Myths and Marvels of Astronomy Richard A. Proctor 2302 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Myths and Marvels of
Astronomy
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Myths and Marvels of Astronomy

Author: Richard A. Proctor

Release date: September 8, 2008 [eBook #26556]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26556

Credits: Produced by Brenda Lewis, Scott Marusak, Greg Bergquist
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American
Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MYTHS AND
MARVELS OF ASTRONOMY ***

Transcriber’s Note
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections
is found at the end of the text.

LILLY'S HIEROGLYPHS (PUBLISHED IN 1651)

MYTHS AND MARVELS
OF ASTRONOMY

BY
RICHARD A. PROCTOR

AUTHOR OF
"ROUGH WAYS MADE SMOOTH," "THE EXPANSE OF HEAVEN," "OUR PLACE
AMONG INFINITIES," "PLEASANT WAYS IN SCIENCE,"
ETC., ETC.

NEW EDITION

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY
1896

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co

At the Ballantyne Press

PREFACE.
The chief charm of Astronomy, with many, does not reside in the wonders
revealed to us by the science, but in the lore and legends connected with its
history, the strange fancies with which in old times it has been associated,
the half-forgotten myths to which it has given birth. In our own times also,
Astronomy has had its myths and fancies, its wild inventions, and startling
paradoxes. My object in the present series of papers has been to collect
together the most interesting of these old and new Astronomical myths,
associating with them, in due proportion, some of the chief marvels which
recent Astronomy has revealed to us. To the former class belong the
subjects of the first four and the last five essays of the present series, while
the remaining essays belong to the latter category.

Throughout I have endeavoured to avoid technical expressions on the
one hand, and ambiguous phraseology (sometimes resulting from the
attempt to avoid technicality) on the other. I have, in fact, sought to present
my subjects as I should wish to have matters outside the range of my
special branch of study presented for my own reading.

RICHARD A. PROCTOR.

CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. Astrology 1
II. The Religion of the Great Pyramid 53
III. The Mystery of the Pyramids 78
IV. Swedenborg's Visions of Other Worlds 106
V. Other Worlds and Other Universes 135
VI. Suns in Flames 160
VII. The Rings of Saturn 191
VIII. Comets as Portents 212
IX. The Lunar Hoax 242
X. On some Astronomical Paradoxes 268
XI. On some Astronomical Myths 299
XII. The Origin of the Constellation-Figures 332

MYTHS AND MARVELS
OF
ASTRONOMY
I.
ASTROLOGY.
Signs and planets, in aspects sextile, quartile, trine, conjoined, or opposite; houses
of heaven, with their cusps, hours, and minutes; Almuten, Almochoden, Anahibazon,
Catahibazon; a thousand terms of equal sound and significance.—Guy Mannering.

... Come and see! trust thine own eyes.
A fearful sign stands in the house of life,
An enemy: a fiend lurks close behind
The radiance of thy planet—oh! be warned!—Coleridge.

Astrology possesses a real interest even in these days. It is true that no
importance attaches now even to the discussion of the considerations which
led to the rejection of judicial astrology. None but the most ignorant, and
therefore superstitious, believe at present in divination of any sort or kind
whatsoever. Divination by the stars holds no higher position than palmistry,
fortune-telling by cards, or the indications of the future which foolish
persons find in dreams, tea-dregs, salt-spilling, and other absurdities. But
there are two reasons which render the history of astrology interesting. In
the first place, faith in stellar influences was once so widespread that
astrological terminology came to form a part of ordinary language,
insomuch that it is impossible rightly to understand many passages of
ancient and mediæval literature, or rightly to apprehend the force of many
allusions and expressions, unless the significance of astrological teachings
to the men of those times be recognised. In the second place, it is interesting
to examine how the erroneous teachings of astrology were gradually
abandoned, to note the way in which various orders of mind rejected these
false doctrines or struggled to retain them, and to perceive how, with a large

proportion of even the most civilised races, the superstitions of judicial
astrology were long retained, or are retained even to this very day. The
world has still to see some superstitions destroyed which are as widely
received as astrology ever was, and which will probably retain their
influence over many minds long after the reasoning portion of the
community have rejected them.

Even so far back as the time of Eudoxus the pretensions of astrologers
were rejected, as Cicero informs us ('De Div.' ii. 42). And though the
Romans were strangely superstitious in such matters, Cicero reasons with
excellent judgment against the belief in astrology. Gassendi quotes the
argument drawn by Cicero against astrology, from the predictions of the
Chaldæans that Cæsar, Crassus, and Pompey would die 'in a full old age, in
their own houses, in peace and honour,' whose deaths, nevertheless, were
'violent, immature, and tragical.' Cicero also used an argument whose full
force has only been recognised in modern times. 'What contagion,' he
asked, 'can reach us from the planets, whose distance is almost infinite?' It
is singular that Seneca, who was well acquainted with the uniform character
of the planetary motions, seems to have entertained no doubt respecting
their influence. Tacitus expresses some doubts, but was on the whole
inclined to believe in astrology. 'Certainly,' he says, 'the majority of
mankind cannot be weaned from the opinion that at the birth of each man
his future destiny is fixed; though some things may fall out differently from
the predictions, by the ignorance of those who profess the art; and thus the
art is unjustly blamed, confirmed as it is by noted examples in all ages.'[1]

Probably, the doubt suggested by the different fortunes and characters of
men born at the same time must have occurred to many before Cicero dwelt
upon it. Pliny, who followed Cicero in this, does not employ the argument
quite correctly, for he says that, 'in every hour, in every part of the world,
are born lords and slaves, kings and beggars.' But of course, according to
astrological principles, it would be necessary that two persons, whose
fortunes were to be alike, should be born, not only in the same hour, but in
the same place. The fortunes and character of Jacob and Esau, however,

should manifestly have been similar, which was certainly not the case, if
their history has been correctly handed down to us. An astrologer of the
time of Julius Cæsar, named Publius Nigidius Figulus, used a singular
argument against such reasoning. When an opponent urged the different
fortunes of men born nearly at the same instant, Nigidius asked him to
make two contiguous marks on a potter's wheel which was revolving
rapidly. When the wheel was stopped, the two marks were found to be far
apart. Nigidius is said to have received the name of Figulus (the potter), in
remembrance of the story; but more probably he was a potter by trade, and
an astrologer only during those leisure hours which he could devote to
charlatanry. St. Augustine, who relates the story (which I borrow from
Whewell's 'History of the Inductive Sciences'), says, justly, that the
argument of Nigidius was as fragile as the ware made on the potter's wheel.

The belief must have been all but universal in those days that at the birth
of any person who was to hold an important place in the world's history the
stars would either be ominously conjoined, or else some blazing comet or
new star would make its appearance. For we know that some such object
having appeared, or some unusual conjunction of planets having occurred,
near enough to the time of Christ's birth to be associated in men's minds
with that event, it came eventually to be regarded as belonging to his
horoscope, and as actually indicating to the Wise Men of the East
(Chaldæan astrologers, doubtless) the future greatness of the child then
born. It is certain that that is what the story of the Star in the East means as
it stands. Theologians differ as to its interpretation in points of detail. Some
think the phenomenon was meteoric, others that a comet then made its
appearance, others that a new star shone out, and others that the account
referred to a conjunction of Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars, which occurred at
about that time. As a matter of detail it may be mentioned, that none of
these explanations in the slightest degree corresponds with the account, for
neither meteor, nor comet, nor new star, nor conjoined planets, would go
before travellers from the east, to show them their way to any place. Yet the
ancients sometimes regarded comets as guides. Whichever view we accept,

it is abundantly clear that an astrological significance was attached by the
narrator to the event. And not so very long ago, when astrologers first began
to see that their occupation was passing from them, the Wise Men of the
East were appealed to against the enemies of astrology,[2]—very much as
Moses was appealed to against Copernicus and Galileo, and more recently
to protect us against certain relationships which Darwin, Wallace, and
Huxley unkindly indicate for the human race divine.

Although astronomers now reject altogether the doctrines of judicial
astrology, it is impossible for the true lover of that science to regard
astrology altogether with contempt. Astronomy, indeed, owes much more to
the notions of believers in astrology than is commonly supposed. Astrology
bears the same relation to modern astronomy that alchemy bears to modern
chemistry. As it is probable that nothing but the hope of gain, literally in
this case auri sacra fames, would have led to those laborious researches of
the alchemists which first taught men how to analyse matter into its
elementary constituents, and afterwards to combine these constituents
afresh into new forms, so the belief that, by carefully studying the stars,
men might acquire the power of predicting future events, first directed
attention to the movements of the celestial bodies. Kepler's saying, that
astrology, though a fool, was the daughter of a wise mother,[3] does not by
any means present truly the relationship between astrology and astronomy.
Rather we may say that astrology and alchemy, though foolish mothers,
gave birth to those wise daughters, astronomy and chemistry. Even this way
of speaking scarcely does justice to the astrologers and alchemists of old
times. Their views appear foolish in the light of modern scientific
knowledge, but they were not foolish in relation to what was known when
they were entertained. Modern analysis goes far to demonstrate the
immutability, and, consequently, the non-transmutability of the metals,
though it is by no means so certain as many suppose that the present
position of the metals in the list of elements is really correct. Certainly a
chemist of our day would be thought very unwise who should undertake a
series of researches with the object of discovering a mineral having such

qualities as the alchemists attributed to the philosopher's stone. But when as
yet the facts on which the science of chemistry is based were unknown,
there was nothing unreasonable in supposing that such a mineral might
exist, or the means of compounding it be discovered. Nay, many arguments
from analogy might be urged to show that the supposition was altogether
probable. In like manner, though the known facts of astronomy oppose
themselves irresistibly to any belief in planetary influences upon the fates of
men and nations, yet before those facts were discovered it was not only not
unreasonable, but was in fact, highly reasonable to believe in such
influences, or at least that the sun, and moon, and stars moved in the
heavens in such sort as to indicate what would happen. If the wise men of
old times rejected the belief that 'the stars in their courses fought' for or
against men, they yet could not very readily abandon the belief that the stars
were for signs in the heavens of what was to befall mankind.

If we consider the reasoning now commonly thought valid in favour of
the doctrine that other orbs besides our earth are inhabited, and compare it
with the reasoning on which judicial astrology was based, we shall not find
much to choose between the two, so far as logical weight is concerned.
Because the only member of the solar system which we can examine
closely is inhabited, astronomers infer a certain degree of probability for the
belief that the other planets of the system are also inhabited. And because
the only sun we know much about is the centre of a system of planets,
astronomers infer that probably the stars, those other suns which people
space, are also the centres of systems; although no telescope which man can
make would show the members of a system like ours, attending on even the
nearest of all the stars. The astrologer had a similar argument for his belief.
The moon, as she circles around the earth, exerts a manifest influence upon
terrestrial matter—the tidal wave rising and sinking synchronously with the
movements of the moon, and other consequences depending directly or
indirectly upon her revolution around the earth. The sun's influence is still
more manifest; and, though it may have required the genius of a Herschel or
of a Stephenson to perceive that almost every form of terrestrial energy is

derived from the sun, yet it must have been manifest from the very earliest
times that the greater light which rules the day rules the seasons also, and,
in ruling them, provides the annual supplies of vegetable food, on which the
very existence of men and animals depends. If these two bodies, the sun and
moon, are thus potent, must it not be supposed, reasoned the astronomers of
old, that the other celestial bodies exert corresponding influences? We
know, but they did not know, that the moon rules the tides effectually
because she is near to us, and that the sun is second only to the moon in
tidal influence because of his enormous mass and attractive energy. We
know also that his position as fire, light, and life of the earth and its
inhabitants, is due directly to the tremendous heat with which the whole of
his mighty frame is instinct. Not knowing this, the astronomers of old times
had no sufficient reason for distinguishing the sun and moon from the other
celestial bodies, so far at least as the general question of celestial influences
was concerned.

