, even though we could not distinguish the separate items, we should see it bright with a pervading and diffused light. As this is not so, we judge that the universe is not unending, though, with all our inventions, we may never be able to probe to the end of it. We need not, indeed, cry for infinity, for the distances of the fixed stars from us are so immeasurable that to atoms like ourselves they may well seem unlimited. Our solar system is set by itself, like a little island in space, and far, far away on all sides are other great light-giving suns resembling our own more or less, but dwindled to the size of tiny stars, by reason of the great void of space lying between us and them. Our sun is, indeed, just a star, and by no means large compared with the average of the stars either. But, then, he is our own; he is comparatively near to us, and so to us he appears magnificent and unique. Judging from the solar system, we might expect to find that these other great suns which we call stars have also planets circling round them, looking to them for light and heat as we do to our sun. There is no reason to doubt that in some instances the conjecture is right, and that there may be other suns with attendant planets. It is however a great mistake to suppose that because our particular family in the solar system is built on certain lines, all the other families must be made on the same pattern. Why, even in our own system we can see how very much the planets differ from each other: there are no two the same size; some have moons and some have not; Saturn's rings are quite peculiar to himself, and Uranus and Neptune indulge in strange vagaries. So why should we expect other systems to be less varied?

As science has advanced, the idea that these faraway suns must have planetary attendants as our sun has been discarded. The more we know the more is disclosed to us the infinite variety of the universe. For instance, so much accustomed are we to a yellow sun that we never think of the possibility of there being one of another colour. What would you say then to a ruby sun, or a blue one; or to two suns of different colours, perhaps red and green, circling round each other; or to two such suns each going round a dark companion? For there are dark bodies as well as shining bodies in the sky. These are some of the marvels of the starry sky, marvels quite as absorbing as anything we have found in the solar system.

It requires great care and patience and infinite labour before the very delicate observations which alone can reveal to us anything of the nature of the fixed stars can be accomplished. It is only since the improvement in large telescopes that this kind of work has become possible, and so it is but recently men have begun to study the stars intimately, and even now they are baffled by indescribable difficulties. One of these is our inability to tell the distance of a thing by merely looking at it unless we also know its size. On earth we are used to seeing things appear smaller the further they are from us, and by long habit can generally tell the real size; but when we turn to the stars, which appear so much alike, how are we to judge how far off they are? Two stars apparently the same size and close together in the sky may really be as far one from another as the earth is from the nearest; for if the further one were very much larger than the nearer, they would then appear the same size.

At first it was natural enough to suppose that the big bright stars of what we call the first magnitude were the nearest to us, and the less bright the next nearest, and so on down to the tiny ones, only revealed by the telescope, which would be the furthest away of all; but research has shown that this is not correct. Some of the brightest stars may be comparatively near, and some of the smallest may be near also. The size is no test of distance. So far as we have been able to discover, the star which seems nearest is a first magnitude one, but some of the others which outshine it must be among the infinitely distant ones. Thus we lie in the centre of a jewelled universe, and cannot tell even the size of the jewels which cover its radiant robe.

I say 'lie,' but that is really not the correct word. So far as we have been able to find out, there is no such thing as absolute rest in the universe—in fact, it is impossible; for even supposing any body could be motionless at first, it would be drawn by the attraction of its nearest neighbours in space, and gradually gain a greater and greater velocity as it fell toward them. Even the stars we call 'fixed' are all hurrying along at a great pace, and though their distance prevents us from seeing any change in their positions, it can be measured by suitable instruments. Our sun is no exception to this universal rule. Like all his compeers, he is hurrying busily along somewhere in obedience to some impulse of which we do not know the nature; and as he goes he carries with him his whole cortege of planets and their satellites, and even the comets. Yes, we are racing through space with another motion, too, besides those of rotation and revolution, for our earth keeps up with its master attractor, the sun. It is difficult, no doubt, to follow this, but if you think for a moment you will remember that when you are in a railway-carriage everything in that carriage is really travelling along with it, though it does not appear to move. And the whole solar system may be looked at as if it were one block in movement. As in a carriage, the different bodies in it continue their own movements all the time, while sharing in the common movement. You can get up and change your seat in the train, and when you sit down again you have not only moved that little way of which you are conscious, but a great way of which you are not conscious unless you look out of the window. Now in the case of the earth's own motion we found it necessary to look for something which does not share in that motion for purposes of comparison, and we found that something in the sun, who shows us very clearly we are turning on our axis. But in the case of the motion of the solar system the sun is moving himself, so we have to look beyond him again and turn to the stars for confirmation. Then we find that the stars have motions of their own, so that it is very difficult to judge by them at all. It is as if you were bicycling swiftly towards a number of people all walking about in different directions on a wide lawn. They have their movements, but they all also have an apparent movement, really caused by you as you advance toward them; and what astronomers had to do was to separate the true movements of the stars from the false apparent movement made by the advance of the sun. This great problem was attacked and overcome, and it is now known with tolerable certainty that the sun is sweeping onward at a pace of about twelve miles a second toward a fixed point. It really matters very little to us where he is going, for the distances are so vast that hundreds of years must elapse before his movement makes the slightest difference in regard to the stars. But there is one thing which we can judge, and that is that though his course appears to be in a straight line, it is most probably only a part of a great curve so huge that the little bit we know seems straight.

