Part 8

The spectroscope (p. 21) enables us to measure and count the waves reaching us each second from any source of light. No matter how far away the origin of stellar light may be, the spectroscope examines the character of that light, and tells us the number of waves set up every second. It is this characteristic of the instrument that has enabled us to make some of the most remarkable observations of modern times. If the distant star is approaching us in space, more light-waves per second will reach us than we should receive from the same star at rest. Thus if we find from the spectroscope that there are too many waves, we know that the star is coming nearer; and if there are too few, we can conclude with equal certainty that the star is receding.

Keeler was able to apply the spectroscope in this way to the planet Saturn and to the ring system. The observations required dexterity and observational manipulative skill in a superlative degree. These Keeler had; and this work of his will always rank as a classic observation. He found by examining the light-waves from opposite sides of the planet that the luminous ball rotated; for one side was approaching us and the other receding. This observation was, of course, in accord with the known fact of Saturn's rotation on his axis. With regard to the rings, Keeler showed in the same way the existence of an axial rotation, which appears not to have been satisfactorily proved before, strange as it may seem. But the crucial point established by his spectroscope was that the interior part of the rings rotates _faster_ than the exterior.

The velocity of rotation diminishes gradually from the inside to the outside. This fact is absolutely inconsistent with the motion of a solid ring; but it fits in admirably with the theory of a ring comprised of a vast assemblage of small separate particles. Thus, for the first time, astronomy comes into possession of an observational determination of the nature of Saturn's rings, and Galileo's puzzle is forever solved.

THE HELIOMETER

Astronomical discoveries are always received by the public with keen interest. Every new fact read in the great open book of nature is written eagerly into the books of men. For there exists a strong curiosity to ascertain just how the greater world is built and governed; and it must be admitted that astronomers have been able to satisfy that curiosity with no small measure of success. But it is seldom that we hear of the means by which the latest and most refined astronomical observations are effected. Popular imagination pictures the astronomer, as he doubtless once was, an aged gentleman, usually having a long white beard, and spending entire nights staring at the sky through a telescope.

But the facts to-day are very different. The working astronomer is an active man in the prime of life, often a young man. He wastes no time in star-gazing. His observations consist of exact measurements made in a precise, systematic, and almost business-like manner. A night's "watch" at the telescope is seldom allowed to exceed about three hours, since it is found that more continued exertions fatigue the eye and lead to less accurate results. To this, of course, there have been many notable exceptions, for endurance of sight, like any form of physical strength, differs greatly in different individuals. Astronomical research does not include "picking out" the constellations, and learning the Arabic names of individual stars. These things are not without interest; but they belong to astronomy's ancient history, and are of little value except to afford amusement and instruction to successive generations of amateurs.

Among the instruments for carefully planned measurements of precision the heliometer probably takes first rank. It is at once the most exquisitely accurate in its results, and the most fatiguing to the observer, of all the varied apparatus employed by the astronomer. The principle upon which its construction depends is very peculiar, and applies to all telescopes, even ordinary ones for terrestrial purposes. If part of a telescope lens be covered up with the hand, it will still be possible to see through the instrument. The glass lens at the end of the tube farthest from the observer's eye helps to magnify distant objects and make them seem nearer by gathering to a single point, or focus, a greater amount of their light than could be brought together by the far smaller lens in the unaided eye.

The telescope might very properly be likened to an enlarged eye, which can see more than we can, simply because it is bigger. If a telescope lens has a surface one hundred times as large as that of the lens in our eye, it will gather and bring to a focus one hundred times as much light from a distant object. Now, if any part of this telescope be covered, the remaining part will, nevertheless, gather and focus light just as though the whole lens were in action; only, there will be less light collected at the focus within the tube. The small lens at the telescope's eye-end is simply a magnifier to help our eye examine the image of any distant object formed at the focus by the large lens at the farther end of the instrument. For of this simple character is the operation of any telescope: the large glass lens at one end collects a distant planet's light, and brings it to a focus near the other end of the tube, where it forms a tiny picture of the planet, which, in turn, is examined with the little magnifier at the eye-end.