So far as particulars were concerned, it was not altogether so clear to
them as it is to us, that the influence of the sun must be paramount in all
respects save tidal action, and that of the moon second only to the sun's in
other respects, and superior to his in tidal sway alone. Many writers on the
subject of life in other worlds are prepared to show (as Brewster attempts to
do, for example) that Jupiter and Saturn are far nobler worlds than the earth,
because superior in this or that circumstance. So the ancient astronomers, in
their ignorance of the actual conditions on which celestial influences
depend, found abundant reasons for regarding the feeble influences exerted
by Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars, as really more potent than those exerted by the
sun himself upon the earth. They reasoned, as Milton afterwards made
Raphaël reason, that 'great or bright infers not excellence,' that Saturn or
Jupiter, though 'in comparison so small, nor glist'ring' to like degree, may
yet 'of solid good contain more plenty than the sun.' Supposing the
influence of a celestial body to depend on the magnitude of its sphere, in the
sense of the old astronomy (according to which each planet had its proper
sphere, around the earth as centre), then the influence of the sun would be

judged to be inferior to that of either Saturn, Jupiter, or Mars; while the
influences of Venus and Mercury, though inferior to the influence of the
sun, would still be held superior to that of the moon. For the ancients
measured the spheres of the seven planets of their system by the periods of
the apparent revolution of those bodies around the celestial dome, and so set
the sphere of the moon innermost, enclosed by the sphere of Mercury,
around which in turn was the sphere of Venus, next the sun's, then, in order,
those of Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. We can readily understand how they
might come to regard the slow motions of the sphere of Saturn and Jupiter,
taking respectively some thirty and twelve years to complete a revolution,
as indicating power superior to the sun's, whose sphere seemed to revolve
once in a single year. Many other considerations might have been urged,
before the Copernican theory was established, to show that, possibly, some
of the planets exert influences more effective than those of the sun and
moon.

It is, indeed, clear that the first real shock sustained by astrology came
from the arguments of Copernicus. So long as the earth was regarded as the
centre round which all the celestial bodies move, it was hopeless to attempt
to shake men's faith in the influences of the stars. So far as I know, there is
not a single instance of a believer in the old Ptolemaic system who rejected
astrology absolutely. The views of Bacon—the last of any note who
opposed the system of Copernicus[4]—indicate the extreme limits to which
a Ptolemaist could go in opposition to astrology. It may be worth while to
quote Bacon's opinion in this place, because it indicates at once very
accurately the position held by believers in astrology in his day, and the
influence which the belief in a central fixed earth could not fail to exert on
the minds of even the most philosophical reasoners.

'Astrology,' he begins, 'is so full of superstition that scarce anything
sound can be discovered in it; though we judge it should rather be purged
than absolutely rejected. Yet if any one shall pretend that this science is
founded not in reason and physical contemplations, but in the direct
experience and observation of past ages, and therefore not to be examined

by physical reasons, as the Chaldæans boasted, he may at the same time
bring back divination, auguries, soothsaying, and give in to all kinds of
fables; for these also were said to descend from long experience. But we
receive astrology as a part of physics, without attributing more to it than
reason and the evidence of things allow, and strip it of its superstition and
conceits. Thus we banish that empty notion about the horary reign of the
planets, as if each resumed the throne thrice in twenty-four hours, so as to
leave three hours supernumerary; and yet this fiction produced the division
of the week,[5] a thing so ancient and so universally received. Thus likewise
we reject as an idle figment the doctrine of horoscopes, and the distribution
of the houses, though these are the darling inventions of astrology, which
have kept revel, as it were, in the heavens. And lastly, for the calculation of
nativities, fortunes, good or bad hours of business, and the like fatalities,
they are mere levities, that have little in them of certainty and solidity, and
may be plainly confuted by physical reasons. But here we judge it proper to
lay down some rules for the examination of astrological matters, in order to
retain what is useful therein, and reject what is insignificant. Thus, 1. Let
the greater revolutions be retained, but the lesser, of horoscopes and houses,
be rejected—the former being like ordnance which shoot to a great
distance, whilst the other are but like small bows, that do no execution. 2.
The celestial operations affect not all kinds of bodies, but only the more
sensible, as humours, air, and spirits. 3. All the celestial operations rather
extend to masses of things than to individuals, though they may obliquely
reach some individuals also which are more sensible than the rest, as a
pestilent constitution of the air affects those bodies which are least able to
resist it. 4. All the celestial operations produce not their effects
instantaneously, and in a narrow compass, but exert them in large portions
of time and space. Thus predictions as to the temperature of a year may
hold good, but not with regard to single days. 5. There is no fatal necessity
in the stars; and this the more prudent astrologers have constantly allowed.
6. We will add one thing more, which, if amended and improved, might
make for astrology—viz. that we are certain the celestial bodies have other
influences besides heat and light, but these influences act not otherwise than

by the foregoing rules, though they lie so deep in physics as to require a
fuller explanation. So that, upon the whole, we must register as needed,[6]
an astrology written in conformity with these principles, under the name of
Astrologia Sana.'

He then proceeds to show what this just astrology should comprehend—
as, 1, the doctrine of the commixture of rays; 2, the effect of nearest
approaches and farthest removes of planets to and from the point overhead
(the planets, like the sun, having their summer and winter); 3, the effects of
distance, 'with a proper enquiry into what the vigour of the planets may
perform of itself, and what through their nearness to us; for,' he adds, but
unfortunately without assigning any reason for the statement, 'a planet is
more brisk when most remote, but more communicative when nearest;' 4,
the other accidents of the planet's motions as they pursue
Their wand'ring course, now high, now low, then hid,
Progressive, retrograde, or standing still;

5, all that can be discovered of the general nature of the planets and
fixed stars, considered in their own essence and activity; 6, lastly, let this
just astrology, he says, 'contain, from tradition, the particular natures and
alterations of the planets and fixed stars; for' (here is a reason indeed) 'as
these are delivered with general consent, they are not lightly to be rejected,
unless they directly contradict physical considerations. Of such
observations let a just astrology be formed; and according to these alone
should schemes of the heavens be made and interpreted.'

The astrology thus regarded by Bacon as sane and just did not differ, as
to its primary object, from the false systems which now seem to us so
absurd. 'Let this astrology be used with greater confidence in prediction,'
says Bacon, 'but more cautiously in election, and in both cases with due
moderation. Thus predictions may be made of comets, and all kinds of
meteors, inundations, droughts, heats, frosts, earthquakes, fiery eruptions,
winds, great rains, the seasons of the year, plagues, epidemic diseases,
plenty, famine, wars, seditions, sects, transmigrations of people, and all

commotions, or great innovations of things, natural and civil. Predictions
may possibly be made more particular, though with less certainty, if, when
the general tendencies of the times are found, a good philosophical or
political judgment applies them to such things as are most liable to
accidents of this kind. For example, from a foreknowledge of the seasons of
any year, they might be apprehended more destructive to olives than grapes,
more hurtful in distempers of the lungs than the liver, more pernicious to
the inhabitants of hills than valleys, and, for want of provisions, to monks
than courtiers, etc. Or if any one, from a knowledge of the influence which
the celestial bodies have upon the spirits of mankind, should find it would
affect the people more than their rulers, learned and inquisitive men more
than the military, etc. For there are innumerable things of this kind that
require not only a general knowledge gained from the stars which are the
agents, but also a particular one of the passive subjects. Nor are elections to
be wholly rejected, though not so much to be trusted as predictions; for we
find in planting, sowing, and grafting, observations of the moon are not
absolutely trifling, and there are many particulars of this kind. But elections
are more to be curbed by our rules than predictions; and this must always be
remembered, that election only holds in such cases where the virtue of the
heavenly bodies, and the action of the inferior bodies also, is not transient,
as in the examples just mentioned; for the increases of the moon and planets
are not sudden things. But punctuality of time should here be absolutely
rejected. And perhaps there are more of these instances to be found in civil
matters than some would imagine.'

The method of inquiry suggested by Bacon as proper for determining the
just rules of the astrology he advocated, was, as might be expected, chiefly
inductive. There are, said he, 'but four ways of arriving at this science, viz.
—1, by future experiments; 2, past experiments; 3, traditions; 4, physical
reasons.' But he was not very hopeful as to the progress of the suggested
researches. It is vain, he said, to think at present of future experiments,
because many ages are required to procure a competent stock of them. As
for the past, it is true that past experiments are within our reach, 'but it is a

work of labour and much time to procure them. Thus astrologers may, if
they please, draw from real history all greater accidents, as inundations,
plagues, wars, seditions, deaths of kings, etc., as also the positions of the
celestial bodies, not according to fictitious horoscopes, but the above-
mentioned rules of their revolutions, or such as they really were at the time,
and, when the event conspires, erect a probable rule of prediction.'
Traditions would require to be carefully sifted, and those thrown out which
manifestly clashed with physical considerations, leaving those in full force
which complied with such considerations. Lastly, the physical reasons
worthiest of being enquired into are those, said Bacon, 'which search into
the universal appetites and passions of matter, and the simple genuine
motions of the heavenly bodies.'

It is evident there was much which, in our time at least, would be
regarded as wild and fanciful in the 'sound and just astrology' advocated by
Bacon. Yet, in passing, it may be noticed that even in our own time we have
seen similar ideas promulgated, not by common astrologers and fortune-
tellers (who, indeed, know nothing about such matters), but by persons
supposed to be well-informed in matters scientific. In a roundabout way, a
new astrology has been suggested, which is not at all unlike Bacon's
'astrologia sana,' though not based, as he proposed that astrology should be,
on experiment, or tradition, or physical reasons. It has been suggested, first,
that the seasons of our earth are affected by the condition of the sun in the
matter of spots, and very striking evidence has been collected to show that
this must be the case. For instance, it has been found that years when the
sun has been free from spots have been warmer than the average; and it has
also been found that such years have been cooler than the average: a
double-shotted argument wholly irresistible, especially when it is also found
that when the sun has many spots the weather has sometimes been
exceptionally warm and sometimes exceptionally cold. If this be not
considered sufficient, then note that in one country or continent or
hemisphere the weather, when the sun is most spotted (or least, as the case
may be), may be singularly hot, while in another country, continent, or

hemisphere, the weather may be as singularly cold. So with wind and calm,
rain and drought, and so forth. Always, whether the sun is very much
spotted or quite free from spots, something unusual in the way of weather
must be going on somewhere, demonstrating in the most significant way the
influence of sun-spots or the want of sun-spots on the weather. It is true that
captious minds might say that this method of reasoning proved too much in
many ways, as, for example, thus—always, whether the sun is very much
spotted or quite free from spots, some remarkable event, as a battle,
massacre, domestic tragedy on a large scale, or the like, may be going on,
demonstrating in the most significant way the influence of sun-spots or the
want of sun-spots on the passions of men—which sounds absurd. But the
answer is twofold. First, such reasoning is captious, and secondly, it is not
certain that sun-spots, or the want of them, may not influence human
passions; it may be worth while to enquire into this possible solar influence
as well as the other, which can be done by crossing the hands of the new
fortune-tellers with a sufficient amount of that precious metal which
astrologers have in all ages dedicated to the sun.

That the new system of divination is not solely solar, but partly planetary
also, is seen when we remember that the sun-spots wax and wane in periods
of time which are manifestly referable to the planetary motions. Thus, the
great solar spot-period lasts about eleven years, the successive spotless
epochs being separated on the average by about that time; and so nearly
does this period agree with the period of the planet Jupiter's revolution
around the sun, that during eight consecutive spot-periods the spots were
most numerous when Jupiter was farthest from the sun, and it is only by
going back to the periods preceding these eight that we find a time when the
reverse happened, the spots being most numerous when Jupiter was nearest
to the sun. So with various other periods which the ingenuity of Messrs. De
la Rue and Balfour Stewart has detected, and which, under the closest
scrutiny, exhibit almost exact agreement for many successive periods,
preceded and followed by almost exact disagreement. Here, again, the
captious may argue that such alternate agreements and disagreements may

be noted in every case where two periods are not very unequal, whether
there be any connection between them or not; but much more frequently
when there is no connection: and that the only evidence really proving a
connection between planetary motions and the solar spots would be
constant agreement between solar spot periods and particular planetary
periods. But the progress of science, and especially the possible erection of
a new observatory for finding out ('for a consideration') how sun-spots
affect the weather, etc., ought not to be interfered with by captious
reasoners in this objectionable manner. Nor need any other answer be given
them. Seeing, then, that sun-spots manifestly affect the weather and the
seasons, while the planets rule the sun-spots, it is clear that the planets
really rule the seasons. And again, seeing that the planets rule the seasons,
while the seasons largely affect the well-being of men and nations (to say
nothing of animals), it follows that the planets influence the fates of men
and nations (and animals). Quod erat demonstrandum.

