Part 16

The world has always had to depend on astronomy for all its knowledge concerning times and seasons. The changes of the moon gave us the first month, and the year completes its round as the earth travels in its orbit. The results of astronomical observation are for us condensed into almanacs, which are now in such universal use that we never think of their astronomical origin. But in ancient times people had no almanacs, and they learned the time of year, or the number of days in the year, by observing the time when Sirius or some other bright star rose or set with the sun, or disappeared from view in the sun's rays. At Alexandria, in Egypt, the length of the year was determined yet more exactly by observing when the sun rose exactly in the east and set exactly in the west, a date which fixed the equinox for them as for us. More than seventeen hundred years ago, Ptolemy, the great author of The Almagest, had fixed the length of the year to within a very few minutes. He knew it was a little less than 365 1/2 days. The dates of events in ancient history depend very largely on the chronological cycles of astronomy. Eclipses of the sun and moon sometimes fixed the date of great events, and we learn the relation of ancient calendars to our own through the motions of the earth and moon, and can thus measure out the years for the events in ancient history on the same scale that we measure out our own.

At the present day, the work of the practical astronomer is made use of in our daily life throughout the whole country in yet another way. Our fore-fathers had to regulate their clocks by a sundial, or perhaps by a mark at the corner of the house, which showed where the shadow of the house fell at noon. Very rude indeed was this method; and it was uncertain for another reason. It is not always exactly twenty-four hours between two noons by the sun, Sometimes for two or three months the sun will make it noon earlier and earlier every day; and during several other months later and later every day. The result is that, if a clock is perfectly regulated, the sun will be sometimes a quarter of an hour behind it, and sometimes nearly the same amount before it. Any effort to keep the clock in accord with this changing sun was in vain, and so the time of day was always uncertain.

Now, however, at some of the principal observatories of the country astronomical observations are made on every clear night for the express purpose of regulating an astronomical clock with the greatest exactness. Every day at noon a signal is sent to various parts of the country by telegraph, so that all operators and railway men who hear that signal can set their clock at noon within two or three seconds. People who live near railway stations can thus get their time from it, and so exact time is diffused into every household of the land which is at all near a railway station, without the trouble of watching the sun. Thus increased exactness is given to the time on all our railroads, increased safety is obtained, and great loss of time saved to every one. If we estimated the money value of this saving alone we should no doubt find it to be greater than all that our study of astronomy costs.

It must therefore be conceded that, on the whole, astronomy is a science of more practical use than one would at first suppose. To the thoughtless man, the stars seem to have very little relation to his daily life; they might be forever hid from view without his being the worse for it. He wonders what object men can have in devoting themselves to the study of the motions or phenomena of the heavens. But the more he looks into the subject, and the wider the range which his studies include, the more he will be impressed with the great practical usefulness of the science of the heavens. And yet I think it would be a serious error to say that the world's greatest debt to astronomy was owing to its usefulness in surveying, navigation, and chronology. The more enlightened a man is, the more he will feel that what makes his mind what it is, and gives him the ideas of himself and creation which he possesses, is more important than that which gains him wealth. I therefore hold that the world's greatest debt to astronomy is that it has taught us what a great thing creation is, and what an insignificant part of the Creator's work is this earth on which we dwell, and everything that is upon it. That space is infinite, that wherever we go there is a farther still beyond it, must have been accepted as a fact by all men who have thought of the subject since men began to think at all. But it is very curious how hard even the astronomers found it to believe that creation is as large as we now know it to be. The Greeks had their gods on or not very far above Olympus, which was a sort of footstool to the heavens. Sometimes they tried to guess how far it probably was from the vault of heaven to the earth, and they had a myth as to the time it took Vulcan to fall. Ptolemy knew that the moon was about thirty diameters of the earth distant from us, and he knew that the sun was many times farther than the moon; he thought it about twenty times as far, but could not be sure. We know that it is nearly four hundred times as far.

When Copernicus propounded the theory that the earth moved around the sun, and not the sun around the earth, he was able to fix the relative distances of the several planets, and thus make a map of the solar system. But he knew nothing about the scale of this map. He knew, for example, that Venus was a little more than two-thirds the distance of the earth from the sun, and that Mars was about half as far again as the earth, Jupiter about five times, and Saturn about ten times; but he knew nothing about the distance of any one of them from the sun. He had his map all right, but he could not give any scale of miles or any other measurements upon it. The astronomers who first succeeded him found that the distance was very much greater than had formerly been supposed; that it was, in fact, for them immeasurably great, and that was all they could say about it.

