Part 38

Now, if the material of the streamers had been simply a superficial overflow, it should have carried with it into higher latitudes an excess of linear rotational speed, and should hence have pushed its way onward as it proceeded north and south. But, instead, it fell behind; its velocity was less, not greater, than that of the belts with which it eventually became incorporated. What are we to gather from this fact? Evidently that the currents issuing north and south were of eruptive origin. Their motion, in miles per second, was slow, because they belonged to profound strata of the planet’s interior. Their backward drift measured the depth from which they had been flung upward.

The spots, red, white, and black, constantly visible on the Jovian surface, excite the highest curiosity. They are of all kinds and qualities, and their histories and adventures are as diverse as they are in themselves. Some are quite evanescent; others last for years. At times they come in undistinguished crowds, like flocks of sheep, then a solitary spot will acquire notoriety on its own account. White spots appear in both ways; black spots more often in communities; and it is remarkable that the former frequent distinctively, though not exclusively, the Southern, the latter the Northern Hemisphere. Red spots, too, develop pretty freely; but the attention due to them has been mainly observed by one striking specimen.

The Great Red Spot has been present with us for at least nineteen years; and it is a moot point whether its beginnings were not watched by Cassini more than two centuries ago. Its modern conspicuousness, however, dates from 1878. Then of a full brick-red hue, and strongly marked contour, it measured 30,000 by nearly 7,000 miles, and might easily have inclosed three such bodies as the earth. It has since faded several times to the verge of extinction, and partially recovered; but there has never been a time when it ceased to dominate the planet’s surface-configuration. More than once it has been replaced by a bare elliptical outline, as if through an effusion of white matter into a mold previously filled with red matter; and just such a sketch was observed by Gledhill in 1870. The red spot is attached, on the polar side, to the southern equatorial belt. It might almost be described as jammed down upon it; for a huge gulf, bounded at one end by a jutting promontory, appears as if scooped out of the chocolate-colored material of the belt to make room for it. Absolute contact, nevertheless, seems impossible. The spot is surrounded by a shining aureola, which seemingly defends it against encroachments, and acts as a chevaux-de-frise to preserve its integrity. The formation thus constituted behaves like an irremovable obstacle in a strong current. The belt-stuff encounters its resistance, and rears itself up into a promontory or “shoulder,” testifying to the solid presence of the spot, even though it be temporarily submerged. The great red spot, the white aureola, and the brownish shoulder are indissolubly connected.

The spot is then no mere cloudy condensation. Yet it has no real fixity. Its period of rotation is inconstant. In 1870-80, it was of 9 hours, 55 minutes, 34 seconds; in 1885-86, it was longer by 7 seconds. The object had retrograded at a rate corresponding to one complete circuit of Jupiter in six years, or of the earth in seven months. It is not then fast moored, but floats at the mercy of the currents and breezes predominant in the strange region it navigates. A quiescent condition is implied by the approximate constancy of its rotation-period during the last ten years. With the paling of its color, its “proper motion” slackens or ceases. This must mean that, at its maxima of agitation, it is the scene of uprushes from great depths, which, bringing with them a slower linear velocity, occasion the observed laggings. It is not self-luminous, and shows no symptom of being depressed below the general level of the Jovian surface.

Jupiter has no certain and single period of rotation. Nearly all the spots that from time to time come into view on its disk are in relative motion, and thus give only individual results. The great red spot has the slowest drift of all (with the rarest exceptions), while the black cohorts of the Northern Hemisphere outmarch all competitors. Mr. Stanley Williams, as the upshot of long study, has delimitated nine atmospheric surfaces with definite periods. They are well marked, and evidently have some degree of permanence, yet the velocities severally belonging to them are distributed with extreme irregularity. Thus, two narrow, adjacent zones differ in movement by 400 miles an hour. This state of things must obviously be maintained by some constantly acting force, since friction, if unchecked, would very quickly abolish such enormous discrepancies. The rotational zones are unsymmetrically placed; there is no correspondence between those north and south of the Jovian equator; and, although the equatorial drift is quicker than that of either tropic, it is outdone in 20° to 24° north latitude.

Jupiter’s equatorial rotation, as indicated by observations of spots, is accomplished in 9 hours 50 minutes; but Bélopolsky and Deslandres’s spectrographic determinations gave rates of approach and recession falling somewhat short of the corresponding velocity.

Showing Varying Aspects of the Ring taken at Different Intervals: 1, Feb. 2, 1862; 2, Nov. 3, 1858; 3, March 23, 1856]

However this be, the rotation of the great planet, albeit ill-regulated (if the expression be permissible), is distinctly of the solar type. It is itself a “semi-sun,” showing no trace of a solid surface, but a continual succession of cloud-like masses belched forth from within. Jupiter’s low mean density, considered apart from every other circumstance, suffices to demonstrate the primitive nature of his state. In a sun-like body, the circulation is bodily and vertical. That the processes going on in Jupiter are of this kind is beyond question. Exchanges of hot and colder substances are effected, not by surface-flows, but by up and down rushes. The parallelism of his belts to his equator makes this visible to the eye. An occasional oblique streak betokens a current in latitude, but it is exceptional, and might be called out of character.

Jupiter’s true atmosphere encompasses the disturbed shell of vapors observed telescopically. Its general absorptive action upon light is betrayed by the darkening of the planet’s limb—another point of resemblance to the sun; while its special, or selective, absorption can only be detected with the spectroscope.

The actinic power of Jupiter’s light is very remarkable. It surpasses that of moonlight nine times, and that of Mars twenty-four times. Dr. Lohse further ascertained that the Southern Hemisphere is twice as chemically effective as the Northern. This superiority is doubtless connected with the greater physical agitation of the same region. A series of photographs of Jupiter, taken in 1891 with the great Lick refractor, were the first of any value for purposes of investigation.

Jupiter’s satellites were the first trophies of telescopic observation. They are, indeed, bright enough for naked-eye perception, could they be removed from the disk which obscures them with its excessive splendor; and the first and third have actually been seen, in despite of the glare, by a few persons with phenomenally good eyesight. The mythological titles of the Galilean group—Io, Europa, Ganymede, and Calypso (proceeding from within outward)—have been superseded by prosaic numbers.

The Jovian family presents an animated and attractive spectacle. The smallest of its original members (No. II) is almost exactly the size of our moon; the largest (No. III), with its diameter of 3,550 miles, considerably exceeds the modest proportions of Mercury. Satellite I revolves in 42½ hours at the same average distance from Jupiter’s surface that our moon does from that of the earth. No. II has a period of 3 days 13 hours, and its distance from Jupiter’s centre is 415,000 miles. Both these orbits are sensibly circular; and Nos. III and IV travel in ellipses of very small eccentricity, the one at a mean distance of 664,000, the other at 1,167,000 miles, in periods respectively of 7 days 4 hours, and 16 days 16½ hours. All four revolve strictly in the plane of Jupiter’s equator.

They constitute a system bound together by peculiar dynamical relations, in consequence of which they can never be all either eclipsed or seen aligned at one side of their primary at the same time. They can all, however, be simultaneously hidden behind it, or in its shadow; although this moonless condition is looked out for as a telescopic rarity.

The transits of the satellites across the Jovian disk present many curious appearances, due to complicated and changeable effects of light and shade both upon the planetary background and upon the little circular objects self-compared with it. These, in the ordinary course, show bright while near the dusky limb, then vanish during the central passage, and re-emerge again bright at the opposite side. But instead of duly vanishing, they now and then darken even to the point of becoming indistinguishable from their own shadows, by which they are preceded or followed. This difference of behavior can not be attributed wholly to varieties of lustre in the sections of the disk transited; otherwise it could be predicted. But this has never been attempted; “black transits” come when least expected. The third and fourth satellites are those chiefly subject to these phases; the second has never been known to exhibit them; and they but slightly affect the first. Indeed, all the satellites, except, perhaps, No. II, are striped or spotted; and this leads to seeming deformations in their shape, as well as fluctuations in their brightness, the markings being evidently of atmospheric origin, and hence changeable. Their distinct and accurate perception has been made possible by the excellence of the Lick 36-inch refractor.

Jupiter’s moons seem to resemble him in constitution. The first three possess the same high reflective power. No. II is as bright as the planet’s brightest parts, so that its albedo can not fall short of 0.70. And even No. IV (formerly designated “Calypso” in reference to its frequent obscurations) exactly matches, during its darkest phases, the blue-gray polar hoods of its primary. On an average, too, the satellites seem to be of about the same mean density as Jupiter, No. I being considerably the lightest for its bulk; and their spectra, according to Vogel’s observations in 1873, are composed of solar rays modified in precisely the same way as those reflected by the planet.