Let us return, however, to the more reasonable astrology of the ancients,
and enquire into some of the traditions which Bacon considered worthy of
attention in framing the precepts of a sound and just astrology.

It was natural that the astrologers of old should regard the planetary
influences as depending in the main on the position of the celestial bodies
on the sky above the person or place whose fortunes were in question. Thus
two men at the same moment in Rome and in Persia would by no means
have the same horoscope cast for their nativities, so that their fortunes,
according to the principles of judicial astrology, would be quite different. In
fact it might happen that two men, born at the same instant of time, would
have all the principal circumstances of their lives contrasted—planets riding
high in the heavens of one being below the horizon of the other, and vice
versâ.

The celestial sphere placed as at the moment of the native's birth was
divided into twelve parts by great circles supposed to pass through the point

overhead, and its opposite, the point vertically beneath the feet. These
twelve divisions were called 'houses.'

Their position is illustrated in the following figure, taken from Raphaël's
Astrology.

The first, called the Ascendant House, was the portion rising above the
horizon at the east. It was regarded as the House of Life, the planets located
therein at the moment of birth having most potent influence on the life and
destiny of the native. Such planets were said to rule the ascendant, being in

the ascending house; and it is from this usage that our familiar expression
that such and such an influence is 'in the ascendant' is derived. The next
house was the House of Riches, and was one-third of the way from the east
below the horizon towards the place of the sun at midnight. The third was
the House of Kindred, short journeys, letters, messages, etc. It was two-
thirds of the way towards the place of the midnight sun. The fourth was the
House of Parents, and was the house which the sun reached at midnight.
The fifth was the House of Children and Women, also of all sorts of
amusements, theatres, banquets, and merry-making. The sixth was the
House of Sickness. The seventh was the House of Love and Marriage.
These three houses (the fifth, sixth, and seventh) followed in order from the
fourth, so as to correspond to the part of the sun's path below the horizon,
between his place at midnight and his place when descending in the west.
The seventh, opposite to the first, was the Descendant. The eighth house
was the first house above the horizon, lying to the west, and was the House
of Death. The ninth house, next to the mid-heaven on the west, was the
House of Religion, science, learning, books, and long voyages. The tenth,
which was in the mid-heaven, or region occupied by the sun at midday, was
the House of Honour, denoting credit, renown, profession or calling, trade,
preferment, etc. The eleventh house, next to the mid-heaven on the east,
was the House of Friends. Lastly, the twelfth house was the House of
Enemies.

The houses were not all of equal potency. The angular houses, which are
the first, the fourth, the seventh, and the tenth—lying east, north, west, and
south—were first in power, whether for good or evil. The second, fifth,
eighth, and eleventh houses were called succedents, as following the
angular houses, and next to them in power. The remaining four houses—
viz. the third, sixth, ninth, and twelfth houses—were called cadents, and
were regarded as weakest in influence. The houses were regarded as
alternately masculine and feminine: the first, third, fifth, etc., being
masculine; while the second, fourth, sixth, etc., were feminine.

The more particular significations of the various houses are shown in the
accompanying figure from the same book.

It will be easily understood how these houses were dealt with in erecting
a scheme of nativity. The position of the planets at the moment of the
native's birth, in the several houses, determined his fortunes with regard to
the various matters associated with these houses. Thus planets of good
influence in the native's ascendant, or first house, signified generally a
prosperous life; but if at the same epoch a planet of malefic influence was

in the seventh house, then the native, though on the whole prosperous,
would be unfortunate in marriage. A good planet in the tenth house signified
good fortune and honour in office or business, and generally a prosperous
career as distinguished from a happy life; but evil planets in the ninth house
would suggest to the native caution in undertaking long voyages, or
entering upon religious or scientific controversies.

Similar considerations applied to questions relating to horary astronomy,
in which the position of the planets in the various houses at some epoch
guided the astrologer's opinion as to the fortune of that hour, either in the
life of a man or the career of a State. In such inquiries, however, not only
the position of the planets, etc., at the time had to be considered, but also
the original horoscope of the person, or the special planets and signs
associated with particular States. Thus if Jupiter, the most fortunate of all
the planets, was in the ascendant, or in the House of Honour, at the time of
the native's birth, and at some epoch this planet was ill-aspected or afflicted
by other planets potent for evil in the native's horoscope, then that epoch
would be a threatening one in the native's career.

The sign Gemini was regarded by astrologers as especially associated
with the fortunes of London, and accordingly they tell us that the great fire
of London, the plague, the building of London Bridge, and other events
interesting to London, all occurred when this sign was in the ascendant, or
when special planets were in this sign.[7]

The signs of the zodiac in the various houses were in the first place to be
noted, because not only had these signs special powers in special houses,
but the effects of the planets in particular houses varied according to the
signs in which the planets were situated. If we were to follow the
description given by the astrologers themselves, not much insight would be
thrown upon the meaning of the zodiacal signs. For instance, astrologers
say that Aries is a vernal, dry, fiery, masculine, cardinal, equinoctial,
diurnal, movable, commanding, eastern, choleric, violent, and

quadrupedalian sign. We may, however, infer generally from their accounts
the influences which they assigned to the zodiacal signs.

Aries is the house and joy of Mars, signifies a dry constitution, long face
and neck, thick shoulders, swarthy complexion, and a hasty, passionate
temper. It governs the head and face, and all diseases relating thereto. It
reigns over England, France, Switzerland, Germany, Denmark, Lesser
Poland, Syria, Naples, Capua, Verona, etc. It is a masculine sign, and is
regarded as fortunate.

Taurus gives to the native born under his auspices a stout athletic frame,
broad bull-like forehead, dark curly hair, short neck, and so forth, and a dull
apathetic temper, exceedingly cruel and malicious if once aroused. It
governs the neck and throat, and reigns over Ireland, Great Poland, part of
Russia, Holland, Persia, Asia Minor, the Archipelago, Mantua, Leipsic, etc.
It is a feminine sign, and unfortunate.

Gemini is the house of Mercury. The native of Gemini will have a
sanguine complexion and tall, straight figure, dark eyes quick and piercing,
brown hair, active ways, and will be of exceedingly ingenious intellect. It
governs the arms and shoulders, and rules over the south-west parts of
England, America, Flanders, Lombardy, Sardinia, Armenia, Lower Egypt,
London, Versailles, Brabant, etc. It is a masculine sign, and fortunate.

Cancer is the house of the Moon and exaltation of Jupiter, and its native
will be of fair but pale complexion, round face, grey or mild blue eyes,
weak voice, the upper part of the body large, slender arms, small feet, and
an effeminate constitution. It governs the breast and the stomach, and reigns
over Scotland, Holland, Zealand, Burgundy, Africa, Algiers, Tunis, Tripoli,
Constantinople, New York, etc. It is a feminine sign, and unfortunate.

The native born under Leo will be of large body, broad shoulders,
austere countenance, with dark eyes and tawny hair, strong voice, and
leonine character, resolute and ambitious, but generous, free, and courteous.
Leo governs the heart and back, and reigns over Italy, Bohemia, France,

Sicily, Rome, Bristol, Bath, Taunton, Philadelphia, etc. It is a masculine
sign, and fortunate.

Virgo is the joy of Mercury. Its natives are of moderate stature, seldom
handsome, slender but compact, thrifty and ingenious. It governs the
abdomen, and reigns over Turkey both in Europe and Asia, Greece, and
Mesopotamia, Crete, Jerusalem, Paris, Lyons, etc. It is a feminine sign, and
generally unfortunate.

Libra is the house of Venus. The natives of Libra are tall and well made,
elegant in person, round-faced and ruddy, but plain-featured and 'inclined to
eruptions that disfigure the face when old; they' (the natives) 'are of sweet
disposition, just and upright in dealing.' It governs the lumbar regions, and
reigns over Austria, Alsace, Savoy, Portugal, Livonia, India, Ethiopia,
Lisbon, Vienna, Frankfort, Antwerp, Charleston, etc. It is a masculine sign,
and fortunate.

Scorpio is, like Aries, the house of Mars, 'and also his joy.' Its natives are
strong, corpulent, and robust, with large bones, 'dark curly hair and eyes'
(presumably the eyes dark only, not curly), middle stature, dusky
complexion, active bodies; they are usually reserved in speech. It governs
the region of the groin, and reigns over Judæa, Mauritania, Catalonia,
Norway, West Silesia, Upper Batavia, Barbary, Morocco, Valentia, Messina,
etc. It is feminine, and unfortunate. (It would appear likely, by the way, that
astrology was a purely masculine science.)

Sagittarius is the house and joy of Jupiter. Its natives are well formed
and tall, ruddy, handsome, and jovial, with fine clear eyes, chestnut hair,
and oval fleshy face. They are 'generally jolly fellows at either bin or board,'
active, intrepid, generous, and obliging. It governs the legs and thighs,[8]
and reigns over Arabia Felix, Spain, Hungary, Moravia, Liguria, Narbonne,
Cologne, Avignon, etc. It is masculine, and of course fortunate.

Capricorn is the house of Saturn and exaltation of Mars. This sign gives
to its natives a dry constitution and slender make, with a long thin visage,

thin beard (a generally goaty aspect, in fact), dark hair, long neck, narrow
chin, and weak knees. It governs, nevertheless, the knees and hams, and
reigns over India, Macedonia, Thrace and Greece, Mexico, Saxony, Wilna,
Mecklenburgh, Brandenburg, and Oxford. It is feminine, and unfortunate.

Aquarius also is the house of Saturn. Its natives are robust, steady,
strong, healthy, and of middle stature; delicate complexion, clear but not
pale, sandy hair, hazel eyes, and generally an honest disposition. It governs
the legs and ankles, and reigns over Arabia, Petræa, Tartary, Russia,
Denmark, Lower Sweden, Westphalia, Hamburg, and Bremen. It is
masculine, and fortunate.

Pisces is the house of Jupiter and exaltation of Venus. Its natives are
short, pale, thick-set, and round-shouldered (like fish), its character
phlegmatic and effeminate. It governs the feet and toes, and reigns over
Portugal, Spain, Egypt, Normandy, Galicia, Ratisbon, Calabria, etc. It is
feminine, and therefore, naturally, unfortunate.

Let us next consider the influences assigned to the various planets and
constellations.

Though we can understand that in old times the planets and stars were
regarded as exercising very potent influences upon the fates of men and
nations,[9] it is by no means easy to understand how astrologers came to
assign to each planet its special influence. That is, it is not easy to
understand how they could have been led to such a result by actual
reasoning, still less by any process of observation.[10] There was a certain
scientific basis for the belief in the possibility of determining the special
influences of the stars; and we should have expected to find some scientific
process adopted for the purpose. Yet, so far as can be judged, the influences
assigned to the planets depended on entirely fanciful considerations. In
some cases we seem almost to see the line along which the fancies of the
old astrologers led them, just as in some cases we can perceive how
mythological superstitions (which are closely related to astrological ideas)

had their origin; though it is not quite clear whether the planets were first
regarded as deities with special qualities, and these qualities afterwards
assigned to the planetary influences, or whether the planetary influences
were first assigned, and came eventually to be regarded as the qualities of
the deities associated with the several planets.