When we speak of the stars, we ought to keep quite clearly in our minds the fact that they lie at such an incredible distance from us that it is probable we shall never learn a great deal about them. Why, men have not even yet been able to communicate with the planet Mars, at its nearest only some thirty-five million miles from us, and this is a mere nothing in measuring the space between us and the stars. To express the distances of the stars in figures is really a waste of time, so astronomers have invented another way. You know that light can go round the world eight times in a second; that is a speed quite beyond our comprehension, but we just accept it. Then think what a distance it could travel in an hour, in a day; and what about a year? The distance that light can travel in a year is taken as a convenient measure by astronomers for sounding the depths of space. Measured in this way light takes four years and four months to reach us from the nearest star we know of, and there are others so much more distant that hundreds—nay, thousands—of years would have to be used to convey it. Light which has been travelling along with a velocity quite beyond thought, silently, unresting, from the time when the Britons lived and ran half naked on this island of ours, has only reached us now, and there is no limit to the time we may go back in our imaginings. We see the stars, not as they are, but as they were. If some gigantic conflagration had happened a hundred years ago in one of them situated a hundred light-years away from us, only now would that messenger, swifter than any messenger we know, have brought the news of it to us. To put the matter in figures, we are sure that no star can lie nearer to us than twenty-five billions of miles. A billion is a million millions, and is represented by a figure with twelve noughts behind it, so—1,000,000,000,000; and twenty-five such billions is the least distance within which any star can lie. How much farther away stars may be we know not, but it is something to have found out even that. On the same scale as that we took in our first example, we might express it thus: If the earth were a greengage plum at a distance of about three hundred of your steps from the sun, and Neptune were, on the same scale, about three miles away, the nearest fixed star could not be nearer than the distance measured round the whole earth at the Equator!

All this must provoke the question, How can anyone find out these things? Well, for a long time the problem of the distances of the stars was thought to be too difficult for anyone to attempt to solve it, but at last an ingenious method was devised, a method which shows once more the triumph of man's mind over difficulties. In practice this method is extremely difficult to carry out, for it is complicated by so many other things which must be made allowance for; but in theory, roughly explained, it is not too hard for anyone to grasp. The way of it is this: If you hold up your finger so as to cover exactly some object a few feet distant from you, and shut first one eye and then the other, you will find that the finger has apparently shifted very considerably against the background. The finger has not really moved, but as seen from one eye or the other, it is thrown on a different part of the background, and so appears to jump; then if you draw two imaginary lines, one from each eye to the finger, and another between the two eyes, you will have made a triangle. Now, all of you who have done a little Euclid know that if you can ascertain the length of one side of a triangle, and the angles at each end of it, you can form the rest of the triangle; that is to say, you can tell the length of the other two sides. In this instance the base line, as it is called—that is to say the line lying between the two eyes—can easily be measured, and the angles at each end can be found by an instrument called a sextant, so that by simple calculation anyone could find out what distance the finger was from the eye. Now, some ingenious man decided to apply this method to the stars. He knew that it is only objects quite near to us that will appear to shift with so small a base line as that between the eyes, and that the further away anything is the longer must the base line be before it makes any difference. But this clever man thought that if he could only get a base line long enough he could easily compute the distance of the stars from the amount that they appeared to shift against their background. He knew that the longest base line he could get on earth would be about eight thousand miles, as that is the diameter of the earth from one side to the other; so he carefully observed a star from one end of this immense base line and then from the other, quite confident that this plan would answer. But what happened? After careful observations he discovered that no star moved at all with this base line, and that it must be ever so much longer in order to make any impression. Then indeed the case seemed hopeless, for here we are tied to the earth and we cannot get away into space. But the astronomer was nothing daunted. He knew that in its journey round the sun the earth travels in an orbit which measures about one hundred and eighty-five millions of miles across, so he resolved to take observations of the stars when the earth was at one side of this great circle, and again, six months later, when she had travelled to the other side. Then indeed he would have a magnificent base line, one of one hundred and eighty-five millions of miles in length. What was the result? Even with this mighty line the stars are found to be so distant that many do not move at all, not even when measured with the finest instruments, and others move, it may be, the breadth of a hair at a distance of several feet! But even this delicate measure, a hair's-breadth, tells its own tale; it lays down a limit of twenty-five billion miles within which no star can lie!

