Part 3

Incidentally, the captain also notes with the sextant how high the sun was in the sky at the noon observation. He has in his mysterious "chart-room" some printed astronomical tables, which tell him in what terrestrial latitude the sun will have precisely that height on that particular day of the year. Thus the terrestrial latitude becomes known easily enough, and if only the captain could get his longitude too, he would know just where his ship was that day at noon.

We have seen that the sextant observations furnish the error of the chronometer according to ship's time. In other words, the captain is in possession of the correct local time in the place where the ship actually is. Now, if he also had the correct time at that moment of some well-known place on shore, he would know the difference in time between that place on shore and the ship. But every traveller by land or sea is aware that there are always differences of time between different places on the earth. If a watch be right on leaving New York, for instance, it will be much too fast on arriving at Chicago or San Francisco; the farther you go the larger becomes the error of your watch. In fact, if you could find out how much your watch had gone into error, you would in a sense know how far east or west you had travelled.

Now the captain's chronometer is set to correct "Greenwich time" on shore before the ship leaves port. His observations having then told him how much this is wrong on that particular day, and in that particular spot where the ship is, he knows at once just how far he has travelled east or west from Greenwich. In other words, he knows his "longitude from Greenwich," for longitude is nothing more than distance from Greenwich in an east-and-west direction, just as latitude is only distance from the equator measured in a north-and-south direction. Greenwich observatory is usually selected as the beginning of things for measuring longitudes, because it is almost the oldest of existing astronomical establishments, and belongs to the most prominent maritime nation, England.

One of the most interesting bits of astronomical history was enacted in connection with this matter of longitude. From what has been said, it is clear that the ship's longitude will be obtained correctly only if the chronometer has kept exact time since the departure of the ship from port. Even a very small error of the chronometer will throw out the longitude a good many miles, and we can understand readily that it must be difficult in the extreme to construct a mechanical contrivance capable of keeping exact time when subjected to the rolling and pitching of a vessel at sea.

It was as recently as the year 1736 that the first instrument capable of keeping anything like accurate time at sea was successfully completed. It was the work of an English watchmaker named John Harrison, and is one of the few great improvements in matters scientific which the world owes to a desire for winning a money prize. It appears that in 1714 a committee was appointed by the House of Commons, with no less a person than Sir Isaac Newton himself as one of its members, to consider the desirability of offering governmental encouragement for the invention of some means of finding the longitude at sea. Finally, the British Government offered a reward of $50,000 for an instrument which would find the longitude within sixty miles; $75,000, if within forty miles, and $100,000, if within thirty miles. Harrison's chronometer was finished in 1736, but he did not receive the final payment of his prize until 1764.

We shall not enter into a detailed account of the vexatious delays and official procedures to which he was forced to submit during those twenty-eight long years. It is a matter of satisfaction that Harrison lived to receive the money which he had earned. He had the genius to plan and master intricate mechanical details, but perhaps he lacked in some degree the ability of tongue and pen to bring them home to others. This may be the reason he is so little known, though it was his fortune to contribute so large and essential a part to the perfection of modern navigation. Let us hope this brief mention may serve to recall his memory from oblivion even for a fleeting moment; that we may not have written in vain of that longitude to which his life was given.

THE PLEIADES

Famed in legend; sung by early minstrels of Persia and Hindustan;

"--like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid";

yonder distant misty little cloud of Pleiades has always won and held the imagination of men. But it was not only for the inspiration of poets, for quickening fancy into song, that the seven daughters of Atlas were fixed upon the firmament. The problems presented by this group of stars to the unobtrusive scientific investigator are among the most interesting known to astronomy. Their solution is still very incomplete, but what we have already learned may be counted justly among the richest spoils brought back by science from the stored treasure-house of Nature's secrets.

The true student of astronomy is animated by no mere vulgar curiosity to pry into things hidden. If he seeks the concealed springs that move the complex visible mechanism of the heavens, he does so because his imagination is roused by the grandeur of what he sees; and deep down within him stirs the true love of the artist for his art. For it is indeed a fine art, that science of astronomy.

It can have been no mere chance that has massed the Pleiades from among their fellow stars. Men of ordinary eyesight see but a half-dozen distinct objects in the cluster; those of acuter vision can count fourteen; but it is not until we apply the space-penetrating power of the telescope that we realize the extraordinary scale upon which the system of the Pleiades is constructed. With the Paris instrument Wolf in 1876 catalogued 625 stars in the group; and the searching photographic survey of Henry in 1887 revealed no less than 2,326 distinct stars within and near the filmy gauze of nebulous matter always so conspicuous a feature of the Pleiades.