It is easy, for instance, to understand why astrologers should have
regarded the sun as the emblem of kingly power and dignity, and equally
easy to understand why, to the sun regarded as a deity, corresponding
qualities should have been ascribed; but it is not easy to determine whether
the astrological or the Sabaistic superstitions were the earlier. And in like
manner of the moon and planets. There seems to me no sufficient evidence
in favour of Whewell's opinion, that 'in whatever manner the sun, moon,
and planets came to be identified with gods and goddesses, the characters
ascribed to these gods and goddesses, regulated the virtues and powers of
the stars which bear their names.' As he himself very justly remarks, 'We do
not possess any of the speculations of the earlier astrologers; and we cannot,
therefore, be certain that the notions which operated in men's minds when
the art had its birth, agreed with the views on which it was afterwards
defended.' He does not say why he infers that, though at later periods
supported by physical analogies, it was originally suggested by
mythological beliefs. Quite as probably mythological beliefs were
suggested by astrological notions. Some of these beliefs, indeed, seem
manifestly to have been so suggested; as the character of the deity Mercury,
from the rapid motions of the planet Mercury, and the difficulty of detecting
it; the character of Mars from the blood-red hue of the planet when close to
the horizon, and so forth.

Let us examine, however, the characteristics ascribed by astrologers to
various planets.

It is unfortunate for astrology that, despite the asserted careful
comparison of events with the planetary positions preceding and indicating
them, nothing was ever observed which seemed to suggest the possibility

that there may be an unknown planet ruling very strongly the affairs of men.
Astrologers tell us now that Uranus is a very potent planet; yet the old
astrologers seem to have got on very well without him. By the way, one of
the moderns, the grave Raphaël, gives a very singular account of the
discovery of Uranus, in a book published sixteen years before Neptune was
discovered by just such a process as Raphaël imagined in the case of
Uranus. He says that Drs. Halley, Bradley, and others, having frequently
observed that Saturn was disturbed in his motion by some force exerted
from beyond his orbit, and being unable to account for the disturbance on
the known principles of gravitation, pursued their enquiry into the matter,
'till at length the discovery of this hitherto unknown planet covered their
labours with success, and has enabled us to enlarge our present solar system
to nearly double its bounds.' Of course there is not a word of truth in this;
Uranus having been discovered by accident long after Halley and Bradley
were in the grave. But the account suggests what might have been, and
curiously anticipates the actual manner in which Neptune was discovered.

Astrologers agree in attributing evil effects to Uranus. But the evil he
does is always peculiarly strange, unaccountable, and totally unexpected.
He causes the native born under his influence to be of a very eccentric and
original disposition, romantic, unsettled, addicted to change, a seeker after
novelty; though, if the moon or Mercury have a good aspect towards
Uranus, the native will be profound in the secret sciences, magnanimous,
and lofty of mind. But let all beware of marriage when Uranus is in the
seventh house, or afflicting the moon. And in general, let the fair sex
remember that Uranus is peculiarly hostile to them, and very evil in love.

Saturn is the Greater Infortune of the old system of astrology, and is by
universal experience acknowledged to be the most potent, evil, and
malignant of all the planets. Those born under him are of dark and pale
complexion, with small, black, leering eyes, thick lips and nostrils, large
ears, thin face, lowering looks, cloudy aspect, and seemingly melancholy
and unhappy; and though they have broad shoulders, they have but short
lips and a thin beard, They are in character austere and reserved, covetous,

laborious, and revengeful; constant in friendship, and good haters. The most
remarkable and certain characteristic of the Saturnine man is that, as an old
author observes 'he will never look thee in the face.' 'If they have to love
any one, these Saturnines,' says another old author, 'they love most
constantly; and if they hate, they hate to the death.' The persons signified
symbolically by Saturn are grandparents, and other old persons, day
labourers, paupers, beggars, clowns, husbandmen of the meaner sort, and
especially undertakers, sextons, and gravediggers. Chaucer thus presents the
chief effects which Saturn produces in the fortunes of men and nations—
Saturn himself being the speaker:—
... quod Saturne
My cours, that hath so wide for to turne,
Hath more power than wot any man.
Min is the drenching in the sea so wan,
Min is the prison in the derke cote,
Min is the strangel and hanging by the throte,
The murmure and the cherles rebelling,
The groyning, and the prive empoysoning,
I do vengaunce and pleine correction,
While I dwell in the signe of the leon;
Min is the ruine of the high halles,
The falling of the toures and of the walles
Upon the minour or the carpenter:
I slew Sampson in shaking the piler.
Min ben also the maladies colde,
The derke tresons, and the castes olde:
My loking is the fader of pestilence.

Jupiter, on the contrary, though Saturn's next neighbour in the solar
system, produces effects of an entirely contrary kind. He is, in fact, the most
propitious of all the planets, and the native born under his influence has
every reason to be jovial in fact as he is by nature. Such a native will be tall
and fair, handsome and erect, robust, ruddy, and altogether a good-looking
person, whether male or female. The native will also be religious, or at least
a good moral honest man, unless Jupiter be afflicted by the aspects of
Saturn, Mars, or Uranus; in which case he may still be a jolly fellow, no
man's enemy but his own—only he will probably be his own enemy to a

very considerable extent, squandering his means and ruining his health by
gluttony and intoxication. The persons represented by Jupiter (when he is
not afflicted) are judges, counsellors, church dignitaries, from cardinals to
curates, scholars, chancellors, barristers, and the highest orders of lawyers,
woollendrapers (possibly there may be some astral significance in the
woolsack), and clothiers. When Jupiter is afflicted, however, he denotes
quacks and mountebanks, knaves, cheats, and drunkards. The influence of
the planet on the fortunes is nearly always good. Astrologers, who to a man
reverence dignities, consider Great Britain fortunate in that the lady whom,
with customary effusion, they term 'Our Most Gracious Queen,' was born
when Jupiter was riding high in the heavens near his culmination, this
position promising a most fortunate and happy career. The time has passed
when the fortunes of this country were likely to be affected by such things;
but we may hope, for the lady's own sake, that this prediction has been
fulfilled. Astrologers assert the same about the Duke of Wellington,
assigning midnight, May 1, 1769, as the hour of his birth. There is some
doubt both as to the date and place of the great soldier's birth; but the
astrologer finds in the facts of his life the means of removing all such
doubts.[11]

Next in order comes Mars, inferior only in malefic influence to Saturn,
and called by the old astrologers the Lesser Infortune. The native born
under the influence of Mars is usually of fierce countenance, his eyes
sparkling, or sharp and darting, his complexion fiery or yellowish, and his
countenance scarred or furrowed. His hair is reddish or sandy, unless Mars
chances to be in a watery sign, in which case the hair will be flaxen; or in
an earthly sign, in which case the hair will be chestnut. The Martialist is
broad-shouldered, steady, and strong, but short,[12] and often bony and lean.
In character the Martialist is fiery and choleric, naturally delighting in war
and contention, but generous and magnanimous. This when Mars is well
aspected; should the planet be evil aspected, then will the native be
treacherous, thievish, treasonable, cruel, and wicked. The persons signified
by Mars are generals, soldiers, sailors (if he is in a watery sign), surgeons,

chemists, doctors, armourers, barbers, curriers, smiths, carpenters,
bricklayers, sculptors, cooks, and tailors. When afflicted with Mercury or
the moon, he denotes thieves, hangmen, and 'all cut throat people.' In fact,
except the ploughboy, who belongs to Saturn, all the members of the old
septet, 'tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, apothecary, ploughboy, thief,' are
favourites with Mars. The planet's influence is not quite so evil as Saturn's,
nor are the effects produced by it so long-lasting. 'The influence of Saturn,'
says an astrologer, 'may be compared to a lingering but fatal consumption;
that of Mars to a burning fever.' He is the cause of anger, quarrels, violence,
war, and slaughter.

The sun comes next; for it must be remembered that, according to the
old system of astronomy, the sun was a planet. Persons born under the sun
as the planet ruling their ascendant, would be more apt to be aware of the
fact than Saturnine, Jovial, Martial, or any other folk, because the hour of
birth, if remembered, at once determines whether the native is a solar
subject or not. The solar native has generally a round face (like pictures of
the sun in old books of astronomy), with a short chin; his complexion
somewhat sanguine; curling sandy hair, and a white tender skin. As to
character, he is bold and resolute, desirous of praise, of slow speech and
composed judgment; outwardly decorous, but privately not altogether
virtuous. The sun, in fact, according to astrologers, is the natural
significator of respectability; for which I can discover no reason, unless it
be that the sun travelling always in the ecliptic has no latitude, and so solar
folk are allowed none. When the sun is ill aspected, the native is both proud
and mean, tyrannical and sycophantic, exceedingly unamiable, and
generally disliked because of his arrogance and ignorant pomposity. The
persons signified by the sun are emperors, kings, and titled folk generally,
goldsmiths, jewellers, and coiners. When 'afflicted,' the sun signifies
pretenders either to power or knowledge. The sun's influence is not in itself
either good or evil, but is most powerful for good when he is favourably
aspected, and for evil when he is afflicted by other planets.

Venus, the next in order, bore the same relation to the Greater Fortune
Jupiter which Mars bore to Saturn the Greater Ill-fortune. She was the
Lesser Fortune, and her influence was in nearly all respects benevolent. The
persons born under the influence of this planet are handsome, with beautiful
sparkling hazel or black eyes (but another authority assigns the subject of
Venus, 'a full eye, usually we say goggle-eyed,' by which we do not usually
imply beauty), ruddy lips, the upper lip short, soft smooth hair, dimples in
the cheek and chin, an amorous look and a sweet voice. One old astrologer
puts the matter thus pleasantly:—'The native of Venus hath,' quoth he, 'a
love-dimple in the chin, a lovely mouth, cherry lips, and a right merry
countenance.' In character the native of Venus is merry 'to a fault,' but of
temper engaging, sweet and cheerful, unless she be ill aspected, when her
native is apt to be too fond of pleasure and amusement. That her influence
is good is shown (in the opinion of Raphaël, writing in 1828) by the
character of George IV., 'our present beloved monarch and most gracious
majesty, who was born just as this benevolent star' was in the ascendant; 'for
it is well known to all Europe what a refined and polished genius, and what
exquisite taste, the King of England possesses, which therefore may be
cited as a most illustrious proof of the celestial science; a proof likewise
which is palpably demonstrable, even to the most casual observer, since the
time of his nativity is taken from the public journals of the period, and
cannot be gainsaid.' 'This illustrious and regal horoscope is replete with
wonderful verifications of planetary influence, and England cannot but
prosper while she is blessed with the mild and beneficent sway of this
potent monarch.' Strengthened in faith by this convincing proof of the
celestial science, we proceed to notice that Venus is the protectrice of
musicians, embroiderers, perfumers, classic modellers, and all who work in
elegant attire or administer to the luxuries of the great; but when she is
afflicted, she represents 'the lower orders of the votaries of voluptuousness.'

Mercury is considered by astrologers 'a cold, dry, melancholy star.' The
Mercurial is neither dark nor fair, but between both, long-faced, with high
forehead and thin sharp nose, 'thin beard (many times none at all), slender

of body, and with small weak eyes;' long slender hands and fingers are
'especial marks of Mercury,' says Raphaël. In character the Mercurial is
busy and prattling. But when well affected, Mercury gives his subjects a
strong, vigorous, active mind, searching and exhaustive, a retentive
memory, a natural thirst for knowledge.[13] The persons signified by
Mercury are astrologers, philosophers, mathematicians, politicians,
merchants, travellers, teachers, poets, artificers, men of science, and all
ingenious, clever men. When he is ill affected, however, he represents
pettifoggers, cunning vile persons, thieves, messengers, footmen, and
servants, etc.

The moon comes last in planetary sequence, as nearest to the earth. She
is regarded by astrologers as a cold, moist, watery, phlegmatic planet,
variable to an extreme, and, like the sun, partaking of good or evil
according as she is aspected favourably or the reverse. Her natives are of
good stature, fair, and pale, moon-faced, with grey eyes, short arms, thick
hands and feet, smooth, corpulent and phlegmatic body. When she is in
watery signs, the native has freckles on the face, or, says Lilly, 'he or she is
blub-cheeked, not a handsome body, but a muddling creature.' Unless the
moon is very well aspected, she ever signifies an ordinary vulgar person.
She signifies sailors (not as Mars does, the fighting-men of war-ships, but
nautical folk generally) and all persons connected with water or any kind of
fluid; also all who are engaged in inferior and common offices.