Having arrived at the fundamental principle that part of a lens will act in a manner similar to a whole one, it is easy to explain the construction of a heliometer. An ordinary telescope lens is sawed in half by means of a thin round metal disk revolved rapidly by machinery, and fed continually with emery and water at its edge. The cutting effect of emery is sufficient to make such a disk enter glass much as an ordinary saw penetrates wood. The two "semi-lenses," as they are called, are then mounted separately in metal holders. These are attached to one end of the heliometer, called the "head," in such a way that the two semi-lenses can slide side by side upon metal guides. This head is then fastened to one end of a telescope tube mounted in the usual way. The "head" end of the instrument is turned toward the sky in observing, and at the eye-end is placed the usual little magnifier we have already described.

The observer at the eye-end has control of certain rods by means of which he can push the semi-lenses on their slides in the head at the other end of the tube. Now, if he moves the semi-lenses so as to bring them side by side exactly, the whole arrangement will act like an ordinary telescope. For the semi-lenses will then fit together just as if the original glass had never been cut. But if the half-lenses are separated a little on their slides, each will act by itself. Being slightly separated, each will cover a different part of the sky. The whole affair acts as if the observer at the eye-end were looking through two telescopes at once. For each semi-lens acts independently, just as if it were a complete glass of only half the size.

Now, suppose there were a couple of stars in the sky, one in the part covered by the first semi-lens, and one in the part covered by the second. The observer would, of course, see both stars at once upon looking into the little magnifier at the eye-end of the heliometer.

We must remember that these stars will appear in the field of view simply as two tiny points of light. The astronomer, as we have said, is provided with a simple system of long rods, by means of which he can manipulate the semi-lenses while the observation is being made. If he slides them very slowly one way or the other, the two star-points in the field of view will be seen to approach each other. In this way they can at last be brought so near together that they will form but a single dot of light. Observation with the heliometer consists in thus bringing two star-images together, until at last they are superimposed one upon the other, and we see one image only. Means are provided by which it is then possible to measure the amount of separation of the two half-lenses. Evidently the farther asunder on the sky are the two stars under observation, the greater will be the separation of the semi-lenses necessary to make a single image of their light. Thus, measurement of the lenses' separation becomes a means of determining the separation of the stars themselves upon the sky.

The two slides in the heliometer head are supplied with a pair of very delicate measures or "scales" usually made of silver. These can be examined from the eye-end of the instrument by looking through a long microscope provided for this special purpose. Thus an extremely precise value is obtained both of the separation of the sliders and of the distance on the sky between the stars under examination. Measures made in this way with the heliometer are counted the most precise of astronomical observations.

Having thus described briefly the kind of observations obtained with the heliometer, we shall now touch upon their further utilization. We shall take as an example but one of their many uses--that one which astronomers consider the most important--the measurement of stellar distances. (See also p. 94.)

Even the nearest fixed star is almost inconceivably remote from us. And astronomers are imprisoned on this little earth; we cannot bridge the profound distance separating us from the stars, so as to use direct measurement with tape-line or surveyor's chain. We are forced to have recourse to some indirect method. Suppose a certain star is suspected, on account of its brightness, or for some other reason, of being near us in space, and so giving a favorable opportunity for a determination of distance. A couple of very faint stars are selected close by. These, on account of their faintness, the astronomer may regard as quite immeasurably far away. He then determines with his heliometer the exact position on the sky of the bright star with respect to the pair of faint ones. Half a year is then allowed to pass. During that time the earth has been swinging along in its annual path or orbit around the sun. Half a year will have sufficed to carry the observer on the earth to the other side of that path, and he is then 185,000,000 miles away from his position at the first observation.

Another determination is made of the bright star's position as referred to the two faint ones. Now, if all these stars were equally distant, their relative positions at the second observation would be just the same as at the former one. But if, as is very probable, the bright star is very much nearer us than are the two faint ones, we shall obtain a different position from our second observation. For the change of 185,000,000 miles in the observer's location will, of course, affect the direction in which we see the near star, while it will leave the distant ones practically unchanged. Without entering into technical details, we may say that from a large number of observations of this kind, we can obtain the distance of the bright star by a process of calculation. The only essential is to have an instrument that can make the actual observations of position accurately enough; and in this respect the heliometer is still unexcelled.

OCCULTATIONS

Scarcely anyone can have watched the sky without noticing how different is the behavior of our moon from that of any other object we can see. Of course, it has this in common with the sun and stars and planets, that it rises in the eastern horizon, slowly climbs the dome of the sky, and again goes down and sets in the west. This motion of the heavenly bodies is known to be an apparent one merely, and caused by the turning of our own earth upon its axis. A man standing upon the earth's surface can look up and see above him one-half the great celestial vault, gemmed with twinkling stars, and bearing, perhaps, within its ample curve one or two serenely shining planets and the lustrous moon. But at any given moment the observer can see nothing of the other half of the heavenly sphere. It is beneath his feet, and concealed by the solid bulk of the earth.