The means at our disposal for the study of stellar distances are but feeble. Only in the case of a very small number of stars have we been able to obtain even so much as an approximate estimate of distance. The most powerful observational machinery, though directed by the tried skill of experience, has not sufficed to sound the profounder depths of space. The Pleiad stars are among those for which no measurement of distance has yet been made, so that we do not know whether they are all equally far away from us. We see them projected on the dark background of the celestial vault; but we cannot tell from actual measurement whether they are all situated near the same point in space. It may be that some are immeasurably closer to us than are the great mass of their companions; possibly we look through the cluster at others far behind it, clinging, as it were, to the very fringe of the visible universe.

Farther on we shall find evidence that something like this really is the case. But under no circumstances is it reasonable to suppose that the whole body of stars can be strung out at all sorts of distances near a straight line pointing in the direction of the visible cluster. Such a distribution may perhaps remain among the possibilities, so long as we cannot measure directly the actual distances of the individual stars. But science never accepts a mere possibility against which we can marshal strong circumstantial evidence. We may conclude on general principles that the gathering of these many objects into a single close assemblage denotes community of origin and interests.

The Pleiades then really belong to one another. What is the nature of their mutual tie? What is their mystery, and can we solve it? The most obvious theory is, of course, suggested by what we know to be true within our own solar system. We owe to Newton the beautiful conception of gravitation, that unique law by means of which astronomers have been enabled to reduce to perfect order the seeming tangle of planetary evolutions. The law really amounts, in effect, to this: All objects suspended within the vacancy of space attract or pull one another. How they can do this without a visible connecting link between them is a mystery which may always remain unsolved. But mystery as it is, we must accept it as an ascertained fact. It is this pull of gravitation that holds together the sun and planets, forcing them all to follow out their due and proper paths, and so to continue throughout an unbroken cycle until the great survivor, Time, shall be no more.

This same gravitational attraction must be at work among the Pleiades. They, too, like ourselves, must have bounds and orbits set and interwoven, revolutions and gyrations far more complex than the solar system knows. The visual discovery of such motion of rotation among the Pleiades may be called one of the pressing problems of astronomy to-day. We feel sure that the time is ripe, and that the discovery is actually being made at the present moment: for a generation of men is not too great a period to call a moment, when we have to deal with cosmic time.

It is indeed the lack of observations extending through sufficient centuries that stays our hand from grasping the coveted result. The Pleiades are so far from us that we cannot be sure of changes among them. Magnitudes are always relative. It matters not how large the actual movements may be; if they are extremely small in comparison with our distance, they must shrink to nothingness in our eyes. Trembling on the verge of invisibility, elusive, they are in that borderland where science as yet but feels her way, though certain that the way is there.

The foundations of exact modern knowledge of the group were laid by Bessel about 1840. With the modesty characteristic of the great, he says quite simply that he has made a number of measures of the Pleiades, thinking that the time may come when astronomers will be able to find some evidence of motion. In this unassuming way he prefaces what is still the classic model of precision and thoroughness in work of this kind. Bessel cleared the ground for a study of inter-stellar motion within the close star-clusters; and it is probable that only by such study may we hope to demonstrate the universality of the law of gravitation in cosmic space.

Bessel's acuteness in forecasting the direction of coming research was amply verified by the work of Elkin in 1885 at Yale College. Provided with a more modern instrument, but similar to Bessel's, Elkin was able to repeat his observations with a slight increase of precision. Motions in the interval of forty-five years, sufficiently great to hint at coming possibilities, were shown conclusively to exist. Six stars at all events have been fairly excluded from the group on account of their peculiar motions shown by Elkin's research. It is possible that they are merely seen in the background through the interstices of the cluster itself, or they may be suspended between us and the Pleiades, in either case having no real connection with the group. Finally, these observations make it reasonably certain that many of the remaining mass of stars really constitute a unit aggregation in space. Astronomers of a coming generation will again repeat the Besselian work. At present we have been able to use his method only for the separation from the true Pleiades of chance stars that happen to lie in the same direction. Let us hope that man shall exist long enough upon this earth to see the clustered stars themselves begin and carry out such gyrations as gravitation imposes.

These will doubtless be of a kind not even suggested by the lesser complexities of our solar system. For the most wonderful thing of all about the Pleiades seems to point to an intricacy of structure whose details may be destined to shake the confidence of the profoundest mathematician. There is an extraordinary nebulous condensation that seems to pervade the entire space occupied by the stellar constituents of the group. The stars are swimming in a veritable sea of luminous cloud. There are filmy tenuous places, and again condensing whirls of material doubtless still in the gaseous or plastic stage. Most noticeable of all are certain almost straight lines of nebula that connect series of stars. In one case, shown upon a photograph made by Henry at Paris, six stars are strung out upon such a hazy line. We might give play to fancy, and see in this the result of some vast eruption of gaseous matter that has already begun to solidify here and there into stellar nuclei. But sound science gives not too great freedom to mere speculative theories. Her duty has been found in quiet research, and her greatest rewards have flowed from imaginative speculation, only when tempered by pure reason.