We may note, in passing, that to each planet a special metal is assigned,
as also particular colours. Chaucer, in the Chanones Yemannes' Tale,
succinctly describes the distribution of the metals among the planets:—
Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpe;
Mars iren, Mercurie silver we clepe:
Saturnus led, and Jupiter is tin,
And Venus coper, by my [the Chanones Yemannes'] faderkin.

The colours are thus assigned:—to Saturn, black; to Jupiter, mixed red
and green; to Mars, red; to the sun, yellow or yellow-purple; to Venus,

white or purple; to Mercury, azure blue; to the moon, a colour spotted with
white and other mixed colours.

Again, the planets were supposed to have special influence on the seven
ages of human life. The infant, 'mewling and puking in the nurse's arms,'
was very appropriately dedicated to the moist moon; the whining schoolboy
(did schoolboys whine in the days of good Queen Bess?) was less
appropriately assigned to Mercury, the patron of those who eagerly seek
after knowledge: then very naturally, the lover sighing like furnace was
regarded as the special favourite of Venus. Thus far the order has been that
of the seven planets of the ancient astrology, in supposed distance. Now,
however, we have to pass over the sun, finding Mars the patron of mid life,
appropriately (in this respect) presiding over the soldier full of strange
oaths, and so forth; the 'justice in fair round belly with good capon lined' is
watched over by the respectable sun; maturer age by Jupiter; and, lastly, old
age by Saturn.

Colours were also assigned to the twelve zodiacal signs—to Aries, white
and red; to Taurus, white and lemon; to Gemini, white and red (the same as
Aries); to Cancer, green or russet; to Leo, red or green; to Virgo, black
speckled with blue; to Libra, black, or dark crimson, or tawny colour; to
Scorpio, brown; to Sagittarius, yellow, or a green sanguine (this is as
strange a colour as the gris rouge of Molière's L'Avare); Capricorn, black or
russet, or a swarthy brown; to Aquarius, a sky-coloured blue; to Pisces,
white glistening colour (like a fish just taken out of the water).

The chief fixed stars had various influences assigned to them by
astrologers. These influences were mostly associated with the imaginary
figures of the constellations. Thus the bright star in the head of Aries, called
by some the Ram's Horn, was regarded as dangerous and evil, denoting
bodily hurts. The star Menkar in the Whale's jaw denoted sickness,
disgrace, and ill-fortune, with danger from great beasts. Betelgeux, the
bright star on Orion's right shoulder, denoted martial honours or wealth;
Bellatrix, the star on Orion's left shoulder, denoted military or civic

honours; Rigel, on Orion's left foot, denoted honours; Sirius and Procyon,
the greater and lesser Dog Stars, both implied wealth and renown. Star
clusters seem to have portended loss of sight; at least we learn that the
Pleiades were 'eminent stars,' but denoting accidents to the sight or
blindness, while the cluster Præsepe or the Beehive in like manner
threatened blindness. The cluster in Perseus does not seem to have been
noticed by astrologers. The variable star Algol or Caput Medusæ, which
marks the head of Gorgon, was accounted 'the most unfortunate, violent,
and dangerous star in the heavens.' It is tolerably clear that the variable
character of this star had been detected long before Montanari (to whom the
discovery is commonly attributed) noticed the phenomenon. The name
Algol is only a variation of Al-ghúl, the monster or demon, and it cannot be
doubted that the demoniac, Gorgonian character assigned to this star was
suggested by its ominous change, as though it were the eye of some fierce
monster slowly winking amid the gloom of space. The two stars called the
Aselli, which lie on either side of the cluster Præsepe, 'are said' (by
astrologers) 'to be of a burning nature, and to give great indications of a
violent death, or of violent and severe accidents by fire.' The star called Cor
Hydræ, or the serpent's heart, denotes trouble through women (said I not
rightly that Astrology was a masculine science?); the Lion's heart, Regulus,
implied glory and riches; Deneb, the Lion's tail, misfortune and disgrace.
The southern scale of Libra meant bad fortune, while the northern was
eminently fortunate.

Astrology was divided into three distinct branches—the doctrine of
nativities, horary astrology, and state astrology. The first assigned the rules
for determining the general fortunes of the native, by drawing up his
scheme of nativity or casting his horoscope. It took into account the
positions of the various planets, signs, stars, etc., at the time of the native's
birth; and as the astrologer could calculate the movements of the planets
thereafter, he could find when those planets which were observed by the
horoscope to be most closely associated with the native's fortunes would be
well aspected or the reverse. Thus the auspicious and unlucky epochs of the

native's life could be predetermined. The astrologer also claimed some
degree of power to rule the planets, not by modifying their movements in
any way, but by indicating in what way the ill effects portended by their
positions could be prevented. The Arabian and Persian astrologers, having
less skill than the followers of Ptolemy, made use of a different method of
determining the fortunes of men, not calculating the positions of the planets
for many years following the birth of the native, but assigning to every day
after his birth a whole year of his life and for every two hours' motion of the
moon one month. Thus the positions of the stars and planets, twenty-one
days after the birth of the native, would indicate the events corresponding to
the time when he would have completed his twenty-first year. There was
another system called the Placidian, in which the effects of the positions of
the planets were judged with sole reference to the motion of the earth upon
her axis. It is satisfactory to find astrologers in harmony amongst each other
as to these various methods, which one would have supposed likely to give
entirely different results. 'Each of them,' says a modern astrologer, 'is not
only correct and approved by long-tried practice, but may be said to defy
the least contradiction from those who will but take the pains to examine
them (and no one else should deliver an opinion upon the subject).
Although each of the above methods are different, yet they by no means
contradict each other, but each leads to true results, and in many instances
they each lead to the foreknowledge of the same event; in which respect
they may be compared to the ascent of a mountain by different paths,
where, although some paths are longer and more difficult than others, they
notwithstanding all lead to the same object.' All which, though plausible in
tone labours under the disadvantage of being untrue.

Ptolemy is careful to point out, in his celebrated work the 'Tetrabiblos,'
that, of all events whatsoever which take place after birth, the most essential
is the continuance of life. 'It is useless,' he says, 'to consider what events
might happen to the native in later years if his life does not extend, for
instance, beyond one year. So that the enquiry into the duration of life takes
precedence of all others.' In order to deal properly with this question, it is

necessary to determine what planet shall be regarded as the Hyleg, Apheta,
or Lord of Life, for the native. Next the Anareta, or Destroyer of Life, must
be ascertained. The Anaretic planets are, by nature, Saturn, Mars, and
Uranus, though the sun, moon, and Mercury may be endowed with the same
fatal influence, if suitably afflicted. The various ways in which the Hyleg,
or Giver of Life, may be afflicted by the Anareta, correspond to the various
modes of death. But astrologers have always been singularly careful, in
casting horoscopes, to avoid definite reference to the native's death. There
are but few cases where the actual day of death is said to have been
assigned. One is related in Clarendon's 'History of the Rebellion.' He tells us
that William Earl of Pembroke died at the age of fifty, on the day upon
which his tutor Sandford had predicted his decease. Burton, the author of
the 'Anatomy of Melancholy,' having cast his own horoscope, and
ascertained that he was to die on January 23, 1639, is said to have
committed suicide in order that the accuracy of his calculations might not
be called in question. A similar story is related of Cardan by Dr. Young
(Sidrophel Vapulans), on the authority of Gassendi, who, however, says
only that either Cardan starved himself, or, being confident in his art, took
the predicted day for a fatal one, and by his fears made it so. Gassendi adds
that while Cardan pretended to describe the fates of his children in his
voluminous commentaries, he all the while never suspected, from the rules
of his great art, that his dearest son would be condemned in the flower of
his youth to be beheaded on a scaffold, by an executioner of justice, for
destroying his own wife by poison.

Horary astrology relates to particular questions, and is a comparatively
easy branch of the science. The art of casting nativities requires many years
of study; but horary astrology 'may be well understood,' says Lilly, 'in less
than a quarter of a year.' 'If a proposition of any nature,' he adds, 'be made to
any individual, about the result of which he is anxious, and therefore
uncertain whether to accede to it or not, let him but note the hour and
minute when it was first made, and erect a figure of the heavens, and his
doubts will be instantly resolved. He may thus in five minutes learn whether

the affair will succeed or not: and consequently whether it is prudent to
accept the offer made or not. If he examine the sign on the first house of the
figure, the planet therein, or the planet ruling the sign, will exactly describe
the party making the offer, both in person and character, and this may at
once convince the enquirer for truth of the reality of the principles of the
science. Moreover, the descending sign, etc., will describe his own person
and character—a farther proof of the truth of the science.'

There is one feature of horary astrology which is probably almost as
ancient as any portion of the science, yet which remains even to the present
day, and will probably remain for many years to come. I refer to the
influence which the planets were supposed to exert on the successive hours
of every day—a belief from which the division of time into weeks of seven
days unquestionably had its origin—though we may concede that the
subdivision of the lunar month into four equal parts was also considered in
selecting this convenient measure of time. Every hour had its planet. Now
dividing twenty-four by seven, we get three and three over; whence, each
day containing twenty-four hours, it follows that in each day the complete
series of seven planets was run through three times, and three planets of the
next series were used. The order of the planets was that of their distances, as
indicated above. Saturn came first, then Jupiter, Mars, the Sun, Venus,
Mercury, and the Moon. Beginning with Saturn, as ruling the first hour of
Saturn's day (Saturday), we get through the above series three times, and
have for the last three hours of the day, Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars. Thus the
next hour, the first hour of the next day, belongs to the sun—Sunday
follows Saturday. We again run three times through the series, and the three
remaining hours are governed by the sun, Venus, and Mercury,—giving the
moon as the first planet for the next day. Monday thus follows Sunday. The
last three hours of Monday are ruled by the moon, Saturn, and Jupiter;
leaving Mars to govern the next day—Martis dies, Mardi, Tuesday or
Tuisco's day. Proceeding in the same way, we get Mercury for the next day,
Mercurii dies, Mercredi, Wednesday or Woden's day; Jupiter for the next
day, Jovis dies, Jeudi, Thursday or Thor's day; Venus for the next day,

Veneris dies, Vendredi, Friday or Freya's day; and so we come to Saturday
again.[14]

The period of seven days, which had its origin in, and derived its
nomenclature from astrological ideas, shows by its wide prevalence how
widely astrological superstitions were once spread among the nations. As
Whewell remarks (though, for reasons which will readily be understood he
was by no means anxious to dwell upon the true origin of the Sabbatical
week), 'the usage is found over all the East; it existed among the Arabians,
Assyrians, and Egyptians. The same week is found in India, among the
Brahmins; it has there also its days marked by the names of the heavenly
bodies; and it has been ascertained that the same day has, in that country,
the name corresponding with its designation in other nations.... The period
has gone on without interruption or irregularity from the earliest recorded
times to our own days, traversing the extent of ages and the revolutions of
empires; the names of ancient deities, which were associated with the stars,
were replaced by those of the objects of the worship of our Teutonic
ancestors, according to their views of the correspondence of the two
mythologies; and the Quakers, in rejecting these names of days, have cast
aside the most ancient existing relic of astrological as well as idolatrous
superstition.