The earth, however, is turning on an axis, carrying the observer with it. And so it is continually presenting him to a new part of the sky. At any moment he sees but a single half-sphere; yet the very next instant it is no longer the same; a small portion has passed out of sight on one side by going down behind the turning earth, while a corresponding new section has come into view on the opposite side. It is this coming into view that we call the rising of a star; and the corresponding disappearance on the other side is called setting. Thus rising and setting are, of course, due entirely to a turning of the earth, and not at all to actual motions of the stars; and for this reason, all objects in the sky, without exception, must rise and set again. But the moon really has a motion of its own in addition to this apparent one caused by the earth's rotation.

Somewhere in the dawn of time early watchers of the stars thought out those fancied constellations that survive even down to our own day. They placed the mighty lion, king of beasts, upon the face of night, and the great hunter, too, armed with club and dagger, to pursue him. Among these constellations the moon threads her destined way, night after night, so rapidly that the unaided eye can see that she is moving. It needs but little power of fancy's magic to recall from the dim past a picture of some aged astronomer graving upon his tablets the Records of the Moon. "To-night she is near the bright star in the eye of the Bull." And again: "To-night she rides full, and near to the heart of the Virgin."

And why does the moon ride thus through the stars of night? Modern science has succeeded in disentangling the intricacies of her motion, until to-day only one or two of the very minutest details of that motion remain unexplained. But it has been a hard problem. Someone has well said that lunar theory should be likened to a lofty cliff upon whose side the intellectual giants among men can mark off their mental stature, but whose height no one of them may ever hope to scale.

But for our present purpose it is unnecessary to pursue the subject of lunar motion into its abstruser details. To understand why the moon moves rapidly among the stars, it is sufficient to remember that she is whirling quickly round the earth, so as to complete her circuit in a little less than a month. We see her at all times projected upon the distant background of the sky on which are set the stellar points of light, as though intended for beacons to mark the course pursued by moon and planets. The stars themselves have no such motions as the moon; situated at a distance almost inconceivably great, they may, indeed, be travellers through empty space, yet their journeys shrink into insignificance as seen from distant earth. It requires the most delicate instruments of the astronomer to so magnify the tiny displacements of the stars on the celestial vault that they may be measured by human eyes.

Let us again recur to our supposed observer watching the moon night after night, so as to record the stars closely approached by her. Why should he not some time or other be surprised by an approach so close as to amount apparently to actual contact? The moon covers quite a large surface on the sky, and when we remember the nearly countless numbers of the stars, it would, indeed, be strange if there were not some behind the moon as well as all around her.

A moment's consideration shows that this must often be the case; and in fact, if the moon's advancing edge be scrutinized carefully through a telescope, small stars can be seen frequently to disappear behind it. This is a most interesting observation. At first we see the moon and star near each other in the telescope's field of view. But the distance between them lessens perceptibly, even quickly, until at last, with a startling suddenness, the star goes out of sight behind the moon. After a time, ranging from a few moments to, perhaps, more than an hour, the moon will pass, and we can see the star suddenly reappear from behind the other edge.

These interesting observations, while not at all uncommon, can be made only very rarely by naked-eye astronomers. The reason is simple. The moon's light is so brilliant that it fairly overcomes the stars whenever they are at all near, except in the case of very bright ones. Small stars that can be followed quite easily up to the moon's edge in a good telescope, disappear from a naked-eye view while the moon is still a long distance away. But the number of very bright stars is comparatively small, so that it is quite unusual to find anyone not a professional astronomer who has actually seen one of these so-called "occultations." Moreover, most people are not informed in advance of the occurrence of an opportunity to make such observations, although they can be predicted quite easily by the aid of astronomical calculations. Sometimes we have occultations of planets, and these are the most interesting of all. When the moon passes between us and one of the larger planets, it is worth while to observe the phenomenon even without a telescope.

Up to this point we have considered occultations chiefly as being of interest to the naked-eye astronomer. Yet occultations have a real scientific value. It is by their means that we can, perhaps, best measure the moon's size. By noting with a telescope the time of disappearance and reappearance of known stars, astronomers can bring the direct measurement of the moon's diameter within the range of their numerical calculations. Sometimes the moon passes over a condensed cluster of stars like the Pleiades. The results obtainable on these occasions are valuable in a very high degree, and contribute largely to making precise our knowledge of the lunar diameter.