THE POLE-STAR

One of the most brilliant observations of the last few years is Campbell's recent discovery of the triple character of this star. Centuries and centuries ago, when astronomy, that venerable ancient among the sciences, was but an infant, the pole-star must have been considered the very oldest of observed heavenly bodies. In the beginning it was the only sure guide of the navigator at night, just as to this day it is the foundation-stone for all observational stellar astronomy of precision. There has never been a time in the history of astronomy when the pole-star might not have been called the most frequently measured object in the sky of night. So it is indeed strange that we should find out something altogether new about it after all these ages of study.

But the importance of the discovery rests upon a surer foundation than this. The method by which it has been made is almost a new one in the science. A generation ago, men thought the "perfect science," for so we love to call astronomy, could advance only by increasing a little the exact precision of observation. The citadel of perfect truth might be more closely invested; the forces of science might push forward step by step; the machinery of research might be strengthened, but that a new engine of investigation would be discovered capable of penetrating where no telescope can ever reach, this, indeed, seemed far beyond the liveliest hope of science. Even the discoverer of the spectroscope could never have dreamed of its possibilities, could never have foreseen its successes, its triumphs.

The very name of this instrument suggests mystery to the popular mind. It is set down at once among the things too difficult, too intricate, too abstruse to understand. Yet in its essentials there is nothing about the spectroscope that cannot be made clear in a few words. Even the modern "undulatory theory" of light itself is terrible only in the length of its name. Anyone who has seen the waves of ocean roll, roll, and ever again roll in upon the shore, can form a very good notion of how light moves. 'Tis just such a series of rolling waves; started perhaps from some brilliant constellation far out upon the confining bounds of the visible universe, or perhaps coming from a humble light upon the student's table; yet it is never anything but a succession of rolling waves. Only, unlike the waves of the sea, light waves are all excessively small. We should call one whose length was a twenty-thousandth of an inch a big one!

Now the human eye possesses the property of receiving and understanding these little waves. The process is an unconscious one. Let but a set of these tiny waves roll up, as it were, out of the vast ocean of space and impinge upon the eye, and all the phenomena of light and color become what we call "visible." We see the light.

And how does all this find an application in astronomy? Not to enter too much into technical details, we may say that the spectroscope is an instrument which enables us to measure the length of these light waves, though their length is so exceedingly small. The day has indeed gone by when that which poets love to call the Book of Nature was printed in type that could be read by the eye unaided. Telescope, microscope, and spectroscope are essential now to him who would penetrate any of Nature's secrets. But measurements with a telescope, like eye observations, are limited strictly to determining the directions in which we see the heavenly bodies. Ever since the beginning of things, when old Hipparchus and Ulugh Beg made the first rude but successful attempts to catalogue the stars, the eye and telescope have been able to measure only such directions. We aim the telescope at a star, and record the direction in which it was pointed. Distances in astronomy can never be measured directly. All that we know of them has been obtained by calculations based upon the Newtonian law of gravitation and observations of directions.

Now the spectroscope seems to offer a sort of exception to this rule. Suppose we can measure the wave-lengths of the light sent us from a star. Suppose again that the star is itself moving swiftly toward us through space, while continually setting in motion the waves of light that are ultimately to reach the waiting astronomer. Evidently the light waves will be crowded together somewhat on account of the star's motion. More waves per second will reach us than would be received from a star at rest. It is as though the light waves were compressed or shortened a little. And if the star is leaving us, instead of coming nearer, opposite effects will occur. We have then but to compare spectroscopically starlight with some artificial source of light in the observatory in order to find out whether the star is approaching us or receding from us. And by a simple process of calculation this stellar motion can be obtained in miles per second. Thus we can now actually measure directly, in a certain sense, linear speed in stellar space, though we are still without the means of getting directly at stellar distances.

But the most wonderful thing of all about these spectroscopic measures is the fact that it makes no difference whatever how far away is the star under observation. What we learn through the spectroscope comes from a study of the waves themselves, and it is of no consequence how far they have travelled, or how long they have been a-coming. For it must not be supposed that these waves consume no time in passing from a distant star to our own solar system. It is true that they move exceeding fast; certainly 180,000 miles per second may be called rapid motion. But if this cosmic velocity of light is tremendous, so also are cosmic distances correspondingly vast. Light needs to move quickly coming from a star, for even at the rate of motion we have mentioned it requires many years to reach us from some of the more distant constellations. It has been well said that an observer on some far-away star, if endowed with the power to see at any distance, however great, might at this moment be looking on the Crusaders proceeding from Europe against the Saracen at Jerusalem. For it is quite possible that not until now has the light which would make the earth visible had time to reach him. Yet distant as such an observer might be, light from the star on which he stood could be measured in the spectroscope, and would infallibly tell us whether the earth and star are approaching in space or gradually drawing farther asunder.