Not only do the names remain, but some of the observances connected
with the old astrological systems remain even to this day. As ceremonies
derived from Pagan worship are still continued, though modified in form,
and with a different interpretation, in Christian and especially Roman
Catholic observances, so among the Jews and among Christians the rites
and ceremonies of the old Egyptian and Chaldæan astrology are still
continued, though no longer interpreted as of yore. The great Jewish
Lawgiver and those who follow him seem, for example, to have recognised
the value of regular periods of rest (whether really required by man or
become a necessity through long habit), but to have been somewhat in
doubt how best to continue the practice without sanctioning the
superstitions with which it had been connected. At any rate two different

and inconsistent interpretations were given in the earlier and later codes of
law. But whether the Jews accepted the Sabbath because they believed that
an All-powerful Being, having created the world in six days, required and
took rest ('and was refreshed') on the seventh, as stated in Exodus (xx. 11
and xxxi. 17), or whether they did so in remembrance of their departure
from Egypt, as stated in Deuteronomy (v. 15), there can be no question that
among the Egyptians the Sabbath or Saturn's day was a day of rest because
of the malignant nature of the powerful planet-deity who presided over that
day. Nor can it be seriously doubted that the Jews descended from the old
Chaldæans, among whom (as appears from stone inscriptions recently
discovered) the very word Sabbath was in use for a seventh day of rest
connected with astrological observances, were familiar with the practice
even before their sojourn in Egypt. They had then probably regarded it as a
superstitious practice to be eschewed like those idolatrous observances
which had caused Terah to remove with Abraham and Lot from Ur of the
Chaldees. At any rate, we find no mention of the seventh day of rest as a
religious observance until after the Exodus.[15] It was not their only
religious observance having in reality an astrological origin. Indeed, if we
examine the Jewish sacrificial system as described in Numbers xxviii. and
elsewhere, we shall find throughout a tacit reference to the motions or
influences of the celestial bodies. There was the morning and evening
sacrifice guided by the movements of the sun; the Sabbath offering,
determined by the predominance of Saturn; the offering of the new moon,
depending on the motions of the moon; and lastly, the Paschal sacrifice,
depending on the combined movements of the sun and moon—made, in
fact, during the lunation following the sun's ascending passage of the
equator at the sign of Aries.

Let us return, however, after this somewhat long digression, to
astrological matters.

Horary astrology is manifestly much better fitted than the casting of
nativities for filling the pocket of the astrologer himself; because only one
nativity can be cast, but any number of horary questions can be asked. It is

on account of their skill in horary astrology that the Zadkiels of our own
time have occasionally found their way into the twelfth house, or House of
Enemies. Even Lilly himself, not devoting, it would seem, five minutes to
inquire into the probable success of the affair, was indicted in 1655 by a
half-witted young woman, because he had given judgment respecting stolen
goods, receiving two shillings and sixpence, contrary to an Act made under
and provided by the wise and virtuous King James, First of England and
Sixth of Scotland.

State astrology relates to the destinies of kingdoms, thrones, empires,
and may be regarded as a branch of horary science relating to subjects (and
rulers) of more than ordinary importance.

In former ages all persons likely to occupy an important position in the
history of the world had their horoscopes erected; but in these degenerate
days neither the casting of nativities nor the art of ruling the planets
flourishes as it should do. Our Zadkiels and Raphaëls publish, indeed, the
horoscopes of kings and emperors, princes and princesses, and so forth; but
their fate is as that of Benedict (according to Beatrice)—men 'wonder they
will still be talking, for nobody marks them.' Even those whose horoscopes
have been erected show no proper respect for the predictions made in their
behalf. Thus the Prince of Wales being born when Sagittarius was in the
ascendant should have been, according to Zadkiel, a tall man, with oval
face, ruddy complexion, somewhat dusky, and so forth; but I understand he
has by no means followed these directions as to his appearance. The sun,
being well aspected, prognosticated honours—a most remarkable and
unlooked-for circumstance, strangely fulfilled by the event; but then being
in Cancer, in sextile with Mars, the Prince of Wales was to be partial to
maritime affairs and attain naval glory, whereas as a field-marshal he can
only win military glory. (I would not be understood to say that he is not
quite as competent to lead our fleets as our battalions into action.) The
House of Wealth was occupied by Jupiter, aspected by Saturn, which
betokened great wealth through inheritance—a prognostication, says
Professor Miller, which is not unlikely to come true. The House of Marriage

was unsettled by the conflicting influences of Venus, Mars, and Saturn; but
the first predominating, the Prince, after some trouble in his matrimonial
speculations, was to marry a Princess of high birth, and one not undeserving
of his kindest and most affectionate attention, probably in 1862. As to the
date, an almanack informs me that the Prince married a Danish Princess in
March 1863, which looks like a most culpable neglect of the predictions of
our national astrologer. Again, in May 1870, when Saturn was stationary in
the ascending degree, the Prince ought to have been injured by a horse, and
also to have received a blow on the left side of the head, near the ear; but
reprehensibly omitted both these ceremonies. A predisposition to fever and
epileptic attacks was indicated by the condition of the House of Sickness.
The newspapers described, a few years since, a serious attack of fever; but
as most persons have some experience of the kind, the fulfilment of the
prediction can hardly be regarded as very wonderful. Epileptic attacks,
which, as less common, might have saved the credit of the astrologers, have
not visited 'this royal native.' The position of Saturn in Capricorn betokened
loss or disaster in one or other of the places ruled over by Capricorn—
which, as we have seen, are India, Macedonia, Thrace, Greece, Mexico,
Saxony, Wilna, Mecklenburgh, Brandenburgh, and Oxford. Professor Miller
expresses the hope that Oxford was the place indicated, and the disaster
nothing more serious than some slight scrape with the authorities of
Christchurch. But princes never get into scrapes with college dons.
Probably some one or other of the 'hair-breadth 'scapes' chronicled by the
reporters of his travels in India was the event indicated by the ominous
position of Saturn in Capricorn.

A remarkable list of characteristics were derived by Zadkiel from the
positions of the various planets and signs in the twelve houses of the 'royal
native.' Some, of course, were indicated in more ways than one, which will
explain the parenthetical notes in the following alphabetical table which
Professor Miller has been at the pains to draw up from Zadkiel's
predictions. The prince was to be 'acute, affectionate, amiable, amorous,
austere, avaricious, beneficent, benevolent, brave, brilliant, calculated for

government' (a quality which may be understood two ways), 'candid,
careful of his person, careless, compassionate, courteous (twice over),
delighting in eloquence, discreet, envious, fond of glory, fond of learning,
fond of music, fond of poetry, fond of sports, fond of the arts and sciences,
frank, full of expedients, generous (three times), gracious, honourable,
hostile to crime, impervious, ingenious, inoffensive, joyous, just (twice),
laborious, liberal, lofty, magnanimous, modest, noble, not easy to be
understood (!), parsimonious, pious (twice), profound in opinion, prone to
regret his acts, prudent, rash, religious, reverent, self-confident, sincere,
singular in mode of thinking, strong, temperate, unreserved, unsteady,
valuable in friendship, variable, versatile, violent, volatile, wily, and
worthy.' Zadkiel concludes thus:—'The square of Saturn to the moon will
add to the gloomy side of the picture, and give a tinge of melancholy at
times to the native's character, and also a disposition to look at the dark side
of things, and lead him to despondency; nor will he be at all of a sanguine
character, but cool and calculating, though occasionally rash. Yet, all things
considered, though firm and sometimes positive in opinion, this royal
native, if he live to mount the throne, will sway the sceptre of these realms
in moderation and justice, and be a pious and benevolent man, and a
merciful sovereign.' Fortunately, the time has long since passed when
swaying the sceptre of these realms had any but a figurative meaning, or
when Englishmen who obeyed their country's laws depended on the mercy
of any man, or when even bad citizens were judged by princes. But we still
prefer that princes should be well-mannered gentlemen, and therefore it is
sincerely to be hoped that Zadkiel's prediction, so far as it relates to piety
and benevolence, may be fulfilled, should this 'royal native' live to mount
the throne. As for mercy, it is a goodly quality even in these days and in this
country; for if the law no longer tolerates cruelty to men, even on the part of
princes, who once had prescribed rights in that direction, there are still
some cruel, nay brutal sports in which 'royal natives' might sometimes be
tempted to take part. Wherefore let us hope that, even in regard to mercy,
the predictions of astrologers respecting this 'royal native' may be fulfilled.

Passing however, from trivialities, let us consider the lessons which the
history of astrology teaches us respecting the human mind, its powers and
weaknesses. It has been well remarked by Whewell that for many ages
'mysticism in its various forms was a leading character both of the common
mind and the speculations of the most intelligent and profound reasoners.'
Thus mysticism was the opposite of that habit of thought which science
requires, 'namely, clear ideas, distinctly employed to connect well-
ascertained facts; inasmuch as the ideas in which it dealt were vague and
unstable, and the temper in which they were contemplated was an urgent
and aspiring enthusiasm, which could not submit to a calm conference with
experience upon even terms.' We have seen what has been the history of one
particular form of the mysticism of ancient and mediæval ages. If we had
followed the history of alchemy, magic, and other forms of mysticism, we
should have seen similar results. True science has gradually dispossessed
science falsely so called, until now none but the weaker minds hold by the
tenets formerly almost universally adopted. In mere numbers, believers in
the ancient superstitions may be by no means insignificant; but they no
longer have any influence. It has become a matter of shame to pay any
attention to what those few say or do who not merely hold but proclaim the
ancient faith in these matters. We can also see why this has been. In old
times enthusiasm usurped the place of reason in these cases; but opinions so
formed and so retained could not maintain their ground in the presence of
reasoning and experience. So soon as intelligent and thoughtful men
perceived that facts were against the supposed mysterious influences of the
stars, the asserted powers of magicians, the pretended knowledge of
alchemists, the false teachings of magic, alchemy, and astrology, were
rejected. The lesson thus learned respecting erroneous doctrines which were
once widely prevalent has its application in our time, when, though the
influence of those teachings has passed away, other doctrines formerly
associated with them still hold their ground. Men in old times, influenced
by erroneous teachings, wasted their time and energies in idle questionings
of the stars, vain efforts to find Arcana of mysterious power, and to acquire
magical authority over the elements. Is it altogether clear that in these our

times men are not hampered, prevented to some degree from doing all the
good they might do in the short life-time allotted to them, by doctrines of
another kind? Is there in our day no undue sacrifice of present good in idle
questionings? is there no tendency to trust in a vain fetishism to prevent or
remove evils which energy could avert or remedy? The time will come, in
my belief, when the waste of those energies which in these days are devoted
(not merely with the sanction, but the high approval, of some of the best
among us) to idle aims, will be deplored as regretfully—but, alas, as idly—
as the wasted speculations and labours of those whom Whewell has justly
called the most intelligent and profound reasoners of the 'stationary age' of
science. The words with which Whewell closes his chapter on the
'Mysticism of the Middle Ages' have their application to the mysticism of
the nineteenth century:—'Experience collects her stores in vain, or ceases to
collect them, when she can only pour them into the flimsy folds of the lap
of Mysticism, who is, in truth, so much absorbed in looking for the
treasures which are to fall from the skies, that she heeds little how scantily
she obtains, or how loosely she holds, such riches as she might find beside
her.'

II.
THE RELIGION OF THE GREAT PYRAMID.

During the last few years a new sect has appeared which, though as yet
small in numbers, is full of zeal and fervour. The faith professed by this sect
may be called the religion of the Great Pyramid, the chief article of their
creed being the doctrine that that remarkable edifice was built for the
purpose of revealing—in the fulness of time, now nearly accomplished—
certain noteworthy truths to the human race. The founder of the pyramid
religion is described by one of the present leaders of the sect as 'the late
worthy John Taylor, of Gower Street, London;' but hitherto the chief
prophets of the new faith have been in this country Professor Smyth,

Astronomer Royal for Scotland, and in France the Abbé Moigno. I propose
to examine here some of the facts most confidently urged by pyramidalists
in support of their views.