The proofs which Copernicus gave that the earth revolved around the sun were so strong that none could well doubt them. And yet there was a difficulty in accepting the theory which seemed insuperable. If the earth really moved in so immense an orbit as it must, then the stars would seem to move in the opposite direction, just as, if you were in a train that is shunting off cars one after another, as the train moves back and forth you see its motion in the opposite motion of every object around you. If then the earth at one side of its orbit was exactly between two stars, when it moved to the other side of its orbit it would not be in a line between them, but each star would have seemed to move in the opposite direction.

For centuries astronomers made the most exact observations that they were able without having succeeded in detecting any such apparent motion among the stars. Here was a mystery which they could not solve. Either the Copernican system was not true, after all, and the earth did not move in an orbit, or the stars were at such immense distances that the whole immeasurable orbit of the earth is a mere point in comparison. Philosophers could not believe that the Creator would waste room by allowing the inconceivable spaces which appeared to lie between our system and the fixed stars to remain unused, and so thought there must be something wrong in the theory of the earth's motion.

Not until the nineteenth century was well in progress did the most skilful observers of their time, Bessel and Struve, having at command the most refined instruments which science was then able to devise, discover the reality of the parallax of the stars, and show that the nearest of these bodies which they could find was more than 400,000 times as far as the 93,000,000 of miles which separate the earth from the sun. During the half-century and more which has elapsed since this discovery, astronomers have been busily engaged in fathoming the heavenly depths. The nearest star they have been able to find is about 280,000 times the sun's distance. A dozen or a score more are within 1,000,000 times that distance. Beyond this all is unfathomable by any sounding-line yet known to man.

The results of these astronomical measures are stupendous beyond conception. No mere statement in numbers conveys any idea of it. Nearly all the brighter stars are known to be flying through space at speeds which generally range between ten and forty or fifty miles per second, some slower and some swifter, even up to one or two hundred miles a second. Such a speed would carry us across the Atlantic while we were reading two or three of these sentences. These motions take place some in one direction and some in another. Some of the stars are coming almost straight towards us. Should they reach us, and pass through our solar system, the result would be destructive to our earth, and perhaps to our sun.

Are we in any danger? No, because, however madly they may come, whether ten, twenty, or one hundred miles per second, so many millions of years must elapse before they reach us that we need give ourselves no concern in the matter. Probably none of them are coming straight to us; their course deviates just a hair's-breadth from our system, but that hair's-breadth is so large a quantity that when the millions of years elapse their course will lie on one side or the other of our system and they will do no harm to our planet; just as a bullet fired at an insect a mile away would be nearly sure to miss it in one direction or the other.

Our instrument makers have constructed telescopes more and more powerful, and with these the whole number of stars visible is carried up into the millions, say perhaps to fifty or one hundred millions. For aught we know every one of those stars may have planets like our own circling round it, and these planets may be inhabited by beings equal to ourselves. To suppose that our globe is the only one thus inhabited is something so unlikely that no one could expect it. It would be very nice to know something about the people who may inhabit these bodies, but we must await our translation to another sphere before we can know anything on the subject. Meanwhile, we have gained what is of more value than gold or silver; we have learned that creation transcends all our conceptions, and our ideas of its Author are enlarged accordingly.

AN ASTRONOMICAL FRIENDSHIP

There are few men with whom I would like so well to have a quiet talk as with Father Hell. I have known more important and more interesting men, but none whose acquaintance has afforded me a serener satisfaction, or imbued me with an ampler measure of a feeling that I am candid enough to call self-complacency. The ties that bind us are peculiar. When I call him my friend, I do not mean that we ever hobnobbed together. But if we are in sympathy, what matters it that he was dead long before I was born, that he lived in one century and I in another? Such differences of generation count for little in the brotherhood of astronomy, the work of whose members so extends through all time that one might well forget that he belongs to one century or to another.

Father Hell was an astronomer. Ask not whether he was a very great one, for in our science we have no infallible gauge by which we try men and measure their stature. He was a lover of science and an indefatigable worker, and he did what in him lay to advance our knowledge of the stars. Let that suffice. I love to fancy that in some other sphere, either within this universe of ours or outside of it, all who have successfully done this may some time gather and exchange greetings. Should this come about there will be a few--Hipparchus and Ptolemy, Copernicus and Newton, Galileo and Herschel--to be surrounded by admiring crowds. But these men will have as warm a grasp and as kind a word for the humblest of their followers, who has merely discovered a comet or catalogued a nebula, as for the more brilliant of their brethren.

My friend wrote the letters S. J. after his name. This would indicate that he had views and tastes which, in some points, were very different from my own. But such differences mark no dividing line in the brotherhood of astronomy. My testimony would count for nothing were I called as witness for the prosecution in a case against the order to which my friend belonged. The record would be very short: Deponent saith that he has at various times known sundry members of the said order; and that they were lovers of sound learning, devoted to the discovery and propagation of knowledge; and further deponent saith not.

