Huyghens was not content with merely demonstrating how fully this assumption explained all the observed phenomena. He submitted it to the further and most delicate test which can be applied to any astronomical theory. He attempted by its aid to make a prediction the fulfilment of which would necessarily give his theory the seal of certainty. From his calculations he saw that the planet would appear circular about July or August in 1671. This anticipation was practically verified, for the ring was seen to vanish in May of that year. No doubt, with our modern calculations founded on long-continued and accurate observation, we are now enabled to make forecasts as to the appearance or the disappearance of Saturn's ring with far greater accuracy; but, remembering the early stage in the history of the planet at which the prediction of Huyghens was made, we must regard its fulfilment as quite sufficient, and as confirming in a satisfactory manner the theory of Saturn and his ring.

The ring of Saturn having thus been thoroughly established as a fact in celestial architecture, each generation of astronomers has laboured to find out more and more of its marvellous features. In the frontispiece (Plate I.) we have a view of the planet as seen at the Harvard College Observatory, U.S.A., between July 28th and October 20th, 1872. It has been drawn by the skilful astronomer and artist—Mr. L. Trouvelot—and gives a faithful and beautiful representation of this unique object.

Fig. 64 is a drawing of the same object taken on July 2nd, 1894, by Prof. E.E. Barnard, at the Lick Observatory.

The next great discovery in the Saturnian system after those of Huyghens showed that the ring surrounding the planet was marked by a dark concentric line, which divided it into two parts—the outer being narrower than the inner. This line was first seen by J.D. Cassini, when Saturn emerged from the rays of the sun in 1675. That this black line is not merely a black mark on the ring, but that it is actually a separation, was rendered very probable by the researches of Maraldi in 1715, followed many years later by those of Sir William Herschel, who, with that thoroughness which was a marked characteristic of the man, made a minute and scrupulous examination of Saturn. Night after night he followed it for hours with his exquisite instruments, and considerably added to our knowledge of the planet and his system.

Herschel devoted very particular attention to the examination of the line dividing the ring. He saw that the colour of this line was not to be distinguished from the colour of the space intermediate between the globe and the ring. He observed it for ten years on the northern face of the ring, and during that time it continued to present the same breadth and colour and sharpness of outline. He was then fortunate enough to observe the southern side of the ring. There again could the black line be seen, corresponding both in appearance and in position with the dark line as seen on the northern side. No doubt could remain as to the fact that Saturn was girdled by two concentric rings equally thin, the outer edge of one closely approaching to the inner edge of the other.

At the same time it is right to add that the only absolutely indisputable proof of the division between the rings has not yet been yielded by the telescope. The appearances noted by Herschel would be consistent with the view that the black line was merely a part of the ring extending through its thickness, and composed of materials very much less capable of reflecting light than the rest of the ring. It is still a matter of doubt how far it is ever possible actually to see through the dark line. There is apparently only one satisfactory method of accomplishing this. It would only occur in rare circumstances, and it does not seem that the opportunity has as yet arisen. Suppose that in the course of its motion through the heavens the path of Saturn happened to cross directly between the earth and a fixed star. The telescopic appearance of a star is merely a point of light much smaller than the globes and rings of Saturn. If the ring passed in front of the star and the black line on the ring came over the star, we should, if the black line were really an opening, see the star shining through the narrow aperture.

Up to the present, we believe, there has been no opportunity of submitting the question of the duplex character of the ring to this crucial test. Let us hope that as there are now so many telescopes in use adequate to deal with the subject, there may, ere long, be observations made which will decide the question. It can hardly be expected that a very small star would be suitable. No doubt the smallness of the star would render the observations more delicate and precise if the star were visible; but we must remember that it will be thrown into contrast with the bright rings of Saturn on each margin so that unless the star were of considerable magnitude it would hardly answer. It has, however, been recently observed that the globe of the planet can be, in some degree, discerned through the dark line; this is practically a demonstration of the fact that the line is at all events partly transparent.

The outer ring is also divided into two by a line much fainter than that just described. It requires a good telescope and a fine night, combined with a favourable position of the planet, to render this line a well-marked object. It is most easily seen at the extremities of the ring most remote from the planet. To the present writer, who has examined the planet with the twelve-inch refractor of the South equatorial at Dunsink Observatory, this outer line appears as broad as the well-known line; but it is unquestionably fainter, and has a more shaded appearance. It certainly does not suggest the appearance of being actually an opening in the ring, and it is often invisible for a long time. It seems rather as if the ring were at this place thinner and less substantial without being actually void of substance.

On these points it may be expected that much additional information will be acquired when next the ring places itself in such a position that its plane, if produced, would pass between the earth and the sun. Such occasions are but rare, and even when they do occur it may happen that the planet will not be well placed for observation. The next really good opportunity will not be till 1907. In this case the sunlight illuminates one side of the ring, while it is the other side of the ring that is presented towards the earth. Powerful telescopes are necessary to deal with the planet under such circumstances; but it may be reasonably hoped that the questions relating to the division of the ring, as well as to many other matters, will then receive some further elucidation.

Occasionally, other divisions of the ring, both inner and outer, have been recorded. It may, at all events, be stated that no such divisions can be regarded as permanent features. Yet their existence has been so frequently enunciated by skilful observers that it is impossible to doubt that they have been sometimes seen.

It was about 200 years after Huyghens had first explained the true theory of Saturn that another very important discovery was effected. It had, up to the year 1850, been always supposed that the two rings, divided by the well-known black line, comprised the entire ring system surrounding the planet. In the year just mentioned, Professor Bond, the distinguished astronomer of Cambridge, Mass., startled the astronomical world by the announcement of his discovery of a third ring surrounding Saturn. As so often happens in such cases, the same object was discovered independently by another—an English astronomer named Dawes. This third ring lies just inside the inner of the two well-known rings, and extends to about half the distance towards the body of the planet. It seems to be of a totally different character from the two other rings in so far as they present a comparatively substantial appearance. We shall, indeed, presently show that they are not solid—not even liquid bodies—but still, when compared with the third ring, the others were of a substantial character. They can receive and exhibit the deeply-marked shadow of Saturn, and they can throw a deep and black shadow upon Saturn themselves; but the third ring is of a much less compact texture. It has not the brilliancy of the others, it is rather of a dusky, semi-transparent appearance, and the expression "crape ring," by which it is often designated, is by no means inappropriate. It is the faintness of this crape ring which led to its having been so frequently overlooked by the earlier observers of Saturn.

It has often been noticed that when an astronomical discovery has been made with a good telescope, it afterwards becomes possible for the same object to be observed with instruments of much inferior power. No doubt, when the observer knows what to look for, he will often be able to see what would not otherwise have attracted his attention. It may be regarded as an illustration of this principle, that the crape ring of Saturn has become an object familiar to those who are accustomed to work with good telescopes; but it may, nevertheless, be doubted whether the ease and distinctness with which the crape ring is now seen can be entirely accounted for by this supposition. Indeed, it seems possible that the crape ring has, from some cause or other, gradually become more and more visible. The supposed increased brightness of the crape ring is one of those arguments now made use of to prove that in all probability the rings of Saturn are at this moment undergoing gradual transformation; but observations of Hadley show that the crape ring was seen by him in 1720, and it was previously seen by Campani and Picard, as a faint belt crossing the planet. The partial transparency of the crape ring was beautifully illustrated in an observation by Professor Barnard of the eclipse of Iapetus on November 1st, 1889. The satellite was faintly visible in the shadow of the crape ring, while wholly invisible in the shadow of the better known rings.

The various features of the rings are well shown in the drawing of Trouvelot already referred to. We here see the inner and the outer ring, and the line of division between them. We see in the outer ring the faint traces of the line by which it is divided, and inside the inner ring we have a view of the curious and semi-transparent crape ring. The black shadow of the planet is cast upon the ring, thus proving that the ring, no less than the body of the planet, shines only in virtue of the sunlight which falls upon it. This shadow presents some anomalous features, but its curious irregularity may be, to some extent, an optical illusion.

There can be no doubt that any attempt to depict the rings of Saturn only represents the salient features of that marvellous system. We are situated at such a great distance that all objects not of colossal dimensions are invisible. We have, indeed, only an outline, which makes us wish to be able to fill in the details. We long, for instance, to see the actual texture of the rings, and to learn of what materials they are made; we wish to comprehend the strange and filmy crape ring, so unlike any other object known to us in the heavens. There is no doubt that much may even yet be learned under all the disadvantageous conditions of our position; there is still room for the labour of whole generations of astronomers provided with splendid instruments. We want accurate drawings of Saturn under every conceivable aspect in which it may be presented. We want incessantly repeated measurements, of the most fastidious accuracy. These measures are to tell us the sizes and the shapes of the rings; they are to measure with fidelity the position of the dark lines and the boundaries of the rings. These measures are to be protracted for generations and for centuries; then and then only can terrestrial astronomers learn whether this elaborate system has really the attributes of permanence, or whether it may be undergoing changes.

We have been accustomed to find that the law of universal gravitation pervades every part of our system, and to look to gravitation for the explanation of many phenomena otherwise inexplicable. We have good reasons for knowing that in this marvellous Saturnian system the law of gravitation is paramount. There are satellites revolving around Saturn as well as a ring; these satellites move, as other satellites do, in conformity with the laws of Kepler; and, therefore, any theory as to the nature of Saturn's ring must be formed subject to the condition that it shall be attracted by the gigantic planet situated in its interior.

To a hasty glance nothing might seem easier than to reconcile the phenomena of the ring with the attraction of the planet. We might suppose that the ring stands at rest symmetrically around the planet. At its centre the planet pulls in the ring equally on all sides, so that there is no tendency in it to move in one way rather than another; and, therefore, it will stay at rest. This will not do. A ring composed of materials almost infinitely rigid might possibly, under such circumstances, be for a moment at rest; but it could not remain permanently at rest any more than can a needle balanced vertically on its point. In each case the equilibrium is unstable. If the slightest cause of disturbance arise, the equilibrium is destroyed, and the ring would inevitably fall in upon the planet. Such causes of derangement are incessantly present, so that unstable equilibrium cannot be an appropriate explanation of the phenomena.

Even if this difficulty could be removed, there is still another, which would be quite insuperable if the ring be composed of any materials with which we are acquainted. Let us ponder for a moment on the matter, as it will lead up naturally to that explanation of the rings of Saturn which is now most generally accepted.

Imagine that you stood on the planet Saturn, near his equator; over your head stretches the ring, which sinks down to the horizon in the east and in the west. The half-ring above your horizon would then resemble a mighty arch, with a span of about a hundred thousand miles. Every particle of this arch is drawn towards Saturn by gravitation, and if the arch continue to exist, it must do so in obedience to the ordinary mechanical laws which regulate the railway arches with which we are familiar.

The continuance of these arches depends upon the resistance of the stones forming them to a crushing force. Each stone of an arch is subjected to a vast pressure, but stone is a material capable of resisting such pressure, and the arch remains. The wider the span of the arch the greater is the pressure to which each stone is exposed. At length a span is reached which corresponds to a pressure as great as the stones can safely bear, and accordingly we thus find the limiting span over which a single arch of masonry can be constructed. Apply these principles to the stupendous arch formed by the ring of Saturn. It can be shown that the pressure on the materials of the arch capable of spanning an abyss of such awful magnitude would be something so enormous that no materials we know of would be capable of bearing it. Were the ring formed of the toughest steel that was ever made, the pressure would be so great that the metal would be squeezed like a liquid, and the mighty structure would collapse and fall down on the surface of the planet. It is not credible that any materials could exist capable of sustaining a stress so stupendous. The law of gravitation accordingly bids us search for a method by which the intensity of this stress can be mitigated.

One method is at hand, and is obviously suggested by analogous phenomena everywhere in our system. We have spoken of the ring as if it were at rest; let us now suppose it to be animated by a motion of rotation in its plane around Saturn as a centre. Instantly we have a force developed antagonistic to the gravitation of Saturn. This force is the so-called centrifugal force. If we imagine the ring to rotate, the centrifugal force at all points acts in an opposite direction to the attractive force, and hence the enormous stress on the ring can be abated and one difficulty can be overcome.

We can thus attribute to each ring a rotation which will partly relieve it from the stress the arch would otherwise have to sustain. But we cannot admit that the difficulty has been fully removed. Suppose that the outer ring revolve at such a rate as shall be appropriate to neutralise the gravitation on its outer edge, the centrifugal force will be less at the interior of the ring, while the gravitation will be greater; and hence vast stresses will be set up in the interior parts of the outer ring. Suppose the ring to rotate at such a rate as would be adequate to neutralise the gravitation at its inner margin; then the centrifugal force at the outer parts will largely exceed the gravitation, and there will be a tendency to disruption of the ring outwards.

To obviate this tendency we may assume the outer parts of each ring to rotate more slowly than the inner parts. This naturally requires that the parts of the ring shall be mobile relatively to one another, and thus we are conducted to the suggestion that perhaps the rings are really composed of matter in a fluid state. The suggestion is, at first sight, a plausible one; each part of each ring would then move with an appropriate velocity, and the rings would thus exhibit a number of concentric circular currents with different velocities. The mathematician can push this inquiry a little farther, and he can study how this fluid would behave under such circumstances. His symbols can pursue the subject into the intricacies which cannot be described in general language. The mathematician finds that waves would originate in the supposed fluid, and that as these waves would lead to disruption of the rings, the fluid theory must be abandoned.

But we can still make one or two more suppositions. What if it be really true that the ring consist of an incredibly large number of concentric rings, each animated precisely with the velocity which would be suitable to the production of a centrifugal force just adequate to neutralise the attraction? No doubt this meets many of the difficulties: it is also suggested by those observations which have shown the presence of several dark lines on the ring. Here again dynamical considerations must be invoked for the reply. Such a system of solid rings is not compatible with the laws of dynamics.

We are, therefore, compelled to make one last attempt, and still further to subdivide the ring. It may seem rather startling to abandon entirely the supposition that the ring is in any sense a continuous body, but there remains no alternative. Look at it how we will, we seem to be conducted to the conclusion that the ring is really an enormous shoal of extremely minute bodies; each of these little bodies pursues an orbit of its own around the planet, and is, in fact, merely a satellite. These bodies are so numerous and so close together that they seem to us to be continuous, and they may be very minute—perhaps not larger than the globules of water found in an ordinary cloud over the surface of the earth, which, even at a short distance, seems like a continuous body.

Until a few years ago this theory of the constitution of Saturn's rings, though unassailable from a mathematical point of view, had never been confirmed by observation. The only astronomer who maintained that he had actually seen the rings rotate was W. Herschel, who watched the motion of some luminous points on the ring in 1789, at which time the plane of the ring happened to pass through the earth. From these observations Herschel concluded that the ring rotated in ten hours and thirty-two minutes. But none of the subsequent observers, even though they may have watched Saturn with instruments very superior to that used by Herschel, were ever able to succeed in verifying his rotation of these appendages of Saturn. If the ring were composed of a vast number of small bodies, then the third law of Kepler will enable us to calculate the time which these tiny satellites would require to travel completely round the planet. It appears that any satellite situated at the outer edge of the ring would require as long a period as 13 hrs. 46 min., those about the middle would not need more than 10 hrs. 28 min., while those at the inner edge of the ring would accomplish their rotation in 7 hrs. 28 min. Even our mightiest telescopes, erected in the purest skies and employed by the most skilful astronomers, refuse to display this extremely delicate phenomenon. It would, indeed, have been a repetition on a grand scale of the curious behaviour of the inner satellite of Mars, which revolves round its primary in a shorter time than the planet itself takes to turn round on its own axis.



But what the telescope could not show, the spectroscope has lately demonstrated in a most effective and interesting manner. We have explained in the chapter on the sun how the motion of a source of light along the line of vision, towards or away from the observer, produces a slight shift in the position of the lines of the spectrum. By the measurement of the displacement of the lines the direction and amount of the motion of the source of light may be determined. We illustrated the method by showing how it had actually been used to measure the speed of rotation of the solar surface. In 1895 Professor Keeler,[26] Director of the Allegheny Observatory, succeeded in measuring the rotation of Saturn's ring in this manner. He placed the slit of his spectroscope across the ball, in the direction of the major axis of the elliptic figure which the effect of perspective gives the ring as shown by the parallel lines in Fig. 66 stretching from E to W. His photographic plate should then show three spectra close together, that of the ball of Saturn in the middle, separated by dark intervals from the narrower spectra above and below it of the two handles (or ansae, as they are generally called) of the ring. In Fig. 67 we have represented the behaviour of any one line of the spectrum under various suppositions as to rotation or non-rotation of Saturn and the ring. At the top (1) we see how each line would look if there was no rotatory motion; the three lines produced by ring, planet, and ring are in a straight line. Of course the spectrum, which is practically a very faint copy of the solar spectrum, shows the principal dark Fraunhofer lines, so that the reader must imagine these for himself, parallel to the one we show in the figure. But Saturn and the ring are not standing still, they are rotating, the eastern part (at E) moving towards us, and the western part (W) moving away from us.[27] At E the line will therefore be shifted towards the violet end of the spectrum and at W towards the red, and as the actual linear velocity is greater the further we get away from the centre of Saturn (assuming ring and planet to rotate together), the lines would be turned as in Fig. 67 (2), but the three would remain in a straight line. If the ring consisted of two independent rings separated by Cassini's division and rotating with different velocities, the lines would be situated as in Fig. 67 (3), the lines due to the inner ring being more deflected than those due to the outer ring, owing to the greater velocity of the inner ring.



Finally, let us consider the case of the rings, consisting of innumerable particles moving round the planet in accordance with Kepler's third law. The actual velocities of these particles would be per second:—

At outer edge of ring 10.69 miles. At middle of ring 11.68 miles. At inner edge of ring 13.01 miles. Rotation speed at surface of planet 6.38 miles.

The shifting of the lines of the spectrum should be in accordance with these velocities, and it is easy to see that the lines ought to lie as in the fourth figure. When Professor Keeler came to examine the photographed spectra, he found the lines of the three spectra tilted precisely in this manner, showing that the outer edge of the ring was travelling round the planet with a smaller linear velocity than the inner one, as it ought to do if the sources of light (or, rather, the reflectors of sunlight) were independent particles free to move according to Kepler's third law, and as it ought not to do if the ring, or rings, were rigid, in which case the outer edge would have the greatest linear speed, as it had to travel through the greatest distance. Here, at last, was the proof of the meteoritic composition of Saturn's ring. Professor Keeler's beautiful discovery has since been verified by repeated observations at the Allegheny, Lick, Paris, and Pulkova Observatories; the actual velocities resulting from the observed displacements of the lines have been measured and found to agree well (within the limits of the errors of observation) with the calculated velocities, so that this brilliant confirmation of the mathematical deductions of Clerk Maxwell is raised beyond the possibility of doubt.

The spectrum of Saturn is so faint that only the strongest lines of the solar spectrum can be seen in it, but the atmosphere of the planet seems to exert a considerable amount of general absorption in the blue and violet parts of the spectrum, which is especially strong near the equatorial belt, while a strong band in the red testifies to the density of the atmosphere. This band is not seen in the spectrum of the rings, around which there can therefore be no atmosphere.

As Saturn's ring is itself unique, we cannot find elsewhere any very pertinent illustration of a structure so remarkable as that now claimed for the ring. Yet the solar system does show some analogous phenomena. There is, for instance, one on a very grand scale surrounding the sun himself. We allude to the multitude of minor planets, all confined within a certain region of the system. Imagine these planets to be vastly increased in number, and those orbits which are much inclined to the rest flattened down and otherwise adjusted, and we should have a ring surrounding the sun, thus producing an arrangement not dissimilar from that now attributed to Saturn.

It is tempting to linger still longer over this beautiful system, to speculate on the appearance which the ring would present to an inhabitant of Saturn, to conjecture whether it is to be regarded as a permanent feature of our system in the same way as we attribute permanence to our moon or to the satellites of Jupiter. Looked at from every point of view, the question is full of interest, and it provides occupation abundant for the labours of every type of astronomer. If he be furnished with a good telescope, then has he ample duties to fulfil in the task of surveying, of sketching, and of measuring. If he be one of those useful astronomers who devote their energies not to actual telescopic work, but to forming calculations based on the observations of others, then the beautiful system of Saturn provides copious material. He has to foretell the different phases of the ring, to announce to astronomers when each feature can be best seen, and at what hour each element can be best determined. He has also to predict the times of the movements of Saturn's satellites, and the other phenomena of a system more elaborate than that of Jupiter.

Lastly, if the astronomer be one of that class—perhaps, from some points of view, the highest class of all—who employ the most profound researches of the human intellect to unravel the dynamical problems of astronomy, he, too, finds in Saturn problems which test to the utmost, even if they do not utterly transcend, the loftiest flights of analysis. He discovers in Saturn's ring an object so utterly unlike anything else, that new mathematical weapons have to be forged for the encounter. He finds in the system so many extraordinary features, and such delicacy of adjustment, that he is constrained to admit that if he did not actually see Saturn's rings before him, he would not have thought that such a system was possible. The mathematician's labours on this wondrous system are at present only in their infancy. Not alone are the researches of so abstruse a character as to demand the highest genius for this branch of science, but even yet the materials for the inquiry have not been accumulated. In a discussion of this character, observation must precede calculation. The scanty observations hitherto obtained, however they may illustrate the beauty of the system, are still utterly insufficient to form the basis of that great mathematical theory of Saturn which must eventually be written.

But Saturn possesses an interest for a far more numerous class of persons than those who are specially devoted to astronomy. It is of interest, it must be of interest, to every cultivated person who has the slightest love for nature. A lover of the picturesque cannot behold Saturn in a telescope without feelings of the liveliest emotion; while, if his reading and reflection have previously rendered him aware of the colossal magnitude of the object at which he is looking, he will be constrained to admit that no more remarkable spectacle is presented in the whole of nature.

We have pondered so long over the fascinations of Saturn's ring that we can only give a very brief account of that system of satellites by which the planet is attended. We have already had occasion to allude more than once to these bodies; it only remains now to enumerate a few further particulars.

It was on the 25th of March, 1655, that the first satellite of Saturn was detected by Huyghens, to whose penetration we owe the discovery of the true form of the ring. On the evening of the day referred to, Huyghens was examining Saturn with a telescope constructed with his own hands, when he observed a small star-like object near the planet. The next night he repeated his observations, and it was found that the star was accompanying the planet in its progress through the heavens. This showed that the little object was really a satellite to Saturn, and further observations revealed the fact that it was revolving around him in a period of 15 days, 22 hours, 41 minutes. Such was the commencement of that numerous series of discoveries of satellites which accompany Saturn. One by one they were detected, so that at the present time no fewer than nine are known to attend the great planet through his wanderings. The subsequent discoveries were, however, in no case made by Huyghens, for he abandoned the search for any further satellites on grounds which sound strange to modern ears, but which were quite in keeping with the ideas of his time. It appears that from some principle of symmetry, Huyghens thought that it would accord with the fitness of things that the number of satellites, or secondary planets, should be equal in number to the primary planets themselves. The primary planets, including the earth, numbered six; and Huyghens' discovery now brought the total number of satellites to be also six. The earth had one, Jupiter had four, Saturn had one, and the system was complete.

Nature, however, knows no such arithmetical doctrines as those which Huyghens attributed to her. Had he been less influenced by such prejudices, he might, perhaps, have anticipated the labours of Cassini, who, by discovering other satellites of Saturn, demonstrated the absurdity of the doctrine of numerical equality between planets and satellites. As further discoveries were made, the number of satellites was at first raised above the number of planets; but in recent times, when the swarm of minor planets came to be discovered, the number of planets speedily reached and speedily passed the number of their attendant satellites.

It was in 1671, about sixteen years after the discovery of the first satellite of Saturn, that a second was discovered by Cassini. This is the outermost of the older satellites; it takes 79 days to travel round Saturn. In the following year he discovered another; and twelve years later, in 1684, still two more; thus making a total of five satellites to this planet.



The complexity of the Saturnian system had now no rival in the heavens. Saturn had five satellites, and Jupiter had but four, while at least one of the satellites of Saturn, named Titan, was larger than any satellite of Jupiter.[28] Some of the discoveries of Cassini had been made with telescopes of quite monstrous dimensions. The length of the instrument, or rather the distance at which the object-glass was placed, was one hundred feet or more from the eye of the observer. It seemed hardly possible to push telescopic research farther with instruments of this cumbrous type. At length, however, the great reformation in the construction of astronomical instruments began to dawn. In the hands of Herschel, it was found possible to construct reflecting telescopes of manageable dimensions, which were both more powerful and more accurate than the long-focussed lenses of Cassini. A great instrument of this kind, forty feet long, just completed by Herschel, was directed to Saturn on the 28th of August, 1789. Never before had the wondrous planet been submitted to a scrutiny so minute. Herschel was familiar with the labours of his predecessors. He had often looked at Saturn and his five moons in inferior telescopes; now again he saw the five moons and a star-like object so near the plane of the ring that he conjectured this to be a sixth satellite. A speedy method of testing this conjecture was at hand. Saturn was then moving rapidly over the heavens. If this new object were in truth a satellite, then it must be carried on by Saturn. Herschel watched with anxiety to see whether this would be the case. A short time sufficed to answer the question; in two hours and a half the planet had moved to a distance quite appreciable, and had carried with him not only the five satellites already known, but also this sixth object. Had this been a star it would have been left behind; it was not left behind, and hence it, too, was a satellite. Thus, after the long lapse of a century, the telescopic discovery of satellites to Saturn recommenced. Herschel, as was his wont, observed this object with unremitting ardour, and discovered that it was much nearer to Saturn than any of the previously known satellites. In accordance with the general law, that the nearer the satellite the shorter the period of revolution, Herschel found that this little moon completed a revolution in about 1 day, 8 hours, 53 minutes. The same great telescope, used with the same unrivalled skill, soon led Herschel to a still more interesting discovery. An object so small as only to appear like a very minute point in the great forty-foot reflector was also detected by Herschel, and was by him proved to be a satellite, so close to the planet that it completed a revolution in the very brief period of 22 hours and 37 minutes. This is an extremely delicate object, only to be seen by the best telescopes in the brief intervals when it is not entirely screened from view by the ring.

Again another long interval elapsed, and for almost fifty years the Saturnian system was regarded as consisting of the series of rings and of the seven satellites. The next discovery has a singular historical interest. It was made simultaneously by two observers—Professor Bond, of Cambridge, Mass., and Mr. Lassell, of Liverpool—for on the 19th September, 1848, both of these astronomers verified that a small point which they had each seen on previous nights was really a satellite. This object is, however, at a considerable distance from the planet, and requires 21 days, 7 hours, 28 minutes for each revolution; it is the seventh in order from the planet.

Yet one more extremely faint outer satellite was discerned by photography on the 16th, 17th, and 18th August, 1898, by Professor W.H. Pickering. This object is much more distant from the planet than the larger and older satellites. Its motion has not yet been fully determined, but probably it requires not less than 490 days to perform a single revolution.

From observations of the satellites it has been found that 3,500 globes as heavy as Saturn would weigh as much as the sun.

A law has been observed by Professor Kirkwood, which connects together the movements of the four interior satellites of Saturn. This law is fulfilled in such a manner as leads to the supposition that it arises from the mutual attraction of the satellites. We have already described a similar law relative to three of the satellites of Jupiter. The problem relating to Saturn, involving as it does no fewer than four satellites, is one of no ordinary complexity. It involves the theory of Perturbations to a greater degree than that to which mathematicians are accustomed in their investigation of the more ordinary features of our system. To express this law it is necessary to have recourse to the daily movements of the satellites; these are respectively—

SATELLITE. DAILY MOVEMENT. I. 382 deg..2. II. 262 deg..74. III. 190 deg..7. IV. 131 deg..4.

The law states that if to five times the movement of the first satellite we add that of the third and four times that of the fourth, the whole will equal ten times the movement of the second satellite. The calculation stands thus:—

5 times I. equals 1911 deg..0 III. equals 190 deg..7 II. 262 deg..74 4 times IV. equals 525 deg..6 10 ———— ———— 2627 deg..3 equal 2627 deg..4 nearly.

Nothing can be simpler than the verification of this law; but the task of showing the physical reason why it should be fulfilled has not yet been accomplished.

Saturn was the most distant planet known to the ancients. It revolves in an orbit far outside the other ancient planets, and, until the discovery of Uranus in the year 1781, the orbit of Saturn might well be regarded as the frontier of the solar system. The ringed planet was indeed a worthy object to occupy a position so distinguished. But we now know that the mighty orbit of Saturn does not extend to the frontiers of the solar system; a splendid discovery, leading to one still more splendid, has vastly extended the boundary, by revealing two mighty planets, revolving in dim telescopic distance, far outside the path of Saturn. These objects have not the beauty of Saturn; they are, indeed, in no sense effective telescopic pictures. Yet these outer planets awaken an interest of a most special kind. The discovery of each is a classical event in the history of astronomy, and the opinion has been maintained, and perhaps with reason, that the discovery of Neptune, the more remote of the two, is the greatest achievement in astronomy made since the time of Newton.



CHAPTER XIV

URANUS.

Contrast between Uranus and the other great Planets—William Herschel—His Birth and Parentage—Herschel's Arrival in England—His Love of Learning—Commencement of his Astronomical Studies—The Construction of Telescopes—Construction of Mirrors—The Professor of Music becomes an Astronomer—The Methodical Research—The 13th March, 1781—The Discovery of Uranus—Delicacy of Observation—Was the Object a Comet?—The Significance of this Discovery—The Fame of Herschel—George III. and the Bath Musician—The King's Astronomer at Windsor—The Planet Uranus—Numerical Data with reference thereto—The Four Satellites of Uranus—Their Circular Orbits—Early Observations of Uranus—Flamsteed's Observations—Lemonnier saw Uranus—Utility of their Measurements—The Elliptic Path—The Great Problem thus Suggested.

To the present writer it has always seemed that the history of Uranus, and of the circumstances attending its discovery, forms one of the most pleasing and interesting episodes in the whole history of science. We here occupy an entirely new position in the study of the solar system. All the other great planets were familiarly known from antiquity, however erroneous might be the ideas entertained in connection with them. They were conspicuous objects, and by their movements could hardly fail to attract the attention of those whose pursuits led them to observe the stars. But now we come to a great planet, the very existence of which was utterly unknown to the ancients; and hence, in approaching the subject, we have first to describe the actual discovery of this object, and then to consider what we can learn as to its physical nature.

We have, in preceding pages, had occasion to mention the revered name of William Herschel in connection with various branches of astronomy; but we have hitherto designedly postponed any more explicit reference to this extraordinary man until we had arrived at the present stage of our work. The story of Uranus, in its earlier stages at all events, is the story of the early career of William Herschel. It would be alike impossible and undesirable to attempt to separate them.

William Herschel, the illustrious astronomer, was born at Hanover in 1738. His father was an accomplished man, pursuing, in a somewhat humble manner, the calling of a professor of music. He had a family of ten children, of whom William was the fourth; and it may be noted that all the members of the family of whom any record has been preserved inherited their father's musical talents, and became accomplished performers. Pleasing sketches have been given of this interesting family, of the unusual aptitude of William, of the long discussions on music and on philosophy, and of the little sister Caroline, destined in later years for an illustrious career. William soon learned all that his master could teach him in the ordinary branches of knowledge, and by the age of fourteen he was already a competent performer on the oboe and the viol. He was engaged in the Court orchestra at Hanover, and was also a member of the band of the Hanoverian Guards. Troublous times were soon to break up Herschel's family. The French invaded Hanover, the Hanoverian Guards were overthrown in the battle of Hastenbeck, and young William Herschel had some unpleasant experience of actual warfare. His health was not very strong, and he decided that he would make a change in his profession. His method of doing so is one which his biographers can scarcely be expected to defend; for, to speak plainly, he deserted, and succeeded in making his escape to England. It is stated on unquestionable authority that on Herschel's first visit to King George III., more than twenty years afterwards, his pardon was handed to him by the King himself, written out in due form.

At the age of nineteen the young musician began to seek his fortunes in England. He met at first with very considerable hardship, but industry and skill conquered all difficulties, and by the time he was twenty-six years of age he was thoroughly settled in England, and doing well in his profession. In the year 1766 we find Herschel occupying a position of some distinction in the musical world; he had become the organist of the Octagon Chapel at Bath, and his time was fully employed in giving lessons to his numerous pupils, and with his preparation for concerts and oratorios.

Notwithstanding his busy professional life, Herschel still retained that insatiable thirst for knowledge which he had when a boy. Every moment he could snatch from his musical engagements was eagerly devoted to study. In his desire to perfect his knowledge of the more abstruse parts of the theory of music he had occasion to learn mathematics; from mathematics the transition to optics was a natural one; and once he had commenced to study optics, he was of course brought to a knowledge of the telescope, and thence to astronomy itself.

His beginnings were made on a very modest scale. It was through a small and imperfect telescope that the great astronomer obtained his first view of the celestial glories. No doubt he had often before looked at the heavens on a clear night, and admired the thousands of stars with which they were adorned; but now, when he was able to increase his powers of vision even to a slight extent, he obtained a view which fascinated him. The stars he had seen before he now saw far more distinctly; but, more than this, he found that myriads of others previously invisible were now revealed to him. Glorious, indeed, is this spectacle to anyone who possesses a spark of enthusiasm for natural beauty. To Herschel this view immediately changed the whole current of his life. His success as a professor of music, his oratorios, and his pupils were speedily to be forgotten, and the rest of his life was to be devoted to the absorbing pursuit of one of the noblest of the sciences.

Herschel could not remain contented with the small and imperfect instrument which first interested him. Throughout his career he determined to see everything for himself in the best manner which his utmost powers could command. He at once decided to have a better instrument, and he wrote to a celebrated optician in London with the view of making a purchase. But the price which the optician demanded seemed more than Herschel thought he could or ought to give. Instantly his resolution was taken. A good telescope he must have, and as he could not buy one he resolved to make one. It was alike fortunate, both for Herschel and for science, that circumstances impelled him to this determination. Yet, at first sight, how unpromising was the enterprise! That a music teacher, busily employed day and night, should, without previous training, expect to succeed in a task where the highest mechanical and optical skill was required, seemed indeed unlikely. But enthusiasm and genius know no insuperable difficulties. From conducting a brilliant concert in Bath, when that city was at the height of its fame, Herschel would rush home, and without even delaying to take off his lace ruffles, he would plunge into his manual labours of grinding specula and polishing lenses. No alchemist of old was ever more deeply absorbed in a project for turning lead into gold than was Herschel in his determination to have a telescope. He transformed his home into a laboratory; of his drawing-room he made a carpenter's shop. Turning lathes were the furniture of his best bedroom. A telescope he must have, and as he progressed he determined, not only that he should have a good telescope, but a very good one; and as success cheered his efforts he ultimately succeeded in constructing the greatest telescope that the world had up to that time ever seen. Though it is as an astronomer that we are concerned with Herschel, yet we must observe even as a telescope maker also great fame and no small degree of commercial success flowed in upon him. When the world began to ring with his glorious discoveries, and when it was known that he used no other telescopes than those which were the work of his own hands, a demand sprang up for instruments of his construction. It is stated that he made upwards of eighty large telescopes, as well as many others of smaller size. Several of these instruments were purchased by foreign princes and potentates.[29] We have never heard that any of these illustrious personages became celebrated astronomers, but, at all events, they seem to have paid Herschel handsomely for his skill, so that by the sale of large telescopes he was enabled to realise what may be regarded as a fortune in the moderate horizon of the man of science.

Up to the middle of his life Herschel was unknown to the public except as a laborious musician, with considerable renown in his profession, not only in Bath, but throughout the West of England. His telescope-making was merely the occupation of his spare moments, and was unheard of by most of those who knew and respected his musical attainments. It was in 1774 that Herschel first enjoyed a view of the heavens through an instrument built with his own hands. It was but a small one in comparison with those which he afterwards fashioned, but at once he experienced the advantage of being his own instrument maker. Night after night he was able to add the improvements which experience suggested; at one time he was enlarging the mirrors; at another he was reconstructing the mounting, or trying to remedy defects in the eye-pieces. With unwearying perseverance he aimed at the highest excellence, and with each successive advance he found that he was able to pierce further into the sky. His enthusiasm attracted a few friends who were, like himself, ardently attached to science. The mode in which he first made the acquaintance of Sir William Watson, who afterwards became his warmest friend, was characteristic of both. Herschel was observing the mountains in the moon, and as the hours passed on, he had occasion to bring his telescope into the street in front of his house to enable him to continue his work. Sir William Watson happened to pass by, and was arrested by the unusual spectacle of an astronomer in the public street, at the dead of night, using a large and quaint-looking instrument. Having a taste for astronomy, Sir William stopped, and when Herschel took his eye from the telescope, asked if he might be allowed to have a look at the moon. The request was readily granted. Probably Herschel found but few in the gay city who cared for such matters; he was quickly drawn to Sir W. Watson, who at once reciprocated the feeling, and thus began a friendship which bore important fruit in Herschel's subsequent career.

At length the year 1781 approached, which was to witness his great achievement. Herschel had made good use of seven years' practical experience in astronomy, and he had completed a telescope of exquisite optical perfection, though greatly inferior in size to some of those which he afterwards erected. With this reflector Herschel commenced a methodical piece of observation. He formed the scheme of systematically examining all the stars which were above a certain degree of brightness. It does not quite appear what object Herschel proposed to himself when he undertook this labour, but, in any case, he could hardly have anticipated the extraordinary success with which the work was to be crowned. In the course of this review the telescope was directed to a star; that star was examined; then another was brought into the field of view, and it too was examined. Every star under such circumstances merely shows itself as a point of light; the point may be brilliant or not, according as the star is bright or not; the point will also, of course, show the colour of the star, but it cannot exhibit recognisable size or shape. The greater, in fact, the perfection of the telescope, the smaller is the telescopic image of a star.

How many stars Herschel inspected in this review we are not told; but at all events, on the ever-memorable night of the 13th of March, 1781, he was pursuing his self-allotted task among the hosts in the constellation Gemini. Doubtless, one star after another was admitted to view, and was allowed to pass away. At length, however, an object was placed in the field which differed from every other star. It was not a mere point of light; it had a minute, but still a perfectly recognisable, disc. We say the disc was perfectly recognisable, but we should be careful to add that it was so in the excellent telescope of Herschel alone. Other astronomers had seen this object before. Its position had actually been measured no fewer than nineteen times before the Bath musician, with his home-made telescope, looked at it, but the previous observers had only seen it in small meridian instruments with low magnifying powers. Even after the discovery was made, and when well-trained observers with good instruments looked again under the direction of Herschel, one after another bore testimony to the extraordinary delicacy of the great astronomer's perception, which enabled him almost at the first glance to discriminate between it and a star.

If not a star, what, then, could it be? The first step to enable this question to be answered was to observe the body for some time. This Herschel did. He looked at it one night after another, and soon he discovered another fundamental difference between this object and an ordinary star. The stars are, of course, characterised by their fixity, but this object was not fixed; night after night the place it occupied changed with respect to the stars. No longer could there be any doubt that this body was a member of the solar system, and that an interesting discovery had been made; many months, however, elapsed before Herschel knew the real merit of his achievement. He did not realise that he had made the superb discovery of another mighty planet revolving outside Saturn; he thought that it could only be a comet. No doubt this object looked very different from a great comet, decorated with a tail. It was not, however, so entirely different from some forms of telescopic comets as to make the suggestion of its being a body of this kind unlikely; and the discovery was at first announced in accordance with this view. Time was necessary before the true character of the object could be ascertained. It must be followed for a considerable distance along its path, and measures of its position at different epochs must be effected, before it is practicable for the mathematician to calculate the path which the body pursues; once, however, attention was devoted to the subject, many astronomers aided in making the necessary observations. These were placed in the hands of mathematicians, and the result was proclaimed that this body was not a comet, but that, like all the planets, it revolved in nearly a circular path around the sun, and that the path lay millions of miles outside the path of Saturn, which had so long been regarded as the boundary of the solar system.

It is hardly possible to over-estimate the significance of this splendid discovery. The five planets had been known from all antiquity; they were all, at suitable seasons, brilliantly conspicuous to the unaided eye. But it was now found that, far outside the outermost of these planets revolved another splendid planet, larger than Mercury or Mars, larger—far larger—than Venus and the earth, and only surpassed in bulk by Jupiter and by Saturn. This superb new planet was plunged into space to such a depth that, notwithstanding its noble proportions, it seemed merely a tiny star, being only on rare occasions within reach of the unaided eye. This great globe required a period of eighty-four years to complete its majestic path, and the diameter of that path was 3,600,000,000 miles.

Although the history of astronomy is the record of brilliant discoveries—of the labours of Copernicus, and of Kepler—of the telescopic achievements of Galileo, and the splendid theory of Newton—of the refined discovery of the aberration of light—of many other imperishable triumphs of intellect—yet this achievement of the organist at the Octagon Chapel occupies a totally different position from any other. There never before had been any historic record of the discovery of one of the bodies of the particular system to which the earth belongs. The older planets were no doubt discovered by someone, but we can say little more about these discoveries than we can about the discovery of the sun or of the moon; all are alike prehistoric. Here was the first recorded instance of the discovery of a planet which, like the earth, revolves around the sun, and, like our earth, may conceivably be an inhabited globe. So unique an achievement instantly arrested the attention of the whole scientific world. The music-master at Bath, hitherto unheard of as an astronomer, was speedily placed in the very foremost rank of those entitled to the name. On all sides the greatest interest was manifested about the unknown philosopher. The name of Herschel, then unfamiliar to English ears, appeared in every journal, and a curious list has been preserved of the number of blunders which were made in spelling the name. The different scientific societies hastened to convey their congratulations on an occasion so memorable.

Tidings of the discovery made by the Hanoverian musician reached the ears of George III., and he sent for Herschel to come to the Court, that the King might learn what his achievement actually was from the discoverer's own lips. Herschel brought with him one of his telescopes, and he provided himself with a chart of the solar system, with which to explain precisely wherein the significance of the discovery lay. The King was greatly interested in Herschel's narrative, and not less in Herschel himself. The telescope was erected at Windsor, and, under the astronomer's guidance, the King was shown Saturn and other celebrated objects. It is also told how the ladies of the Court the next day asked Herschel to show them the wonders which had so pleased the King. The telescope was duly erected in a window of one of the Queen's apartments, but when evening arrived the sky was found to be overcast with clouds, and no stars could be seen. This was an experience with which Herschel, like every other astronomer, was unhappily only too familiar. But it is not every astronomer who would have shown the readiness of Herschel in escaping gracefully from the position. He showed to his lady pupils the construction of the telescope; he explained the mirror, and how he had fashioned it and given the polish; and then, seeing the clouds were inexorable, he proposed that, as he could not show them the real Saturn, he should exhibit an artificial one as the best substitute. The permission granted, Herschel turned the telescope away from the sky, and pointed it towards the wall of a distant garden. On looking into the telescope there was Saturn, his globe and his system of rings, so faithfully shown that, says Herschel, even a skilful astronomer might have been deceived. The fact was that during the course of the day Herschel saw that the sky would probably be overcast in the evening, and he had provided for the emergency by cutting a hole in a piece of cardboard, the shape of Saturn, which was then placed against the distant garden wall, and illuminated by a lamp at the back.

This visit to Windsor was productive of consequences momentous to Herschel, momentous to science. He had made so favourable an impression, that the King proposed to create for him the special appointment of King's Astronomer at Windsor. The King was to provide the means for erecting the great telescopes, and he allocated to Herschel a salary of L200 a year, the figures being based, it must be admitted, on a somewhat moderate estimate of the requirements of an astronomer's household. Herschel mentioned these particulars to no one save to his constant and generous friend, Sir W. Watson, who exclaimed, "Never bought monarch honour so cheap." To other enquirers, Herschel merely said that the King had provided for him. In accepting this post, the great astronomer took no doubt a serious step. He at once sacrificed entirely his musical career, now, from many sources, a lucrative one; but his determination was speedily taken. The splendid earnest that he had already given of his devotion to astronomy was, he knew, only the commencement of a series of memorable labours. He had indeed long been feeling that it was his bounden duty to follow that path in life which his genius indicated. He was no longer a young man. He had attained middle age, and the years had become especially precious to one who knew that he had still a life-work to accomplish. He at one stroke freed himself from all distractions; his pupils and concerts, his whole connection at Bath, were immediately renounced; he accepted the King's offer with alacrity, and after one or two changes settled permanently at Slough, near Windsor.

It has, indeed, been well remarked that the most important event in connection with the discovery of Uranus was the discovery of Herschel's unrivalled powers of observation. Uranus must, sooner or later, have been found. Had Herschel not lived, we would still, no doubt, have known Uranus long ere this. The really important point for science was that Herschel's genius should be given full scope, by setting him free from the engrossing details of an ordinary professional calling. The discovery of Uranus secured all this, and accordingly obtained for astronomy all Herschel's future labours.[30]

Uranus is so remote that even the best of our modern telescopes cannot make of it a striking picture. We can see, as Herschel did, that it has a measurable disc, and from measurements of that disc we conclude that the diameter of the planet is about 31,700 miles. This is about four times as great as the diameter of the earth, and we accordingly see that the volume of Uranus must be about sixty-four times as great as that of the earth. We also find that, like the other giant planets, Uranus seems to be composed of materials much lighter, on the whole, than those we find here; so that, though sixty-four times as large as the earth, Uranus is only fifteen times as heavy. If we may trust to the analogies of what we see everywhere else in our system, we can feel but little doubt that Uranus must rotate about an axis. The ordinary means of demonstrating this rotation can be hardly available in a body whose surface appears so small and so faint. The period of rotation is accordingly unknown. The spectroscope tells us that a remarkable atmosphere, containing apparently some gases foreign to our own, deeply envelops Uranus.

There is, however, one feature about Uranus which presents many points of interest to those astronomers who are possessed of telescopes of unusual size and perfection. Uranus is accompanied by a system of satellites, some of which are so faint as to require the closest scrutiny for their detection. The discovery of these satellites was one of the subsequent achievements of Herschel. It is, however, remarkable that even his penetration and care did not preserve him from errors with regard to these very delicate objects. Some of the points which he thought to be satellites must, it would now seem, have been merely stars enormously more distant, which happened to lie in the field of view. It has been since ascertained that the known satellites of Uranus are four in number, and their movements have been made the subject of prolonged and interesting telescopic research. The four satellites bear the names of Ariel, Umbriel, Titania, and Oberon. Arranged in order of their distance from the central body, Ariel, the nearest, accomplishes its journey in 2 days and 12 hours. Oberon, the most distant, completes its journey in 13 days and 11 hours.

The law of Kepler declares that the path of a satellite around its primary, no less than of the primary around the sun, must be an ellipse. It leaves, however, boundless latitude in the actual eccentricity of the curve. The ellipse may be nearly a circle, it may be absolutely a circle, or it may be something quite different from a circle. The paths pursued by the planets are, generally speaking, nearly circles; but we meet with no exact circle among planetary orbits. So far as we at present know, the closest approach made to a perfectly circular movement is that by which the satellites of Uranus revolve around their primary. We are not prepared to say that these paths are absolutely circular. All that can be said is that our telescopes fail to show any measurable departure therefrom. It is also to be noted as an interesting circumstance that the orbits of the satellites of Uranus all lie in the same plane. This is not true of the orbits of the planets around the sun, nor is it true of the orbits of any other system of satellites around their primary. The most singular circumstance attending the Uranian system is, however, found in the position which this plane occupies. This is indeed almost as great an anomaly in our system as are the rings of Saturn themselves. We have already had occasion to notice that the plane in which the earth revolves around the sun is very nearly coincident with the planes in which all the other great planets revolve. The same is true, to a large extent, of the orbits of the minor planets; though here, no doubt, we meet with a few cases in which the plane of the orbit is inclined at no inconsiderable angle to the plane in which the earth moves. The plane in which the moon revolves also approximates to this system of planetary planes. So, too, do the orbits of the satellites of Saturn and of Jupiter, while even the more recently discovered satellites of Mars form no exception to the rule. The whole solar system—at least so far as the great planets are concerned—would require comparatively little alteration if the orbits were to be entirely flattened down into one plane. There are, however, some notable exceptions to this rule. The satellites of Uranus revolve in a plane which is far from coinciding with the plane to which all other orbits approximate. In fact, the paths of the satellites of Uranus lie in a plane nearly at right angles to the orbit of Uranus. We are not in a position to give any satisfactory explanation of this circumstance. It is, however, evident that in the genesis of the Uranian system there must have been some influence of a quite exceptional and local character.

Soon after the discovery of the planet Uranus, in 1781, sufficient observations were accumulated to enable the orbit it follows to be determined. When the path was known, it was then a mere matter of mathematical calculation to ascertain where the planet was situated at any past time, and where it would be situated at any future time. An interesting enquiry was thus originated as to how far it might be possible to find any observations of the planet made previously to its discovery by Herschel. Uranus looks like a star of the sixth magnitude. Not many astronomers were provided with telescopes of the perfection attained by Herschel, and the personal delicacy of perception characteristic of Herschel was a still more rare possession. It was, therefore, to be expected that, if such previous observations existed, they would merely record Uranus as a star visible, and indeed bright, in a moderate telescope, but still not claiming any exceptional attention over thousands of apparently similar stars. Many of the early astronomers had devoted themselves to the useful and laborious work of forming catalogues of stars. In the preparation of a star catalogue, the telescope was directed to the heavens, the stars were observed, their places were carefully measured, the brightness of the star was also estimated, and thus the catalogue was gradually compiled in which each star had its place faithfully recorded, so that at any future time it could be identified. The stars were thus registered, by hundreds and by thousands, at various dates from the birth of accurate astronomy till the present time. The suggestion was then made that, as Uranus looked so like a star, and as it was quite bright enough to have engaged the attention of astronomers possessed of even very moderate instrumental powers, there was a possibility that it had already been observed, and thus actually lay recorded as a star in some of the older catalogues. This was indeed an idea worthy of every attention, and pregnant with the most important consequences in connection with the immortal discovery to be discussed in our next chapter. But how was such an examination of the catalogues to be conducted? Uranus is constantly moving about; does it not seem that there is every element of uncertainty in such an investigation? Let us consider a notable example.

The great national observatory at Greenwich was founded in 1675, and the first Astronomer-Royal was the illustrious Flamsteed, who in 1676 commenced that series of observations of the heavenly bodies which has been continued to the present day with such incalculable benefits to science. At first the instruments were of a rather primitive description, but in the course of some years Flamsteed succeeded in procuring instruments adequate to the production of a catalogue of stars, and he devoted himself with extraordinary zeal to the undertaking. It is in this memorable work, the "Historia Coelestis" of Flamsteed, that the earliest observation of Uranus is recorded. In the first place it was known that the orbit of this body, like the orbit of every other great planet, was inclined at a very small angle to the ecliptic. It hence follows that Uranus is at all times only to be met with along the ecliptic, and it is possible to calculate where the planet has been in each year. It was thus seen that in 1690 the planet was situated in that part of the ecliptic where Flamsteed was at the same date making his observations. It was natural to search the observations of Flamsteed, and see whether any of the so-called stars could have been Uranus. An object was found in the "Historia Coelestis" which occupied a position identical with that which Uranus must have filled on the same date. Could this be Uranus? A decisive test was at once available. The telescope was directed to the spot in the heavens where Flamsteed saw a sixth-magnitude star. If that were really a star, then would it still be visible. The trial was made: no such star could be found, and hence the presumption that this was really Uranus could hardly be for a moment doubted. Speedily other confirmation flowed in. It was shown that Uranus had been observed by Bradley and by Tobias Mayer, and it also became apparent that Flamsteed had observed Uranus not only once, but that he had actually measured its place four times in the years 1712 and 1715. Yet Flamsteed was never conscious of the discovery that lay so nearly in his grasp. He was, of course, under the impression that all these observations related to different stars. A still more remarkable case is that of Lemonnier, who had actually observed Uranus twelve times, and even recorded it on four consecutive days in January, 1769. If Lemonnier had only carefully looked over his own work; if he had perceived, as he might have done, how the star he observed yesterday was gone to-day, while the star visible to-day had moved away by to-morrow, there is no doubt that Uranus would have been discovered, and William Herschel would have been anticipated. Would Lemonnier have made as good use of his fame as Herschel did? This seems a question which can never be decided, but those who estimate Herschel as the present writer thinks he ought to be estimated, will probably agree in thinking that it was most fortunate for science that Lemonnier did not compare his observations.[31]

These early accidental observations of Uranus are not merely to be regarded as matters of historical interest or curiosity. That they are of the deepest importance with regard to the science itself a few words will enable us to show. It is to be remembered that Uranus requires no less than eighty-four years to accomplish his mighty revolution around the sun. The planet has completed one entire revolution since its discovery, and up to the present time (1900) has accomplished more than one-third of another. For the careful study of the nature of the orbit, it was desirable to have as many measurements as possible, and extending over the widest possible interval. This was in a great measure secured by the identification of the early observations of Uranus. An approximate knowledge of the orbit was quite capable of giving the places of the planet with sufficient accuracy to identify it when met with in the catalogues. But when by their aid the actual observations have been discovered, they tell us precisely the place of Uranus; and hence, instead of our knowledge of the planet being limited to but little more than one revolution, we have at the present time information with regard to it extending over considerably more than two revolutions.

From the observations of the planet the ellipse in which it moves can be ascertained. We can compute this ellipse from the observations made during the time since the discovery. We can also compute the ellipse from the early observations made before the discovery. If Kepler's laws were rigorously verified, then, of course, the ellipse performed in the present revolution must differ in no respect from the ellipse performed in the preceding, or indeed in any other revolution. We can test this point in an interesting manner by comparing the ellipse derived from the ancient observations with that deduced from the modern ones. These ellipses closely resemble each other; they are nearly the same; but it is most important to observe that they are not exactly the same, even when allowance has been made for every known source of disturbance in accordance with the principles explained in the next chapter. The law of Kepler seems thus not absolutely true in the case of Uranus. Here is, indeed, a matter demanding our most earnest and careful attention. Have we not repeatedly laid down the universality of the laws of Kepler in controlling the planetary motions? How then can we reconcile this law with the irregularities proved beyond a doubt to exist in the motions of Uranus?

Let us look a little more closely into the matter. We know that the laws of Kepler are a consequence of the laws of gravitation. We know that the planet moves in an elliptic path around the sun, in virtue of the sun's attraction, and we know that the ellipse will be preserved without the minutest alteration if the sun and the planet be left to their mutual attractions, and if no other force intervene. We can also calculate the influence of each of the known planets on the form and position of the orbit. But when allowance is made for all such perturbing influences it is found that the observed and computed orbits do not agree. The conclusion is irresistible. Uranus does not move solely in consequence of the sun's attraction and that of the planets of our system interior to Uranus; there must therefore be some further influence acting upon Uranus besides those already known. To the development of this subject the next chapter will be devoted.



CHAPTER XV.

NEPTUNE.

Discovery of Neptune—A Mathematical Achievement—The Sun's Attraction—All Bodies attract—Jupiter and Saturn—The Planetary Perturbations—Three Bodies—Nature has simplified the Problem—Approximate Solution—The Sources of Success—The Problem Stated for the Earth—The Discoveries of Lagrange—The Eccentricity—Necessity that all the Planets revolve in the same Direction—Lagrange's Discoveries have not the Dramatic Interest of the more Recent Achievements—The Irregularities of Uranus—The Unknown Planet must revolve outside the Path of Uranus—The Data for the Problem—Le Verrier and Adams both investigate the Question—Adams indicates the Place of the Planet—How the Search was to be conducted—Le Verrier also solves the Problem—The Telescopic Discovery of the Planet—The Rival Claims—Early Observation of Neptune—Difficulty of the Telescopic Study of Neptune—Numerical Details of the Orbit—Is there any Outer Planet?—Contrast between Mercury and Neptune.

We describe in this chapter a discovery so extraordinary that the whole annals of science may be searched in vain for a parallel. We are not here concerned with technicalities of practical astronomy. Neptune was first revealed by profound mathematical research rather than by minute telescopic investigation. We must develop the account of this striking epoch in the history of science with the fulness of detail which is commensurate with its importance; and it will accordingly be necessary, at the outset of our narrative, to make an excursion into a difficult but attractive department of astronomy, to which we have as yet made little reference.

The supreme controlling power in the solar system is the attraction of the sun. Each planet of the system experiences that attraction, and, in virtue thereof, is constrained to revolve around the sun in an elliptic path. The efficiency of a body as an attractive agent is directly proportional to its mass, and as the mass of the sun is more than a thousand times as great as that of Jupiter, which, itself, exceeds that of all the other planets collectively, the attraction of the sun is necessarily the chief determining force of the movements in our system. The law of gravitation, however, does not merely say that the sun attracts each planet. Gravitation is a doctrine much more general, for it asserts that every body in the universe attracts every other body. In obedience to this law, each planet must be attracted, not only by the sun, but by innumerable bodies, and the movement of the planet must be the joint effect of all such attractions. As for the influence of the stars on our solar system, it may be at once set aside as inappreciable. The stars are no doubt enormous bodies, in many cases possibly transcending the sun in magnitude, but the law of gravitation tells us that the intensity of the attraction decreases as the square of the distance increases. Most of the stars are a million times as remote as the sun, and consequently their attraction is so slight as to be absolutely inappreciable in the discussion of this question. The only attractions we need consider are those which arise from the action of one body of the system upon another. Let us take, for instance, the two largest planets of our system, Jupiter and Saturn. Each of these globes revolves mainly in consequence of the sun's attraction, but every planet also attracts every other, and the consequence is that each one is slightly drawn away from the position it would have otherwise occupied. In the language of astronomy, we would say that the path of Jupiter is perturbed by the attraction of Saturn; and, conversely, that the path of Saturn is perturbed by the attraction of Jupiter.

For many years these irregularities of the planetary motions presented problems with which astronomers were not able to cope. Gradually, however, one difficulty after another has been vanquished, and though there are no doubt some small irregularities still outstanding which have not been completely explained, yet all the larger and more important phenomena of the kind are well understood. The subject is one of the most difficult which the astronomer has to encounter in the whole range of his science. He has here to calculate what effect one planet is capable of producing on another planet. Such calculations bristle with formidable difficulties, and can only be overcome by consummate skill in the loftiest branches of mathematics. Let us state what the problem really is.

When two bodies move in virtue of their mutual attraction, both of them will revolve in a curve which admits of being exactly ascertained. Each path is, in fact, an ellipse, and they must have a common focus at the centre of gravity of the two bodies, considered as a single system. In the case of a sun and a planet, in which the mass of the sun preponderates enormously over the mass of the planet, the centre of gravity of the two lies very near the centre of the sun; the path of the great body is in such a case very small in comparison with the path of the planet. All these matters admit of perfectly accurate calculation of a somewhat elementary character. But now let us add a third body to the system which attracts each of the others and is attracted by them. In consequence of this attraction, the third body is displaced, and accordingly its influence on the others is modified; they in turn act upon it, and these actions and reactions introduce endless complexity into the system. Such is the famous "problem of three bodies," which has engaged the attention of almost every great mathematician since the time of Newton. Stated in its mathematical aspect, and without having its intricacy abated by any modifying circumstances, the problem is one that defies solution. Mathematicians have not yet been able to deal with the mutual attractions of three bodies moving freely in space. If the number of bodies be greater than three, as is actually the case in the solar system, the problem becomes still more hopeless.

Nature, however, has in this matter dealt kindly with us. She has, it is true, proposed a problem which cannot be accurately solved; but she has introduced into the problem, as proposed in the solar system, certain special features which materially reduce the difficulty. We are still unable to make what a mathematician would describe as a rigorous solution of the question; we cannot solve it with the completeness of a sum in arithmetic; but we can do what is nearly if not quite as useful. We can solve the problem approximately; we can find out what the effect of one planet on the other is very nearly, and by additional labour we can reduce the limits of uncertainty to as low a point as may be desired. We thus obtain a practical solution of the problem adequate for all the purposes of science. It avails us little to know the place of a planet with absolute mathematical accuracy. If we can determine what we want with so close an approximation to the true position that no telescope could possibly disclose the difference, then every practical end will have been attained. The reason why in this case we are enabled to get round the difficulties which we cannot surmount lies in the exceptional character of the problem of three bodies as exhibited in the solar system. In the first place, the sun is of such pre-eminent mass that many matters may be overlooked which would be of moment were he rivalled in mass by any of the planets. Another source of our success arises from the small inclinations of the planetary orbits to each other; while the fact that the orbits are nearly circular also greatly facilitates the work. The mathematicians who may reside in some of the other parts of the universe are not equally favoured. Among the sidereal systems we find not a few cases where the problem of three bodies, or even of more than three, would have to be faced without any of the alleviating circumstances which our system presents. In such groups as the marvellous star Th Orionis, we have three or four bodies comparable in size, which must produce movements of the utmost complexity. Even if terrestrial mathematicians shall ever have the hardihood to face such problems, there is no likelihood of their being able to do so for ages to come; such researches must repose on accurate observations as their foundation; and the observations of these distant systems are at present utterly inadequate for the purpose.

The undisturbed revolution of a planet around the sun, in conformity with Kepler's law, would assure for that planet permanent conditions of climate. The earth, for instance, if guided solely by Kepler's laws, would return each day of the year exactly to the same position which it had on the same day of last year. From age to age the quantity of heat received by the earth would remain constant if the sun continued unaltered, and the present climate might thus be preserved indefinitely. But since the existence of planetary perturbation has become recognised, questions arise of the gravest importance with reference to the possible effects which such perturbations may have. We now see that the path of the earth is not absolutely fixed. That path is deranged by Venus and by Mars; it is deranged, it must be deranged, by every planet in our system. It is true that in a year, or even in a century, the amount of alteration produced is not very great; the ellipse which represents the path of our earth this year does not differ considerably from the ellipse which represented the movement of the earth one hundred years ago. But the important question arises as to whether the slight difference which does exist may not be constantly increasing, and may not ultimately assume such proportions as to modify our climates, or even to render life utterly impossible. Indeed, if we look at the subject without attentive calculation, nothing would seem more probable than that such should be the fate of our system. This globe revolves in a path inside that of the mighty Jupiter. It is, therefore, constantly attracted by Jupiter, and when it overtakes the vast planet, and comes between him and the sun, then the two bodies are comparatively close together, and the earth is pulled outwards by Jupiter. It might be supposed that the tendency of such disturbances would be to draw the earth gradually away from the sun, and thus to cause our globe to describe a path ever growing wider and wider. It is not, however, possible to decide a dynamical question by merely superficial reasoning of this character. The question has to be brought before the tribunal of mathematical analysis, where every element in the case is duly taken into account. Such an enquiry is by no means a simple one. It worthily occupied the splendid talents of Lagrange and Laplace, whose discoveries in the theory of planetary perturbation are some of the most remarkable achievements in astronomy.