This system which I have explained to you is called finding the star's parallax, and perhaps it is easier to understand when we put it the other way round and say that the hair's-breadth is what the whole orbit of the earth would appear to have shrunk to if it were seen from the distance of these stars!

Many, many stars have now been examined, and of them all our nearest neighbour seems to be a bright star seen in the Southern Hemisphere. It is in the constellation or star group called Centaurus, and is the brightest star in it. In order to designate the stars when it is necessary to refer to them, astronomers have invented a system. To only the very brightest are proper names attached; others are noted according to the degree of their brightness, and called after the letters of the Greek alphabet: alpha, beta, gamma, delta, etc. Our own word 'alphabet' comes, you know, from the first two letters of this Greek series. As this particular star is the brightest in the constellation Centaurus, it is called Alpha Centauri; and if ever you travel into the Southern Hemisphere and see it, you may greet it as our nearest neighbour in the starry universe, so far as we know at present.



CHAPTER XI

THE CONSTELLATIONS

From the very earliest times men have watched the stars, felt their mysterious influence, tried to discover what they were, and noted their rising and setting. They classified them into groups, called constellations, and gave such groups the names of figures and animals, according to the positions of the stars composing them. Some of these imaginary figures seem to us so wildly ridiculous that we cannot conceive how anyone could have gone so far out of their way as to invent them. But they have been long sanctioned by custom, so now, though we find it difficult to recognize in scattered groups of stars any likeness to a fish or a ram or a bear; we still call the constellations by their old names for convenience in referring to them.

Supposing the axis of the earth were quite upright, straight up and down in regard to the plane at which the earth goes round the sun, then we should always see the same set of stars from the Northern and the same set of stars from the Southern Hemispheres all the year round. But as the axis is tilted slightly, we can, during our nights in the winter in the Northern Hemisphere, see more of the sky to the south than we can in the summer; and in the Southern Hemisphere just the reverse is the case, far more stars to the north can be seen in the winter than in the summer. But always, whether it is winter or summer, there is one fixed point in each hemisphere round which all the other stars seem to swing, and this is the point immediately over the North or the South Poles. There is, luckily, a bright star almost at the point at which the North Pole would seem to strike the sky were it infinitely lengthened. This is not one of the brightest stars in the sky, but quite bright enough to serve the purpose, and if we stand with our faces towards it, we can be sure we are looking due north. How can we discover this star for ourselves in the sky? Go out on any starlight night when the sky is clear, and see if you can find a very conspicuous set of seven stars called the Great Bear. I shall not describe the Great Bear, because every child ought to know it already, and if they don't, they can ask the first grown-up person they meet, and they will certainly be told. (See map.)



Having found the Great Bear, you have only to draw an imaginary line between the two last stars forming the square on the side away from the tail, and carry it on about three times as far as the distance between those two stars, and you will come straight to the Pole Star. The two stars in the Great Bear which help one to find it are called the Pointers, because they point to it.

The Great Bear is one of the constellations known from the oldest times; it is also sometimes called Charles's Wain, the Dipper, or the Plough. It is always easily seen in England, and seems to swing round the Pole Star as if held by an invisible rope tied to the Pointers. Besides the Great Bear there is, not far from it, the Little Bear, which is really very like it, only smaller and harder to find. The Pole Star is the last star in its tail; from it two small stars lead away parallel to the Great Bear, and they bring the eye to a small pair which form one side of a square just like that in the Great Bear. But the whole of the Little Bear is turned the opposite way from the Great Bear, and the tail points in the opposite direction. And when you come to think of it, it is very ridiculous to have called these groups Bears at all, or to talk about tails, for bears have no tails! So it would have been better to have called them foxes or dogs, or almost any other animal rather than bears.

Now, if you look at the sky on the opposite side of the Pole Star from the Great Bear, you will see a clearly marked capital W made up of five or six bright stars. This is called Cassiopeia, or the Lady's Chair.

In looking at Cassiopeia you cannot help noticing that there is a zone or broad band of very many stars, some exceedingly small, which apparently runs right across the sky like a ragged hoop, and Cassiopeia seems to be set in or on it. This band is called the Milky Way, and crosses not only our northern sky, but the southern sky too, thus making a broad girdle round the whole universe. It is very wonderful, and no one has yet been able to explain it. The belt is not uniform and even, but it is here and there broken up into streamers and chips, having the same appearance as a piece of ribbon which has been snipped about by scissors in pure mischief; or it may be compared to a great river broken up into many channels by rocks and obstacles in its course.

The Milky Way is mainly made up of thousands and thousands of small stars, and many more are revealed by the telescope; but, as we see in Cassiopeia, there are large bright stars in it too, though, of course, these may be infinitely nearer to us, and may only appear to us to be in the Milky Way because they are between us and it.