But it will be well first to indicate briefly the doctrines of the new faith.
They may be thus presented:

The great pyramid was erected, it would seem, under the instructions of
a certain Semitic king, probably no other than Melchizedek. By
supernatural means, the architects were instructed to place the pyramid in
latitude 30° north; to select for its figure that of a square pyramid, carefully
oriented; to employ for their unit of length the sacred cubit corresponding to
the 20,000,000th part of the earth's polar axis; and to make the side of the
square base equal to just so many of these sacred cubits as there are days
and parts of a day in a year. They were further, by supernatural help,
enabled to square the circle, and symbolised their victory over this problem
by making the pyramid's height bear to the perimeter of the base the ratio
which the radius of a circle bears to the circumference. Moreover, the great
precessional period, in which the earth's axis gyrates like that of some
mighty top around the perpendicular to the ecliptic, was communicated to
the builders with a degree of accuracy far exceeding that of the best modern
determinations, and they were instructed to symbolise that relation in the
dimensions of the pyramid's base. A value of the sun's distance more
accurate by far than modern astronomers have obtained (even since the
recent transit) was imparted to them, and they embodied that dimension in
the height of the pyramid. Other results which modern science has
achieved, but which by merely human means the architects of the pyramid
could not have obtained, were also supernaturally communicated to them;
so that the true mean density of the earth, her true shape, the configuration
of land and water, the mean temperature of the earth's surface, and so forth,
were either symbolised in the great pyramid's position, or in the shape and
dimensions of its exterior and interior. In the pyramid also were preserved
the true, because supernaturally communicated, standards of length, area,
capacity, weight, density, heat, time, and money. The pyramid also

indicated, by certain features of its interior structure, that when it was built
the holy influences of the Pleiades were exerted from a most effective
position—the meridian, through the points where the ecliptic and equator
intersect. And as the pyramid thus significantly refers to the past, so also it
indicates the future history of the earth, especially in showing when and
where the millennium is to begin. Lastly, the apex or crowning stone of the
pyramid was no other than the antitype of that stone of stumbling and rock
of offence, rejected by builders who knew not its true use, until it was
finally placed as the chief stone of the corner. Whence naturally, 'whosoever
shall fall upon it'—that is, upon the pyramid religion—'shall be broken; but
on whomsoever it shall fall it will grind him to powder.'

If we examine the relations actually presented by the great pyramid—its
geographical position, dimensions, shape, and internal structure—without
hampering ourselves with the tenets of the new faith on the one hand, or on
the other with any serious anxiety to disprove them, we shall find much to
suggest that the builders of the pyramid were ingenious mathematicians,
who had made some progress in astronomy, though not so much as they had
made in the mastery of mechanical and scientific difficulties.

The first point to be noticed is the geographical position of the great
pyramid, so far, at least, as this position affects the aspect of the heavens,
viewed from the pyramid as from an observatory. Little importance, I
conceive, can be attached to purely geographical relations in considering
the pyramid's position. Professor Smyth notes that the pyramid is peculiarly
placed with respect to the mouth of the Nile, standing 'at the southern apex
of the Delta-land of Egypt.' This region being shaped like a fan, the
pyramid, set at the part corresponding to the handle, was, he considers, 'that
monument pure and undefiled in its religion through an idolatrous land,
alluded to by Isaiah; the monument which was both "an altar to the Lord in
the midst of the land of Egypt, and a pillar at the border thereof," and
destined withal to become a witness in the latter days, and before the
consummation of all things, to the same Lord, and to what He hath
purposed upon man kind.' Still more fanciful are some other notes upon the

pyramid's geographical position: as (i.) that there is more land along the
meridian of the pyramid than on any other all the world round; (ii.) that
there is more land in the latitude of the pyramid than in any other; and (iii.)
that the pyramid territory of Lower Egypt is at the centre of the dry land
habitable by man all the world over.

It does not seem to be noticed by those who call our attention to these
points that such coincidences prove too much. It might be regarded as not a
mere accident that the great pyramid stands at the centre of the arc of shore-
line along which lie the outlets of the Nile; or it might be regarded as not a
mere coincidence that the great pyramid stands at the central point of all the
habitable land-surface of the globe; or, again, any one of the other relations
above mentioned might be regarded as something more than a mere
coincidence. But if, instead of taking only one or other of these four
relations, we take all four of them, or even any two of them, together, we
must regard peculiarities of the earth's configuration as the result of special
design which certainly have not hitherto been so regarded by geographers.
For instance, if it was by a special design that the pyramid was placed at the
centre of the Nile delta, and also by special design that the pyramid was
placed at the centre of the land-surface of the earth, if these two relations
are each so exactly fulfilled as to render the idea of mere accidental
coincidence inadmissible, then it follows, of necessity, that it is through no
merely accidental coincidence that the centre of the Nile delta lies at the
centre of the land-surface of the earth; in other words, the shore-line along
which lie the mouths of the Nile has been designedly curved so as to have
its centre so placed. And so of the other relations. The very fact that the four
conditions can be fulfilled simultaneously is evidence that a coincidence of
the sort may result from mere accident.[16] Indeed, the peculiarity of
geographical position which really seems to have been in the thoughts of
the pyramid architects, introduces yet a fifth condition which by accident
could be fulfilled along with the four others.

It would seem that the builders of the pyramid were anxious to place it in
latitude 30°, as closely as their means of observation permitted. Let us

consider what result they achieved, and the evidence thus afforded
respecting their skill and scientific attainments. In our own time, of course,
the astronomer has no difficulty in determining with great exactness the
position of any given latitude-parallel. But at the time when the great
pyramid was built it must have been a matter of very serious difficulty to
determine the position of any required latitude-parallel with a great degree
of exactitude. The most obvious way of dealing with the difficulty would
have been by observing the length of shadows thrown by upright posts at
noon in spring and autumn. In latitude 30° north, the sun at noon in spring
(or, to speak precisely, on the day of the vernal equinox) is just twice as far
from the horizon as he is from the point vertically overhead; and if a
pointed post were set exactly upright at true noon (supposed to occur at the
moment of the vernal or autumnal equinox), the shadow of the post would
be exactly half as long as a line drawn from the top of the pole to the end of
the shadow. But observations based on this principle would have presented
many difficulties to the architects of the pyramid. The sun not being a point
of light, but a globe, the shadow of a pointed rod does not end in a well-
defined point. The moment of true noon, which is not the same as ordinary
or civil noon, never does agree exactly with the time of the vernal or
autumnal equinox, and may be removed from it by any interval of time not
exceeding twelve hours. And there are many other circumstances which
would lead astronomers, like those who doubtless presided over the
scientific preparations for building the great pyramid, to prefer a means of
determining the latitude depending on another principle. The stellar heavens
would afford practically unchanging indications for their purpose. The stars
being all carried round the pole of the heavens, as if they were fixed points
in the interior of a hollow revolving sphere, it becomes possible to
determine the position of the pole of the star sphere, even though no bright
conspicuous star actually occupies that point. Any bright star close by the
pole is seen to revolve in a very small circle, whose centre is the pole itself.
Such a star is our present so-called pole-star; and, though in the days when
the great pyramid was built, that star was not near the pole, another, and
probably a brighter star lay near enough to the pole[17] to serve as a pole-

star, and to indicate by its circling motion the position of the actual pole of
the heavens. This was at that time, and for many subsequent centuries, the
leading star of the great constellation called the Dragon.

The pole of the heavens, we know, varies in position according to the
latitude of the observer. At the north pole it is exactly overhead; at the
equator the poles of the heavens are both on the horizon; and, as the
observer travels from the equator towards the north or south pole of the
earth, the corresponding pole of the heavens rises higher and higher above
the horizon. In latitude 30° north, or one-third of the way from the equator
to the pole, the pole of the heavens is raised one-third of the way from the
horizon to the point vertically overhead; and when this is the case the
observer knows that he is in latitude 30°. The builders of the great pyramid,
with the almost constantly clear skies of Egypt, may reasonably be
supposed to have adopted this means of determining the true position of
that thirtieth parallel on which they appear to have designed to place the
great building they were about to erect.

It so happens that we have the means of forming an opinion on the
question whether they used one method or the other; whether they
employed the sun or the stars to guide them to the geographical position
they required. In fact, were it not for this circumstance, I should not have
thought it worth while to discuss the qualities of either method. It will
presently be seen that the discussion bears importantly on the opinion we
are to form of the skill and attainments of the pyramid architects. Every
celestial object is apparently raised somewhat above its true position by the
refractive power of our atmosphere, being most raised when nearest the
horizon and least when nearest the point vertically overhead. This effect is,
indeed, so marked on bodies close to the horizon that if the astronomers of
the pyramid times had observed the sun, moon, and stars attentively when
so placed, they could not have failed to discover the peculiarity. Probably,
however, though they noted the time of rising and setting of the celestial
bodies, they only made instrumental observations upon them when these
bodies were high in the heavens. Thus they remained ignorant of the

refractive powers of the air.[18] Now, if they had determined the position of
the thirtieth parallel of latitude by observations of the noonday sun (in
spring or autumn), then since, owing to refraction, they would have judged
the sun to be higher than he really was, it follows that they would have
supposed the latitude of any station from which they observed to be lower
than it really was. For the lower the latitude the higher is the noonday sun at
any given season. Thus, when really in latitude 30° they would have
supposed themselves in a latitude lower than 30°, and would have travelled
a little further north to find the proper place, as they would have supposed,
for erecting the great pyramid. On the other hand, if they determined the
place from observations of the movements of stars near the pole of the
heavens, they would make an error of a precisely opposite nature. For the
higher the latitude the higher is the pole of the heavens; and refraction,
therefore, which apparently raises the pole of the heavens, gives to a station
the appearance of being in a higher latitude than it really is, so that the
observer would consider he was in latitude 30 north when in reality
somewhat south of that latitude. We have only then to inquire whether the
great pyramid was set north or south of latitude 30°, to ascertain whether
the pyramid architects observed the noonday sun or circumpolar stars to
determine their latitude; always assuming (as we reasonably may) that those
architects did propose to set the pyramid in that particular latitude, and that
they were able to make very accurate observations of the apparent positions
of the celestial bodies, but that they were not acquainted with the refractive
effects of the atmosphere. The answer comes in no doubtful terms. The
centre of the great pyramid's base lies about one mile and a third south of
the thirtieth parallel of latitude; and from this position the pole of the
heavens, as raised by refraction, would appear to be very near indeed to the
required position. In fact, if the pyramid had been set about half a mile still
farther south the pole would have seemed just right.

Of course, such an explanation as I have here suggested appears
altogether heretical to the pyramidalists. According to them the pyramid
architects knew perfectly well where the true thirtieth parallel lay, and knew

also all that modern science has discovered about refraction; but set the
pyramid south of the true parallel and north of the position where refraction
would just have made the apparent elevation of the pole correct, simply in
order that the pyramid might correspond as nearly as possible to each of
two conditions, whereof both could not be fulfilled at once. The pyramid
would indeed, they say, have been set even more closely midway between
the true and the apparent parallels of 30° north, but that the Jeezeh hill on
which it is set does not afford a rock foundation any farther north. 'So very
close,' says Professor Smyth, 'was the great pyramid placed to the northern
brink of its hill, that the edges of the cliff might have broken off under the
terrible pressure had not the builders banked up there most firmly the
immense mounds of rubbish which came from their work, and which Strabo
looked so particularly for 1800 years ago, but could not find. Here they
were, however, and still are, utilised in enabling the great pyramid to stand
on the very utmost verge of its commanding hill, within the limits of the
two required latitudes, as well as over the centre of the land's physical and
radial formation, and at the same time on the sure and proverbially wise
foundation of rock.'

The next circumstance to be noted in the position of the great pyramid
(as of all the pyramids) is that the sides are carefully oriented. This, like the
approximation to a particular latitude, must be regarded as an astronomical
rather than a geographical relation. The accuracy with which the orientation
has been effected will serve to show how far the builders had mastered the
methods of astronomical observation by which orientation was to be
secured. The problem was not so simple as might be supposed by those who
are not acquainted with the way in which the cardinal points are correctly
determined. By solar observations, or rather by the observations of shadows
cast by vertical shafts before and after noon, the direction of the meridian,
or north and south line, can theoretically be ascertained. But probably in
this case, as in determining the latitude, the builders took the stars for their
guide. The pole of the heavens would mark the true north; and equally the
pole-star, when below or above the pole, would give the true north, but, of

course, most conveniently when below the pole. Nor is it difficult to see
how the builders would make use of the pole-star for this purpose. From the
middle of the northern side of the intended base they would bore a slant
passage tending always from the position of the pole-star at its lower
meridional passage, that star at each successive return to that position
serving to direct their progress; while its small range, east and west of the
pole, would enable them most accurately to determine the star's true mid-
point below the pole; that is, the true north. When they had thus obtained a
slant tunnel pointing truly to the meridian, and had carried it down to a
point nearly below the middle of the proposed square base, they could, from
the middle of the base, bore vertically downwards, until by rough
calculation they were near the lower end of the slant tunnel; or both tunnels
could be made at the same time. Then a subterranean chamber would be
opened out from the slant tunnel. The vertical boring, which need not be
wider than necessary to allow a plumb-line to be suspended down it, would
enable the architects to determine the point vertically below the point of
suspension. The slant tunnel would give the direction of the true north,
either from that point or from a point at some known small distance east or
west of that point.[19] Thus, a line from some ascertained point near the
mouth of the vertical boring to the mouth of the slant tunnel would lie due
north and south, and serve as the required guide for the orientation of the
pyramid's base. If this base extended beyond the opening of the slant tunnel,
then, by continuing this tunnelling through the base tiers of the pyramid, the
means would be obtained of correcting the orientation.