If it be true that an undevout astronomer is mad, then was Father Hell the sanest of men. In his diary we find entries like these: "Benedicente Deo, I observed the Sun on the meridian to-day.... Deo quoque benedicente, I to-day got corresponding altitudes of the Sun's upper limb." How he maintained the simplicity of his faith in the true spirit of the modern investigator is shown by his proceedings during a momentous voyage along the coast of Norway, of which I shall presently speak. He and his party were passengers on a Norwegian vessel. For twelve consecutive days they had been driven about by adverse storms, threatened with shipwreck on stony cliffs, and finally compelled to take refuge in a little bay, with another ship bound in the same direction, there to wait for better weather.

Father Hell was philosopher enough to know that unusual events do not happen without cause. Perhaps he would have undergone a week of storm without its occurring to him to investigate the cause of such a bad spell of weather. But when he found the second week approaching its end and yet no sign of the sun appearing or the wind abating, he was satisfied that something must be wrong. So he went to work in the spirit of the modern physician who, when there is a sudden outbreak of typhoid fever, looks at the wells and examines their water with the microscope to find the microbes that must be lurking somewhere. He looked about, and made careful inquiries to find what wickedness captain and crew had been guilty of to bring such a punishment. Success soon rewarded his efforts. The King of Denmark had issued a regulation that no fish or oil should be sold along the coast except by the regular dealers in those articles. And the vessel had on board contraband fish and blubber, to be disposed of in violation of this law.

The astronomer took immediate and energetic measures to insure the public safety. He called the crew together, admonished them of their sin, the suffering they were bringing on themselves, and the necessity of getting back to their families. He exhorted them to throw the fish overboard, as the only measure to secure their safety. In the goodness of his heart, he even offered to pay the value of the jettison as soon as the vessel reached Drontheim.

But the descendants of the Vikings were stupid and unenlightened men--"educatione sua et professione homines crassissimi"--and would not swallow the medicine so generously offered. They claimed that, as they had bought the fish from the Russians, their proceedings were quite lawful. As for being paid to throw the fish overboard, they must have spot cash in advance or they would not do it.

After further fruitless conferences, Father Hell determined to escape the danger by transferring his party to the other vessel. They had not more than got away from the wicked crew than Heaven began to smile on their act--"factum comprobare Deus ipse videtur"--the clouds cleared away, the storm ceased to rage, and they made their voyage to Copenhagen under sunny skies. I regret to say that the narrative is silent as to the measure of storm subsequently awarded to the homines crassissimi of the forsaken vessel.

For more than a century Father Hell had been a well-known figure in astronomical history. His celebrity was not, however, of such a kind as the Royal Astronomer of Austria that he was ought to enjoy. A not unimportant element in his fame was a suspicion of his being a black sheep in the astronomical flock. He got under this cloud through engaging in a trying and worthy enterprise. On June 3, 1769, an event occurred which had for generations been anticipated with the greatest interest by the whole astronomical world. This was a transit of Venus over the disk of the sun. Our readers doubtless know that at that time such a transit afforded the most accurate method known of determining the distance of the earth from the sun. To attain this object, parties were sent to the most widely separated parts of the globe, not only over wide stretches of longitude, but as near as possible to the two poles of the earth. One of the most favorable and important regions of observation was Lapland, and the King of Denmark, to whom that country then belonged, interested himself in getting a party sent thither. After a careful survey of the field he selected Father Hell, Chief of the Observatory at Vienna, and well known as editor and publisher of an annual ephemeris, in which the movements and aspects of the heavenly bodies were predicted. The astronomer accepted the mission and undertook what was at that time a rather hazardous voyage. His station was at Vardo in the region of the North Cape. What made it most advantageous for the purpose was its being situated several degrees within the Arctic Circle, so that on the date of the transit the sun did not set. The transit began when the sun was still two or three hours from his midnight goal, and it ended nearly an equal time afterwards. The party consisted of Hell himself, his friend and associate, Father Sajnovics, one Dominus Borgrewing, of whom history, so far as I know, says nothing more, and an humble individual who in the record receives no other designation than "Familias." This implies, we may suppose, that he pitched the tent and made the coffee. If he did nothing but this we might pass him over in silence. But we learn that on the day of the transit he stood at the clock and counted the all-important seconds while the observations were going on.