Now, besides the few constellations that I have mentioned, there are numbers of others, some of which are difficult to discover, as they contain no bright stars. But there are certain constellations which every one should know, because in them may be found some of the brightest stars, those of the first magnitude. Magnitude means size, and it is really absurd for us to say a star is of the first magnitude simply because it appears to us to be large, for, as I have explained already, a small star comparatively near to us might appear larger than a greater one further away. But the word 'magnitude' was used when men really thought stars were large or small according to their appearance, and so it is used to this day. They called the biggest and brightest first magnitude stars. Of these there are not many, only some twenty, in all the sky. The next brightest—about the brightness of the Pole Star and the stars in the Great Bear—are of the second magnitude, and so on, each magnitude containing stars less and less bright. When we come to stars of the sixth magnitude we have reached the limit of our sight, for seventh magnitude stars can only be seen with a telescope. Now that we understand what is meant by the magnitude, we can go back to the constellations and try to find some more.

If you draw an imaginary line across the two stars forming the backbone of the Bear, starting from the end nearest the tail, and continue it onward for a good distance, you will come to a very bright star called Capella, which you will know, because near it are three little ones in a triangle. Now, Capella means a goat, so the small ones are called the kids. In winter Capella gets high up into the sky, and then there is to be seen below her a little cluster called the Pleiades. There is nothing else like this in the whole sky. It is formed of six stars, as it appears to persons of ordinary sight, and these stars are of the sixth magnitude, the lowest that can be seen by the naked eye. But though small, they are set so close together, and appear so brilliant, twinkling like diamonds, that they are one of the most noticeable objects in the heavens. A legend tells that there were once seven stars in the Pleiades clearly visible, and that one has now disappeared. This is sometimes spoken of as 'the lost Pleiad,' but there does not seem to be any foundation for the story. In old days people attached particular holiness or luck to the number seven, and possibly, when they found that there were only six stars in this wonderful group, they invented the story about the seventh.

As the Pleiades rise, a beautiful reddish star of the first magnitude rises beneath them. It is called Aldebaran, and it, as well as the Pleiades, forms a part of the constellation of Taurus the bull. In England we can see in winter below Aldebaran the whole of the constellation of Orion, one of the finest of all the constellations, both for the number of the bright stars it contains and for the extent of the sky it covers. Four bright stars at wide distances enclose an irregular four-sided space in which are set three others close together and slanting downwards. Below these, again, are another three which seem to fall from them, but are not so bright. The figure of Orion as drawn in the old representations of the constellations is a very magnificent one. The three bright stars form his belt, and the three smaller ones the hilt of his sword hanging from it.



If you draw an imaginary line through the stars forming the belt and prolong it downwards slantingly, you will see, in the very height of winter, the brightest star in all the sky, either in the Northern or Southern Hemisphere. This is Sirius, who stands in a class quite by himself, for he is many times brighter than any other first magnitude star. He never rises very high above the horizon here, but on crisp, frosty nights may be seen gleaming like a big diamond between the leafless twigs and boughs of the rime-encrusted trees. Sirius is the Dog Star, and it is perhaps fortunate that, as he is placed, he can be seen sometimes in the southern and sometimes in the northern skies, so that many more people have a chance of looking at his wonderful brilliancy, than if he had been placed near the Pole star. In speaking of the supreme brightness of Sirius among the stars, we must remember that Venus and Jupiter, which outrival him, are not stars, but planets, and that they are much nearer to us. Sirius is so distant that the measures for parallax make hardly any impression on him, but, by repeated experiments, it has now been proved that light takes more than eight years to travel from him to us. So that, if you are eight years old, you are looking at Sirius as he was when you were a baby!

Not far from the Pleiades, to the left as you face them, are to be found two bright stars nearly the same size; these are the Heavenly Twins, or Gemini.

Returning now to the Great Bear, we find, if we draw a line through the middle and last stars of his tail, and carry it on for a little distance, we come fairly near to a cluster of stars in the form of a horseshoe; there is only one fairly bright one in it, and some of the others are quite small, but yet the horseshoe is distinct and very beautiful to look at. This is the Northern Crown. The very bright star not far from it is another first-class star called Arcturus.

To the left of the Northern Crown lies Hercules, which is only mentioned because near it is the point to which the sun with all his system appears at present to be speeding.

For other fascinating constellations, such as Leo or the Lion, Andromeda and Perseus, and the three bright stars by which we recognize Aquila the Eagle, you must wait awhile, unless you can get some one to point them out.

Those which you have noted already are enough to lead you on to search for more.

Perhaps some of you who live in towns and can see only a little strip of sky from the nursery or schoolroom windows have already found this chapter dull, and if so you may skip the rest of it and go on to the next. For the others, however, there is one more thing to know before leaving the subject, and that is the names of the string of constellations forming what is called the Zodiac. You may have heard the rhyme: