Part 4

IV The Passing of the Constellations

From a historical and picturesque point of view, one of the most striking results of the motions of the stars described in the last chapter is their effect upon the forms of the constellations, which have been watched and admired by mankind from a period so early that the date of their invention is now unknown. The constellations are formed by chance combinations of conspicuous stars, like figures in a kaleidoscope, and if our lives were commensurate with the æons of cosmic existence we should perceive that the kaleidoscope of the heavens was ceaselessly turning and throwing the stars into new symmetries. Even if the stars stood fast, the motion of the solar system would gradually alter the configurations, as the elements of a landscape dissolve and recombine in fresh groupings with the traveler’s progress amid them. But with the stars themselves all in motion at various speeds and in many directions, the changes occur more rapidly. Of course, “rapid” is here understood in a relative sense; the wheel of human history to an eye accustomed to the majestic progression of the universe would appear to revolve with the velocity of a whirling dynamo. Only the deliberation of geological movements can be contrasted with the evolution and devolution of the constellations.

And yet this secular fluctuation of the constellation figures is not without keen interest for the meditative observer. It is another reminder of the swift mutability of terrestial affairs. To the passing glance, which is all that we can bestow upon these figures, they appear so immutable that they have been called into service to form the most lasting records of ancient thought and imagination that we possess. In the forms of the constellations, the most beautiful, and, in imaginative quality, the finest, mythology that the world has ever known has been perpetuated. Yet, in a broad sense, this scroll of human thought imprinted on the heavens is as evanescent as the summer clouds. Although more enduring than parchment, tombs, pyramids, and temples, it is as far as they from truly eternizing the memory of what man has fancied and done.

Before studying the effects that the motions of the stars have had and will have upon the constellations, it is worth while to consider a little further the importance of the stellar pictures as archives of history. To emphasize the importance of these effects it is only necessary to recall that the constellations register the oldest traditions of our race. In the history of primeval religions they are the most valuable of documents. Leaving out of account for the moment the more familiar mythology of the Greeks, based on something older yet, we may refer for illustration to that of the mysterious Maya race of America. At Izamal, in Yucatan, says Mr Stansbury Hagar, is a group of ruins perched, after the Mexican and Central-American plan, on the summits of pyramidal mounds which mark the site of an ancient theogonic center of the Mayas. Here the temples all evidently refer to a cult based upon the constellations as symbols. The figures and the names, of course, were not the same as those that we have derived from our Aryan ancestors, but the star groups were the same or nearly so. For instance, the loftiest of the temples at Izamal was connected with the sign of the constellation known to us as Cancer, marking the place of the sun at the summer solstice, at which period the sun was supposed to descend at noon like a great bird of fire and consume the offerings left upon the altar. Our Scorpio was known to the Mayas as a sign of the “Death God.” Our Libra, the “Balance,” with which the idea of a divine weighing out of justice has always been connected, seems to be identical with the Mayan constellation Teoyaotlatohua, with which was associated a temple where dwelt the priests whose special business it was to administer justice and to foretell the future by means of information obtained from the spirits of the dead. Orion, the “Hunter” of our celestial mythology, was among the Mayas a “Warrior,” while Sagittarius and others of our constellations were known to them (under different names, of course), and all were endowed with a religious symbolism. And the same star figures, having the same significance, were familiar to the Peruvians, as shown by the temples at Cuzco. Thus the imagination of ancient America sought in the constellations symbols of the unchanging gods.

But, in fact, there is no nation and no people that has not recognized the constellations, and at one period or another in its history employed them in some symbolic or representative capacity. As handled by the Greeks from prehistoric times, the constellation myths became the very soul of poetry. The imagination of that wonderful race idealized the principal star groups so effectively that the figures and traditions thus attached to them have, for civilized mankind, displaced all others, just as Greek art in its highest forms stands without parallel and eclipses every rival. The Romans translated no heroes and heroines of the mythical period of their history to the sky, and the deified Cæsars never entered that lofty company, but the heavens are filled with the early myths of the Greeks. Herakles nightly resumes his mighty labors in the stars; Zeus, in the form of the white “Bull,” Taurus, bears the fair Europa on his back through the celestial waves; Andromeda stretches forth her shackled arms in the star-gemmed ether, beseeching aid; and Perseus, in a blaze of diamond armor, revives his heroic deeds amid sparkling clouds of stellar dust. There, too, sits Queen Cassiopeia in her dazzling chair, while the Great King, Cepheus, towers gigantic over the pole. Professor Young has significantly remarked that a great number of the constellations are connected in some way or other with the Argonautic Expedition—that strangely fascinating legend of earliest Greek story which has never lost its charm for mankind. In view of all this, we may well congratulate ourselves that the constellations will outlast our time and the time of countless generations to follow us; and yet they are very far from being eternal. Let us now study some of the effects of the stellar motions upon them.

We begin with the familiar figure of the “Great Dipper.” He who has not drunk inspiration from its celestial bowl is not yet admitted to the circle of Olympus. This figure is made up of seven conspicuous stars in the constellation Ursa Major, the “Greater Bear.” The handle of the “Dipper” corresponds to the tail of the imaginary “Bear,” and the bowl lies upon his flank. In fact, the figure of a dipper is so evident and that of a bear so unevident, that to most persons the “Great Dipper” is the only part of the constellation that is recognizable. Of the seven stars mentioned, six are of nearly equal brightness, ranking as of the second magnitude, while the seventh is of only the third magnitude. The difference is very striking, since every increase of one magnitude involves an increase of two-and-a-half times in brightness. There appears to be little doubt that the faint star, which is situated at the junction of the bowl and the handle, is a variable of long period, since three hundred years ago it was as bright as its companions. But however that may be, its relative faintness at the present time interferes but little with the perfection of the “Dipper’s” figure. In order the more readily to understand the changes which are taking place, it will be well to mention both the names and the Greek letters which are attached to the seven stars. Beginning at the star in the upper outer edge of the rim of the bowl and running in regular order round the bottom and then out to the end of the handle, the names and letters are as follows: Dubhe (α), Merak (β), Phaed (γ), Megrez (δ), Alioth (ε), Mizar (ζ), and Benetnasch (η). Megrez is the faint star already mentioned at the junction of the bowl and handle, and Mizar, in the middle of the handle, has a close, naked-eye companion which is named Alcor. The Arabs called this singular pair of stars “The Horse and Rider.” Merak and Duhbe are called “The Pointers,” because an imaginary line drawn northward through them indicates the Pole Star.

Now it has been found that five of these stars—viz., Merak, Phaed, Megrez, Alioth, and Mizar (with its comrade)—are moving with practically the same speed in an easterly direction, while the other two, Dubhe and Benetnasch, are simultaneously moving westward, the motions of Benetnasch being apparently more rapid. The consequence of these opposed motions is, of course, that the figure of the “Dipper” cannot always have existed and will not continue to exist. In the accompanying diagrams it has been thought interesting to show the relative positions of these seven stars, as seen from the point which the earth now occupies, both in the past and in the future. Arrows attached to the stars in the figure representing the present appearance of the “Dipper” indicate the directions of the motions and the distances over which they will carry the stars in a period of about five hundred centuries. The time, no doubt, seems long, but remember the vast stretch of ages through which the earth has passed, and then reflect that no reason is apparent why our globe should not continue to be a scene of animation for ten thousand centuries yet to come. The fact that the little star Alcor placed so close to Mizar should accompany the latter in its flight is not surprising, but that two of the principal stars of the group should be found moving in a direction directly opposed to that pursued by the other five is surprising in the highest degree; and it recalls the strange theory of a double drift affecting all the stars, to which attention was called in the preceding chapter. It would appear that Benetnasch and Dubhe belong to one “current,” and Merak, Phaed, Megrez, Alioth, and Mizar to the other. As far as is known, the motion of the seven stars are not shared by the smaller stars scattered about them, but on the theory of currents there should be such a community of motion, and further investigation may reveal it.

From the “Great Dipper” we turn to a constellation hardly less conspicuous and situated at an equal distance from the pole on the other side—Cassiopeia. This famous star-group commemorating the romantic Queen of Ethiopia whose vain boasting of her beauty was punished by the exposure of her daughter Andromeda to the “Sea Monster,” is well-marked by five stars which form an irregular letter “W” with its open side toward the pole. Three of these stars are usually ranked as of the second magnitude, and two of the third; but to ordinary observation they appear of nearly equal brightness, and present a very striking picture. They mark out the chair and a part of the figure of the beautiful queen. Beginning at the right-hand, or western, end of the “W,” their Greek letter designations are: Beta (β), Alpha (α), Gamma (γ), Delta (δ), and Epsilon (ε). Four of them, Beta, Alpha, Delta, and Epsilon are traveling eastwardly at various speeds, while the fifth, Gamma, moves in a westerly direction. The motion of Beta is more rapid than that of any of the others. It should be said, however, that no little uncertainty attaches to the estimates of the rate of motion of stars which are not going very rapidly, and different observers often vary considerably in their results.

In the beautiful “Northern Crown,” one of the most perfect and charming of all the figures to be found in the stars, the alternate combining and scattering effects of the stellar motions are shown by comparing the appearance which the constellation must have had five hundred centuries ago with that which it has at present and that which it will have in the future. The seven principle stars of the asterism, forming a surprisingly perfect coronet, have movements in three directions at right angles to one another. That in these circumstances they should ever have arrived at positions giving them so striking an appearance of definite association is certainly surprising; from its aspect one would have expected to find a community of movement governing the brilliants of the “Crown,” but instead of that we find evidence that they will inevitably drift apart and the beautiful figure will dissolve.

A similar fate awaits such asterisms as the “Northern Cross” in Cygnus; the “Crow” (Corvus), which stands on the back of the great “Sea Serpent,” Hydra, and pecks at his scales; “Job’s Coffin” (Delphinus); the “Great Square of Pegasus”; the “Twins” (Gemini); the beautiful “Sickle” in Leo; and the exquisite group of the Hyades in Taurus. In the case of the Hyades, two controlling movements are manifest: one, affecting five of the stars which form the well-known figure of a letter “V,” is directed northerly; the other, which controls the direction of two stars, has an easterly trend. The chief star of the group, Aldebaran, one of the finest of all stars both for its brilliance and its color, is the most affected by the easterly motion. In time it will drift entirely out of connection with its present neighbors. Although the Hyades do not form so compact a group as the Pleiades in the same constellation, yet their appearance of relationship is sufficient to awaken a feeling of surprise over the fact that, as with the stars of the “Dipper,” their association is only temporary or apparent.

The great figure of Orion appears to be more lasting, not because its stars are physically connected, but because of their great distance, which renders their movements too deliberate to be exactly ascertained. Two of the greatest of its stars, Betelgeuse and Rigel, possess, as far as has been ascertained, no perceptible motion across the line of sight, but there is a little movement perceptible in the “Belt.” At the present time this consists of an almost perfect straight line, a row of second-magnitude stars about equally spaced and of the most striking beauty. In the course of time, however, the two right-hand stars, Mintaka and Alnilam (how fine are these Arabic star names!) will approach each other and form a naked-eye double, but the third, Alnita, will drift away eastward, so that the “Belt” will no longer exist.

For one more example, let us go to the southern hemisphere, whose most celebrated constellation, the “Southern Cross,” has found a place in all modern literatures, although it has no claim to consideration on account of association with ancient legends. This most attractive asterism, which has never ceased to fascinate the imagination of Christendom since it was first devoutly described by the early explorers of the South, is but a passing collocation of brilliant stars. Yet even in its transfigurations it has been for hundreds of centuries, and will continue to be for hundreds of centuries to come, a most striking object in the sky. Our figures show its appearance in three successive phases: first, as it was fifty thousand years ago (viewed from the earth’s present location); second, as it is in our day; and, third, as it will be an equal time in the future. The nearness of these bright stars to one another—the length of the longer beam of the “Cross” is only sixdegrees—makes this group very noticeable, whatever the arrangement of its components may be. The largest star, at the base of the “Cross,” is of the first magnitude, two of the others are of the second magnitude, and the fourth is of the third. Other stars, not represented in the figures, increase the effect of a celestial blazonry, although they do not help the resemblance to a cross.

But since the motion of the solar system itself will, in the course of so long a period as fifty thousand years, produce a great change in the perspective of the heavens as seen from the earth, by carrying us nearly nineteen trillion miles from our present place, why, it may be asked, seek to represent future appearances of the constellations which we could not hope to see, even if we could survive so long? The answer is: Because these things aid the mind to form a picture of the effects of the mobility of the starry universe. Only by showing the changes from some definite point of view can we arrive at a due comprehension of them. The constellations are more or less familiar to everybody, so that impending changes of their forms must at once strike the eye and the imagination, and make clearer the significance of the movements of the stars. If the future history of mankind is to resemble its past and if our race is destined to survive yet a million years, then our remote descendents will see a “new heavens” if not a “new earth,” and will have to invent novel constellations to perpetuate their legends and mythologies.

If our knowledge of the relative distances of the stars were more complete, it would be an interesting exercise in celestial geometry to project the constellations probably visible to the inhabitants of worlds revolving around some of the other suns of space. Our sun is too insignificant for us to think that he can make a conspicuous appearance among them, except, perhaps, in a few cases. As seen, for instance, from the nearest known star, Alpha Centauri, the sun would appear of the average first magnitude, and consequently from that standpoint he might be the gem of some little constellation which had no Sirius, or Arcturus, or Vega to eclipse him with its superior splendor. But from the distance of the vast majority of the stars the sun would probably be invisible to the naked eye, and as seen from nearer systems could only rank as a fifth or sixth magnitude star, unnoticed and unknown except by the star-charting astronomer.

V Conflagrations in the Heavens

Suppose it were possible for the world to take fire and burn up—as some pessimists think that it will do when the Divine wrath shall have sufficiently accumulated against it—nobody out of our own little corner of space would ever be aware of the catastrophe! With all their telescopes, the astronomers living in the golden light of Arcturus or the diamond blaze of Canopus would be unable to detect the least glimmer of the conflagration that had destroyed the seat of Adam and his descendents, just as now they are totally ignorant of its existence.

But at least fifteen times in the course of recorded history men looking out from the earth have beheld in the remote depths of space great outbursts of fiery light, some of them more splendidly luminous than anything else in the firmament except the sun! If they were conflagrations, how many million worlds like ours were required to feed their blaze?

It is probable that “temporary” or “new” stars, as these wonderful apparitions are called, really are conflagrations; not in the sense of a bonfire or a burning house or city, but in that of a sudden eruption of inconceivable heat and light, such as would result from the stripping off the shell of an encrusted sun or the crashing together of two mighty orbs flying through space with a hundred times the velocity of the swiftest cannon-shot.

Temporary stars are the rarest and most erratic of astronomical phenomena. The earliest records relating to them are not very clear, and we cannot in every instance be certain that it was one of these appearances that the ignorant and superstitious old chroniclers are trying to describe. The first temporary star that we are absolutely sure of appeared in 1572, and is known as “Tycho’s Star,” because the celebrated Danish astronomer (whose remains, with his gold-and-silver artificial nose—made necessary by a duel—still intact, were disinterred and reburied in 1901) was the first to perceive it in the sky, and the most assiduous and successful in his studies of it. As the first fully accredited representative of its class, this new star made its entry upon the scene with becoming éclat. It is characteristic of these phenomena that they burst into view with amazing suddenness, and, of course, entirely unexpectedly. Tycho’s star appeared in the constellation Cassiopeia, near a now well-known and much-watched little star named Kappa, on the evening of November 11, 1572. The story has often been repeated, but it never loses interest, how Tycho, going home that evening, saw people in the street pointing and staring at the sky directly over their heads, and following the direction of their hands and eyes he was astonished to see, near the zenith, an unknown star of surpassing brilliance. It outshone the planet Jupiter, and was therefore far brighter than the first magnitude. There was not another star in the heavens that could be compared with it in splendor. Tycho was not in all respects free from the superstitions of his time—and who is?—but he had the true scientific instinct, and immediately he began to study the stranger, and to record with the greatest care every change in its aspect. First he determined as well as he could with the imperfect instruments of his day, many of which he himself had invented, the precise location of the phenomena in the sky. Then he followed the changes that it underwent. At first it brightened until its light equaled or exceeded that of the planet Venus at her brightest, a statement which will be appreciated at its full value by anyone who has ever watched Venus when she plays her dazzling rôle of “Evening Star,” flaring like an arc light in the sunset sky. It even became so brilliant as to be visible in full daylight, since, its position being circumpolar, it never set in the latitude of Northern Europe. Finally it began to fade, turning red as it did so, and in March, 1574, it disappeared from Tycho’s searching gaze, and has never been seen again from that day to this. None of the astronomers of the time could make anything of it. They had not yet as many bases of speculation as we possess today.

Tycho’s star has achieved a romantic reputation by being fancifully identified with the “Star of Bethlehem,” said to have led the wondering Magi from their eastern deserts to the cradle-manger of the Savior in Palestine. Many attempts have been made to connect this traditional “star” with some known phenomenon of the heavens, and none seems more idle than this. Yet it persistently survives, and no astronomer is free from eager questions about it addressed by people whose imagination has been excited by the legend. It is only necessary to say that the supposition of a connection between the phenomenon of the Magi and Tycho’s star is without any scientific foundation. It was originally based on an unwarranted assumption that the star of Tycho was a variable of long period, appearing once every three hundred and fifteen years, or thereabout. If that were true there would have been an apparition somewhere near the traditional date of the birth of Christ, a date which is itself uncertain. But even the data on which the assumption was based are inconsistent with the theory. Certain monkish records speak of something wonderful appearing in the sky in the years 1264 and 945, and these were taken to have been outbursts of Tycho’s star. Investigation shows that the records more probably refer to comets, but even if the objects seen were temporary stars, their dates do not suit the hypothesis; from 945 to 1264 there is a gap of 319 years, and from 1264 to 1572 one of only 308 years; moreover 337 years have now (1909) elapsed since Tycho saw the last glimmer of his star. Upon a variability so irregular and uncertain as that, even if we felt sure that it existed, no conclusion could be found concerning an apparition occurring 2000 years ago.

In the year 1600 (the year in which Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for teaching that there is more than one physical world), a temporary star of the third magnitude broke out in the constellation Cygnus, and curiously enough, considering the rarity of such phenomena, only four years later another surprisingly brilliant one appeared in the constellation Ophiuchus. This is often called “Kepler’s star,” because the great German astronomer devoted to it the same attention that Tycho had given to the earlier phenomenon. It, too, like Tycho’s, was at first the brightest object in the stellar heavens, although it seems never to have quite equaled its famous predecessor in splendor. It disappeared after a year, also turning of a red color as it became more faint. We shall see the significance of this as we go on. Some of Kepler’s contemporaries suggested that the outburst of this star was due to a meeting of atoms in space, and idea bearing a striking resemblance to the modern theory of “astronomical collisions.”

In 1670, 1848, and 1860 temporary stars made their appearance, but none of them was of great brilliance. In 1866 one of the second magnitude broke forth in the “Northern Crown” and awoke much interest, because by that time the spectroscope had begun to be employed in studying the composition of the stars, and Huggins demonstrated that the new star consisted largely of incandescent hydrogen. But this star, apparently unlike the others mentioned, was not absolutely new. Before its outburst it had shown as a star of the ninth magnitude (entirely invisible, of course, to the naked eye), and after about six weeks it faded to its original condition in which it has ever since remained. In 1876 a temporary star appeared in the constellation Cygnus, and attained at one time the brightness of the second magnitude. Its spectrum and its behavior resembled those of its immediate predecessor. In 1885, astronomers were surprised to see a sixth-magnitude star glimmering in the midst of the hazy cloud of the great Andromeda Nebula. It soon absolutely disappeared. Its spectrum was remarkable for being “continuous,” like that of the nebula itself. A continuous spectrum is supposed to represent a body, or a mass, which is either solid or liquid, or composed of gas under great pressure. In January, 1892, a new star was suddenly seen in the constellation Auriga. It never rose much above the fourth magnitude, but it showed a peculiar spectrum containing both bright and dark lines of hydrogen.

But a bewildering surprise was now in store; the world was to behold at the opening of the twentieth century such a celestial spectacle as had not been on view since the times of Tycho and Kepler. Before daylight on the morning of February 22, 1901, the Rev. Doctor Anderson, of Edinburgh, an amateur astronomer, who had also been the first to see the new star in Auriga, beheld a strange object in the constellation Perseus not far from the celebrated variable star Algol. He recognized its character at once, and immediately telegraphed the news, which awoke the startled attention of astronomers all over the world. When first seen the new star was no brighter than Algol (less than the second magnitude), but within twenty-four hours it was ablaze, outshining even the brilliant Capella, and far surpassing the first magnitude. At the spot in the sky where it appeared nothing whatever was visible on the night before its coming. This is known with certainty because a photograph had been made of that very region on February 21, and this photograph showed everything down to the twelfth magnitude, but not a trace of the stranger which burst into view between the 21st and the 22nd like the explosion of a rocket.

Upon one who knew the stars the apparition of this intruder in a well-known constellation had the effect of a sudden invasion. The new star was not far west of the zenith in the early evening, and in that position showed to the best advantage. To see Capella, the hitherto unchallenged ruler of that quarter of the sky, abased by comparison with this stranger of alien aspect, for there was always an unfamiliar look about the “nova,” was decidedly disconcerting. It seemed to portend the beginning of a revolution in the heavens. One could understand what the effect of such an apparition must have been in the superstitious times of Tycho. The star of Tycho had burst forth on the northern border of the Milky Way; this one was on its southern border, some forty-five degrees farther east.

Astronomers were well-prepared this time for the scientific study of the new star, both astronomical photography and spectroscopy having been perfected, and the results of their investigations were calculated to increase the wonder with which the phenomenon was regarded. The star remained at its brightest only a few days; then, like a veritable conflagration, it began to languish; and, like the reflection of a dying fire, as it sank it began to glow with the red color of embers. But its changes were spasmodic; once about every three days it flared up only to die away again. During these fluctuations its light varied alternately in the ratio of one to six. Finally it took a permanent downward course, and after a few months the naked eye could no longer perceive it; but it remained visible with telescopes, gradually fading until it had sunk to the ninth magnitude. Then another astonishing change happened: in August photographs taken at the Yerkes Observatory and at Heidelberg showed that the “nova” was surrounded by a spiral nebula! The nebula had not been there before, and no one could doubt that it represented a phase of the same catastrophe that had produced the outburst of the new star. At one time the star seemed virtually to have disappeared, as if all its substance had been expanded into the nebulous cloud, but always there remained a stellar nucleus about which the misty spiral spread wider and ever wider, like a wave expanding around a center of disturbance. The nebula too showed a variability of brightness, and four condensations which formed in it seemed to have a motion of revolution about the star. As time went on the nebula continued to expand at a rate which was computed to be not less than twenty thousand miles per second! And now the star itself, showing indications of having turned into a nebula, behaved in a most erratic manner, giving rise to the suspicion that it was about to burst out again. But this did not occur, and at length it sunk into a state of lethargy from which it has to the present time not recovered. But the nebulous spiral has disappeared, and the entire phenomena as it now (1909) exists consists of a faint nebulous star of less than the ninth magnitude.

The wonderful transformations just described had been forecast in advance of the discovery of the nebulous spiral encircling the star by the spectroscopic study of the latter. At first there was no suggestion of a nebular constitution, but within a month or two characteristic nebular lines began to appear, and in less than six months the whole spectrum had been transformed to the nebular type. In the mean time the shifting of the spectral lines indicated a complication of rapid motions in several directions simultaneously. These motions were estimated to amount to from one hundred to five hundred miles per second.