The party was favored by cloudless weather, and made the required observations with entire success. They returned to Copenhagen, and there Father Hell remained to edit and publish his work. Astronomers were naturally anxious to get the results, and showed some impatience when it became known that Hell refused to announce them until they were all reduced and printed in proper form under the auspices of his royal patron. While waiting, the story got abroad that he was delaying the work until he got the results of observations made elsewhere, in order to "doctor" his own and make them fit in with the others. One went so far as to express a suspicion that Hell had not seen the transit at all, owing to clouds, and that what he pretended to publish were pure fabrications. But his book came out in a few months in such good form that this suspicion was evidently groundless. Still, the fears that the observations were not genuine were not wholly allayed, and the results derived from them were, in consequence, subject to some doubt. Hell himself considered the reflections upon his integrity too contemptible to merit a serious reply. It is said that he wrote to some one offering to exhibit his journal free from interlineations or erasures, but it does not appear that there is any sound authority for this statement. What is of some interest is that he published a determination of the parallax of the sun based on the comparison of his own observations with those made at other stations. The result was 8".70. It was then, and long after, supposed that the actual value of the parallax was about 8".50, and the deviation of Hell's result from this was considered to strengthen the doubt as to the correctness of his work. It is of interest to learn that, by the most recent researches, the number in question must be between 8".75 and 8".80, so that in reality Hell's computations came nearer the truth than those generally current during the century following his work.

Thus the matter stood for sixty years after the transit, and for a generation after Father Hell had gone to his rest. About 1830 it was found that the original journal of his voyage, containing the record of his work as first written down at the station, was still preserved at the Vienna Observatory. Littrow, then an astronomer at Vienna, made a critical examination of this record in order to determine whether it had been tampered with. His conclusions were published in a little book giving a transcript of the journal, a facsimile of the most important entries, and a very critical description of the supposed alterations made in them. He reported in substance that the original record had been so tampered with that it was impossible to decide whether the observations as published were genuine or not. The vital figures, those which told the times when Venus entered upon the sun, had been erased, and rewritten with blacker ink. This might well have been done after the party returned to Copenhagen. The case against the observer seemed so well made out that professors of astronomy gave their hearers a lesson in the value of truthfulness, by telling them how Father Hell had destroyed what might have been very good observations by trying to make them appear better than they really were.

In 1883 I paid a visit to Vienna for the purpose of examining the great telescope which had just been mounted in the observatory there by Grubb, of Dublin. The weather was so unfavorable that it was necessary to remain two weeks, waiting for an opportunity to see the stars. One evening I visited the theatre to see Edwin Booth, in his celebrated tour over the Continent, play King Lear to the applauding Viennese. But evening amusements cannot be utilized to kill time during the day. Among the works I had projected was that of rediscussing all the observations made on the transits of Venus which had occurred in 1761 and 1769, by the light of modern discovery. As I have already remarked, Hell's observations were among the most important made, if they were only genuine. So, during my almost daily visits to the observatory, I asked permission of the director to study Hell's manuscript, which was deposited in the library of the institution. Permission was freely given, and for some days I pored over the manuscript. It is a very common experience in scientific research that a subject which seems very unpromising when first examined may be found more and more interesting as one looks further into it. Such was the case here. For some time there did not seem any possibility of deciding the question whether the record was genuine. But every time I looked at it some new point came to light. I compared the pages with Littrow's published description and was struck by a seeming want of precision, especially when he spoke of the ink with which the record had been made. Erasers were doubtless unknown in those days--at least our astronomer had none on his expedition--so when he found he had written the wrong word he simply wiped the place off with, perhaps, his finger and wrote what he wanted to say. In such a case Littrow described the matter as erased and new matter written. When the ink flowed freely from the quill pen it was a little dark. Then Littrow said a different kind of ink had been used, probably after he had got back from his journey. On the other hand, there was a very singular case in which there had been a subsequent interlineation in ink of quite a different tint, which Littrow said nothing about. This seemed so curious that I wrote in my notes as follows:

"That Littrow, in arraying his proofs of Hell's forgery, should have failed to dwell upon the obvious difference between this ink and that with which the alterations were made leads me to suspect a defect in his sense of color."

The more I studied the description and the manuscript the stronger this impression became. Then it occurred to me to inquire whether perhaps such could have been the case. So I asked Director Weiss whether anything was known as to the normal character of Littrow's power of distinguishing colors. His answer was prompt and decisive. "Oh yes, Littrow was color-blind to red. He could not distinguish between the color of Aldebaran and the whitest star." No further research was necessary. For half a century the astronomical world had based an impression on the innocent but mistaken evidence of a color-blind man--respecting the tints of ink in a manuscript.

It has doubtless happened more than once that when an intimate friend has suddenly and unexpectedly passed away, the reader has ardently wished that it were possible to whisper just one word of appreciation across the dark abyss. And so it is that I have ever since felt that I would like greatly to tell Father Hell the story of my work at Vienna in 1883.

XVI