The discovery, September 9, 1892, of Jupiter’s “fifth satellite” was one of the keenest astronomical surprises on record. Professor Barnard seized the opportunity, lent by the specially favorable opposition of 1892, to rummage the system for novelties. Keeping the telescopic field dark by means of a metallic bar placed so as to occult the gorgeous planetary round, he sought, night after night, for what might appear. At length, on September 9, he caught the glimmer he wanted, and made sure, September 10, that it truly intimated the presence of a new satellite.

This small body revolves in a period of 11 hours, 57 minutes, 23 seconds at a mean distance of 112,160 miles from Jupiter’s centre, or 67,000 from his bulged equatorial surface. Hence, it should by right be called “No. I” instead of “No. V.” The major axis of the ellipse in which it circulates advances so rapidly, owing to the disturbance caused by Jupiter’s spheroidal figure, as to complete a revolution in five months. The implied eccentricity of its orbit, as M. Tisserand has shown, very slightly exceeds that of the orbit of Venus, yet it has been made obvious by Barnard’s observations of the differences between its east and west elongations. Its orbital velocity of 16½ miles a second far surpasses that of any other satellite in the solar system. Close vicinity to a mass so vast as Jupiter’s demands counterbalancing swiftness. Its period of revolution being, however, longer by one hour than Jupiter’s period of rotation, it so far conducts itself normally as to rise in the east and set in the west. On the other hand, since its progress over the sphere is measured by the difference between the two periods, it spends five Jovian days in journeying from one horizon to the other, running, in the meantime, four times through all its phases. Yet it never appears full. Jupiter’s voluminous shadow cuts off sunlight from it during nearly one-fifth of each circuit.

SATURN.—AGNES M. CLERKE

Nearly twice as far from the sun as Jupiter revolves a planet, the spacious orbit of which was, until 1781, supposed to mark the uttermost boundary of the Solar System. The mean radius of that orbit is 886 millions of miles; but in consequence of its eccentricity, the sun is displaced from its middle point to the extent of 50 million miles, and Saturn is accordingly 100 million miles nearer to him at perihelion than at aphelion. The immense round assigned to the “saturnine” planet is traversed in 29½ years, at the tardy pace of six miles a second. His seasons are thus twenty-nine times more protracted than ours, and are nominally more accentuated, since his axis of rotation deviates from the vertical by 27°. But solar heat, however distributed, plays an insignificant part in his internal economy. In the first place, its amount is only 1/91st its amount on the earth; in the second, Saturn, like Jupiter—even more than Jupiter—is thermally self-supporting. The bulk of his globe comparatively to its mass suffices in itself to make this certain. The mean diameter of Saturn is 71,000 miles, or nine times (very nearly) that of the earth; if of equal density, its mass should then be nine cubed, or 729 times the same unit. The actual proportion, however, is 95; hence the planet has a mean density of only 95/729th, or between 1/7th and 1/8th the terrestrial, and being thus composed of matter as light as cork, would float in water. Professor G. H. Darwin has, moreover, demonstrated, from the movements of its largest satellite, that its density gains markedly with descent into the interior, so that its surface-materials must be lighter than any known solid or liquid.

When at its nearest to the earth, Saturn is as large as a sixpence held up at a distance of 210 yards. But instead of being round like a sixpence, it is strongly compressed—more compressed even than Jupiter. The spectra of the two planets are almost identical. Both are impressed with traces of aqueous absorption, and include the “red star line.”

Saturn resembles to the eye a large, dull star; its rays are entirely devoid of the sparkling quality which distinguishes those of Jupiter. But it shows telescopically an analogous surface-structure. Its most conspicuous markings are tropical dark belts of a grayish or greenish hue; the equatorial region is light yellow, diversified by vague white spots; while the poles carry extensive pale blue canopies. The apparent tranquillity of the disk may be attributed in part to the vast distance from which it is viewed; yet not wholly.

From measures executed by Barnard in 1895, it appears that the equatorial diameter of Saturn is 76,470, its polar diameter 69,770 miles, giving a mean diameter of 74,240, and a compression of about 1/12th. Gravity, at its surface, is only 1/5th more powerful than on the earth.