The human mind is so constituted that it feels forced to seek an explanation of so marvelous a phenomenon as this, even in the absence of the data needed for a sound conclusion. The most natural hypothesis, perhaps, is that of a collision. Such a catastrophe could certainly happen. It has been shown, for instance, that in infinity of time the earth is sure to be hit by a comet; in the same way it may be asserted that, if no time limit is fixed, the sun is certain to run against some obstacle in space, either another star, or a dense meteor swarm, or one of the dark bodies which there is every reason to believe abound around us. The consequences of such a collision are easy to foretell, provided that we know the masses and the velocities of the colliding bodies. In a preceding chapter we have discussed the motions of the sun and stars, and have seen that they are so swift that an encounter between any two of them could not but be disastrous. But this is not all; for as soon as two stars approached within a few million miles their speed would be enormously increased by their reciprocal attractions and, if their motion was directed radially with respect to their centers, they would come together with a crash that would reduce them both to nebulous clouds. It is true that the chances of such a “head-on” collision are relatively very small; two stars approaching each other would most probably fall into closed orbits around their common center of gravity. If there were a collision it would most likely be a grazing one instead of a direct front-to-front encounter. But even a close approach, without any actual collision, would probably prove disastrous, owing to the tidal influence of each of the bodies on the other. Suns, in consequence of their enormous masses and dimensions and the peculiarities of their constitution, are exceedingly dangerous to one another at close quarters. Propinquity awakes in them a mutually destructive tendency. Consisting of matter in the gaseous, or perhaps, in some cases, liquid, state, their tidal pull upon each other if brought close together might burst them asunder, and the photospheric envelope being destroyed the internal incandescent mass would gush out, bringing fiery death to any planets that were revolving near. Without regard to the resulting disturbance of the earth’s orbit, the close approach of a great star to the sun would be in the highest degree perilous to us. But this is a danger which may properly be regarded as indefinitely remote, since, at our present location in space, we are certainly far from every star except the sun, and we may feel confident that no great invisible body is near, for if there were one we should be aware of its presence from the effects of its attraction. As to dark nebulæ which may possibly lie in the track that the solar system is pursuing at the rate of 375,000,000 miles per year, that is another question—and they, too, could be dangerous!

This brings us directly back to “Nova Persei,” for among the many suggestions offered to explain its outburst, as well as those of other temporary stars, one of the most fruitful is that of a collision between a star and a vast invisible nebula. Professor Seeliger, of Munich, first proposed this theory, but it afterward underwent some modifications from others. Stated in a general form, the idea is that a huge dark body, perhaps an extinguished sun, encountered in its progress through space a widespread flock of small meteors forming a dark nebula. As it plunged into the swarm the friction of the innumerable collisions with the meteors heated its surface to incandescence, and being of vast size it then became visible to us as a new star. Meanwhile the motion of the body through the nebula, and its rotation upon itself, set up a gyration in the blazing atmosphere formed around it by the vaporized meteors; and as this atmosphere spread wider, under the laws of gyratory motion a rotation in the opposite direction began in the inflamed meteoric cloud outside the central part of the vortex. Thus the spectral lines were caused to show motion in opposite directions, a part of the incandescent mass approaching the earth simultaneously with the retreat of another part. So the curious spectroscopic observations before mentioned were explained. This theory might also account for the appearance of the nebulous spiral first seen some six months after the original outburst. The sequent changes in the spectrum of the “nova” are accounted for by this theory on the assumption, reasonable enough in itself, that at first the invading body would be enveloped in a vaporized atmosphere of relatively slight depth, producing by its absorption the fine dark lines first observed; but that as time went on and the incessant collisions continued, the blazing atmosphere would become very deep and extensive, whereupon the appearance of the spectral lines would change, and bright lines due to the light of the incandescent meteors surrounding the nucleus at a great distance would take the place of the original dark ones. The vortex of meteors once formed would protect the flying body within from further immediate collisions, the latter now occurring mainly among the meteors themselves, and then the central blaze would die down, and the original splendor of the phenomenon would fade.