There is another thing of scientific interest about occultations, though it has lost some of its importance in recent years. When such an event has been observed, the agreement of the predicted time with that actually recorded by the astronomer offers a most searching test of the correctness of our theory of lunar motion. We have already called attention to the great inherent difficulty of this theory. It is easy to see that by noting the exact instant of disappearance of a star at a place on the earth the latitude and longitude of which are known, we can both check our calculations and gather material for improving our theory. The same principle can be used also in the converse direction. Within the limits of precision imposed by the state of our knowledge of lunar theory, we can utilize occultations to help determine the position on the earth of places whose longitude is unknown. It is a very interesting bit of history that the first determination of the longitude of Washington was made by means of occultations, and that this early determination led to the founding of the United States Naval Observatory.

On March 28, 1810, Mr. Pitkin, of Connecticut, reported to the House of Representatives on "laying a foundation for the establishment of a first meridian for the United States, by which a further dependence on Great Britain or any other foreign nation for such meridian may be entirely removed." This report was the result of a memorial presented by one William Lambert, who had deduced the longitude of the Capitol from an occultation observed October 20, 1804. Various proceedings were had in Congress and in committee, until at last, in 1821, Lambert was appointed "to make astronomical observations by lunar occultations of fixed stars, solar eclipses, or any approved method adapted to ascertain the longitude of the Capitol from Greenwich." Lambert's reports were made in 1822 and 1823, but ten years passed before the establishment of a formal Naval Observatory under Goldsborough, Wilkes, and Gilliss. But to Lambert belongs the honor of having marked out the first fundamental official meridian of longitude in the United States.

MOUNTING GREAT TELESCOPES

There are many interesting practical things about an astronomical observatory with which the public seldom has an opportunity to become acquainted. Among these, perhaps, the details connected with setting up a great telescope take first rank. The writer happened to be present at the Cape of Good Hope Observatory when the photographic equatorial telescope was being mounted, and the operation of putting it in position may be taken as typical of similar processes elsewhere. (See also p. 86.)

In the first place, it is necessary to explain what is meant by an "equatorial" telescope. One of the chief difficulties in making ordinary observations arises from the rising and setting of the stars. They are all apparently moving across the face of the sky, usually climbing up from the eastern horizon, only to go down again and set in the west. If, therefore, we wish to scrutinize any given object for a considerable time, we must move the telescope continuously so as to keep pace with the motion of the heavens. For this purpose, the tube must be attached to axles, so that it can be turned easily in any direction. The equatorial mounting is a device that permits the telescope to be thus aimed at any part of the sky, and at the same time facilitates greatly the operation of keeping it pointed correctly after a star has once been brought into the field of view.

To understand the equatorial mounting it is necessary to remember that the rising and setting motions of the heavenly bodies are apparent ones only, and due in reality to the turning of the earth on its own axis. As the earth goes around, it carries observer, telescope, and observatory past the stars fixed upon the distant sky. Consequently, to keep a telescope pointed continuously at a given star, it is merely necessary to rotate it steadily backward upon a suitable axis just fast enough to neutralize exactly the turning of our earth.

By a suitable axis for this purpose we mean one so mounted as to be exactly parallel to the earth's own axis of rotation. A little reflection shows how simply such an arrangement will work. All the heavenly bodies may be regarded, for practical purposes, as excessively remote in comparison with the dimensions of our earth. The entire planet shrinks into absolute insignificance when compared with the distances of the nearest objects brought under observation by astronomers. It follows that if we have our telescope attached to such a rotation-axis as we have described, it will be just the same for purposes of observation as though the telescope's axis were not only parallel to the earth's axis, but actually coincident with it. The two axes may be separated by a distance equal to that between the earth's surface and its centre; but, as we have said, this distance is insignificant so far as our present object is concerned.

There is another way to arrive at the same result. We know that the stars in rising and setting all seem to revolve about the pole star, which itself seems to remain immovable. Consequently, if we mount our telescope so that it can turn about an axis pointing at the pole, we shall be able to neutralize the rotation of the stars by simply turning the telescope about the axis at the proper speed and in the right direction. Astronomical considerations teach us that an axis thus pointing at the pole will be parallel to the earth's own axis. Thus we arrive at the same fundamental principle for mounting an astronomical telescope from whichever point of view we consider the subject.