Thus, Saturn not only belongs to the same celestial species as Jupiter, but is a closely related individual of that species. There is no probability that either is to any extent solid. Both exhibit the same type of markings; both betray internal tumults by eruptions of spots which, by their varying movements, supply a measure for the profundity of their origin; both possess identically constituted atmospheres, and are darkened marginally by atmospheric absorption.

Saturn is, however, distinguished by the possession of a unique set of appendages. Nothing like them is to be seen elsewhere in the heavens; and when well opened they form, with the globe they inclose, and the retinue of satellites in waiting outside, a strange and wonderful telescopic object. The rings, since they lie in the plane of Saturn’s equator, are inclined 27° to the Saturnian orbit, and 28° to the ecliptic. The earth is, however, comparatively to Saturn, so near the sun, that their variations in aspect, as viewed from it, may in a rough way be considered the same as if seen from the sun. They correspond exactly with the Saturnian seasons. At the Saturnian equinoxes, the rings are illuminated edgewise, and disappear, totally or approximately; at the Saturnian solstices, sunlight strikes them nearly at the full angle of 27°, first from below, then from above. At these epochs, we perceive the appendage expanded into an ellipse about half as wide as it is long. Two concentric rings (generally called A and B) are then very plainly distinguishable, the inner being the brighter. The black fissure which separates them is called “Cassini’s division,” because that eminent observer was, in 1675, the first to perceive it. A chasm known as “Encke’s division,” in the outer ring (A), is a thinning-out rather than an empty space; and temporary gaps frequently appear in A, while B is entirely exempt from them. There are then two definite and permanent bright rings, and no more; but with them is associated the dusky formation discovered by W. C. Bond, November 15, 1850, and described by Lassell as “something like a crape veil covering a part of the sky within the inner ring.” It is semi-transparent, the limb of Saturn showing distinctly through it.

The exterior diameter of the ring-system is 172,800, while its breadth is 42,300 miles. The rings A and C are each 11,000 miles wide; while B measures 18,000, Cassini’s division 2,270, and the clear interval between C and the planetary surface somewhat less than 6,000 miles. Each ring, C included, is brightest at its outer edge; but there is no gap between the shining and the dusky structures, B shading by insensible gradations up to C, yet maintaining distinctness from it. The earliest exact determinations of the former were made by Bradley in 1719, since when they have been affected by no appreciable change. The theoretically inevitable subversion of the system is progressing with extreme slowness.

The thickness of the rings is quite inconsiderable. They are flat sheets, without (so to speak) a third dimension. For this reason, they disappear utterly in most telescopes, when their plane passes through the earth, as it does twice in each Saturnian year. Only under exceptional conditions, a narrow, knotted, often nebulous, streak survives as an index to their whereabouts. On October 26, 1891, Professor Barnard, armed with the Lick refractor, found it impossible to see them projected upon the sky, notwithstanding that their shadow lay heavily on the planet. It was not until three days later that “slender threads of light” came into view. The corresponding thickness of the formation was estimated at less than fifty miles. The phenomenon of ring disappearance will not recur until July 29, 1907.

The constitution of this marvelous structure is no longer doubtful. It represents what might be called the fixed form of a revolving multitude of diminutive bodies. This was demonstrated by Clerk Maxwell in the Adams Prize Essay of 1857. His conclusion proved irreversible. The pulverulent composition of Saturn’s rings is one of the acquired truths of science. An incalculable number of tiny satellites revolving independently in distinct orbits, in the precise periods prescribed by their several distances from the planet, are aggregated into the unmatched appendages of Galileo’s tergeminus planeta. The local differences in their brightness depend upon the distribution of the component satelloids. Where they are closely packed, as in the outer margins of rings A and B, sunlight is copiously reflected; where the interspaces are wide, the blackness of the sky is barely veiled by the scanty rays thrown back from the thinly scattered cosmic dust. The appearance of the crape ring as a dark stripe on the planet results—as M. Seeliger has pointed out—not from the transits of the objects themselves, but from the flitting of their shadows in continual procession across the disk.

The albedo of these particles is so high as to render it improbable that they are of an earthy or rocky nature, such as the meteorites which penetrate our atmosphere. The rings they form are, on the whole, more lustrous than Saturn’s globe; but this superiority is held to be due to the absence of atmospheric absorption. Their spectrum is that of unmodified sunlight.