This, I say, would be the course naturally suggested to astronomical
architects who had determined the latitude in the manner described above.
It may even be described as the only very accurate method available before
the telescope had been invented. So that if the accuracy of the orientation
appears to be greater than could be obtained by the shadow method, the
natural inference, even in the absence of corroborative evidence, would be
that the stellar method, and no other, had been employed. Now, in 1779,
Nouet, by refined observations, found the error of orientation measured by

less than 20 minutes of arc, corresponding roughly to a displacement of the
corners by about 37-1⁄2 inches from their true position, as supposed to be
determined from the centre; or to a displacement of a southern corner by 53
inches on an east and west line from a point due south of the corresponding
northern corner. This error, for a base length of 9140 inches, would not be
serious, being only one inch in about five yards (when estimated in the
second way). Yet the result is not quite worthy of the praise given to it by
Professor Smyth. He himself, however, by much more exact observations,
with an excellent altazimuth, reduced the alleged error from 20 minutes to
only 4-1⁄2, or to 9⁄40ths of its formerly supposed value. This made the total
displacement of a southern corner from the true meridian through the
corresponding northern corner, almost exactly one foot, or one inch in about
twenty-one yards—a degree of accuracy rendering it practically certain that
some stellar method was used in orienting the base.

Now there is a slanting tunnel occupying precisely the position of the
tunnel which should, according to this view, have been formed in order
accurately to orient the pyramid's base, assuming that the time of the
building of the pyramid corresponded with one of the epochs when the star
Alpha Draconis was distant 3° 42' from the pole of the heavens. In other
words, there is a slant tunnel directed northwards and upwards from a point
deep down below the middle of the pyramid's base, and inclined 26° 17' to
the horizon, the elevation of Alpha Draconis at its lower culmination when
3° 42' from the pole. The last epoch when the star was thus placed was
circiter 2160 b.c.; the epoch next before that was 3440 b.c. Between these
two we should have to choose, on the hypothesis that the slant tunnel was
really directed to that star when the foundations of the pyramid were laid.
For the next epoch before the earlier of the two named was about 28,000
b.c., and the pyramid's date cannot have been more remote than 4000 b.c.

The slant tunnel, while admirably fulfilling the requirements suggested,
seems altogether unsuited for any other. Its transverse height (that is, its
width in a direction perpendicular to its upper and lower faces) did not

amount to quite four feet; its breadth was not quite three feet and a half. It
was, therefore, not well fitted for an entrance passage to the subterranean
chamber immediately under the apex of the pyramid (with which chamber it
communicates in the manner suggested by the above theory). It could not
have been intended to be used for observing meridian transits of the stars in
order to determine sidereal time; for close circumpolar stars, by reason of
their slow motion, are the least suited of all for such a purpose. As Professor
Smyth says, in arguing against this suggested use of the star, 'no observer in
his senses, in any existing observatory, when seeking to obtain the time,
would observe the transit of a circumpolar star for anything else than to get
the direction of the meridian to adjust his instrument by.' (The italics are
his.) It is precisely such a purpose (the adjustment, however, not of an
instrument, but of the entire structure of the pyramid itself), that I have
suggested for this remarkable passage—this 'cream-white, stone-lined, long
tube,' where it traverses the masonry of the pyramid, and below that dug
through the solid rock to a distance of more than 350 feet.

Let us next consider the dimensions of the square base thus carefully
placed in latitude 30° north to the best of the builders' power, with sides
carefully oriented.

It seems highly probable that, whatever special purpose the pyramid was
intended to fulfil, a subordinate idea of the builders would have been to
represent symbolically in the proportions of the building such mathematical
and astronomical relations as they were acquainted with. From what we
know by tradition of the men of the remote time when the pyramid was
built, and what we can infer from the ideas of those who inherited, however
remotely, the modes of thought of the earliest astronomers and
mathematicians, we can well believe that they would look with superstitious
reverence on special figures, proportions, numbers, and so forth. Apart from
this, they may have had a quasi-scientific desire to make a lasting record of
their discoveries, and of the collected knowledge of their time.

It seems altogether probable, then, that the smaller unit of measurement
used by the builders of the great Pyramid was intended, as Professor Smyth
thinks, to be equal to the 500,000,000th part of the earth's diameter,
determined from their geodetical observations. It was perfectly within the
power of mechanicians and mathematicians so experienced as they
undoubtedly were—the pyramid attests so much—to measure with
considerable accuracy the length of a degree of latitude. They could not
possibly (always setting aside the theory of divine inspiration) have known
anything about the compression of the earth's globe, and therefore could not
have intended, as Professor Smyth supposes, to have had the 500,000,000th
part of the earth's polar axis, as distinguished from any other, for their unit
of length. But if they made observations in or near latitude 30° north on the
supposition that the earth is a globe, their probable error would exceed the
difference even between the earth's polar and equatorial diameters. Both
differences are largely exceeded by the range of difference among the
estimates of the actual length of the sacred cubit, supposed to have
contained twenty-five of these smaller units. And, again, the length of the
pyramid base-side, on which Smyth bases his own estimate of the sacred
cubit, has been variously estimated, the largest measure being 9168 inches,
and the lowest 9110 inches. The fundamental theory of the pyramidalists,
that the sacred cubit was exactly one 20,000,000th part of the earth's polar
diameter, and that the side of the base contained as many cubits and parts of
a cubit as there are days and parts of a day in the tropical year (or year of
seasons), requires that the length of the side should be 9140 inches, lying
between the limits indicated, but still so widely removed from either that it
would appear very unsafe to base a theory on the supposition that the exact
length is or was 9140 inches. If the measures 9168 inches and 9110 inches
were inferior, and several excellent measures made by practised observers
ranged around the length 9140 inches, the case would be different. But the
best recent measures gave respectively 9110 and 9130 inches; and Smyth
exclaims against the unfairness of Sir H. James in taking 9120 as 'therefore
the [probable] true length of the side of the great pyramid when perfect,'
calling this 'a dishonourable shelving of the honourable older observers

with their larger results.' The only other measures, besides these two, are
two by Colonel Howard Vyse and by the French savants, giving
respectively 9168 and 9163·44 inches. The pyramidalists consider 9140
inches a fair mean value from these four. The natural inference, however, is,
that the pyramid base is not now in a condition to be satisfactorily
measured; and assuredly no such reliance can be placed on the mean value
9140 inches that, on the strength of it, we should believe what otherwise
would be utterly incredible, viz. that the builders of the great pyramid knew
'both the size and shape of the earth exactly.' 'Humanly, or by human
science, finding it out in that age was, of course, utterly impossible,' says
Professor Smyth. But he is so confident of the average value derived from
widely conflicting base measures as to assume that this value, not being
humanly discoverable, was of necessity 'attributable to God and to His
Divine inspiration.' We may agree, in fine, with Smyth, that the builders of
the pyramid knew the earth to be a globe; that they took for their measure of
length the sacred cubit, which, by their earth measures, they made very
fairly approximate to the 20,000,000th part of the earth's mean diameter;
but there seems no reason whatever for supposing (even if the supposition
were not antecedently of its very nature inadmissible) that they knew
anything about the compression of the earth, or that they had measured a
degree of latitude in their own place with very wonderful accuracy.[20]

But here a very singular coincidence may be noticed, or, rather, is forced
upon our notice by the pyramidalists, who strangely enough recognise in it
fresh evidence of design, while the unbeliever finds in it proof that
coincidences are no sure evidence of design. The side of the pyramid
containing 365-1⁄4 times the sacred cubit of 25 pyramid inches, it follows
that the diagonal of the base contains 12,912 such inches, and the two
diagonals together contain 25,824 pyramid inches, or almost exactly as
many inches as there are years in the great precessional period. 'No one
whatever amongst men,' says Professor Smyth after recording various
estimates of the precessional period, 'from his own or school knowledge,
knew anything about such a phenomenon, until Hipparchus, some 1900

years after the great pyramid's foundation, had a glimpse of the fact; and yet
it had been ruling the heavens for ages, and was recorded in Jeezeh's
ancient structure.' To minds not moved to most energetic forgetfulness by
the spirit of faith, it would appear that when a square base had been decided
upon, and its dimensions fixed, with reference to the earth's diameter and
the year, the diagonals of the square base were determined also; and, if it so
chanced that they corresponded with some other perfectly independent
relation, the fact was not to be credited to the architects. Moreover it is
manifest that the closeness of such a coincidence suggests grave doubts
how far other coincidences can be relied upon as evidence of design. It
seems, for instance, altogether likely that the architects of the pyramid took
the sacred cubit equal to one 20,000,000th part of the earth's diameter for
their chief unit of length, and intentionally assigned to the side of the
pyramid's square base a length of just so many cubits as there are days in
the year; and the closeness of the coincidence between the measured length
and that indicated by this theory strengthens the idea that this was the
builder's purpose. But when we find that an even closer coincidence
immediately presents itself, which manifestly is a coincidence only, the
force of the evidence before derived from mere coincidence is pro tanto
shaken. For consider what this new coincidence really means. Its nature
may be thus indicated: Take the number of days in the year, multiply that
number by 50, and increase the result in the same degree that the diagonal
of a square exceeds the side—then the resulting number represents very
approximately the number of years in the great precessional period. The
error, according to the best modern estimates, is about one 575th part of the
true period. This is, of course, a merely accidental coincidence, for there is
no connection whatever in nature between the earth's period of rotation, the
shape of a square, and the earth's period of gyration. Yet this merely
accidental coincidence is very much closer than the other supposed to be
designed could be proved to be. It is clear, then, that mere coincidence is a
very unsafe evidence of design.

Of course the pyramidalists find a ready reply to such reasoning. They
argue that, in the first place, it may have been by express design that the
period of the earth's rotation was made to bear this particular relation to the
period of gyration in the mighty precessional movement: which is much as
though one should say that by express design the height of Monte Rosa
contains as many feet as there are miles in the 6000th part of the sun's
distance.[21] Then, they urge, the architects were not bound to have a square
base for the pyramid; they might have had an oblong or a triangular base,
and so forth—all which accords very ill with the enthusiastic language in
which the selection of a square base had on other accounts been applauded.

Next let us consider the height of the pyramid. According to the best
modern measurements, it would seem that the height when (if ever) the
pyramid terminated above in a pointed apex, must have been about 486
feet. And from the comparison of the best estimates of the base side with
the best estimates of the height, it seems very likely indeed that the
intention of the builders was to make the height bear to the perimeter of the
base the same ratio which the radius of a circle bears to the circumference.
Remembering the range of difference in the base measures it might be
supposed that the exactness of the approximation to this ratio could not be
determined very satisfactorily. But as certain casing stones have been
discovered which indicate with considerable exactness the slope of the
original plane-surfaces of the pyramid, the ratio of the height to the side of
the base may be regarded as much more satisfactorily determined than the
actual value of either dimension. Of course the pyramidalists claim a degree
of precision indicating a most accurate knowledge of the ratio between the
diameter and the circumference of a circle; and the angle of the only casing
stone measured being diversely estimated at 51° 50' and 51° 52-1⁄4', they
consider 50° 51' 14·3" the true value, and infer that the builders regarded
the ratio as 3·14159 to 1. The real fact is, that the modern estimates of the
dimensions of the casing stones (which, by the way, ought to agree better if
these stones are as well made as stated) indicate the values 3·1439228 and
3·1396740 for the ratio; and all we can say is, that the ratio really used lay

probably between these limits, though it may have been outside either. Now
the approximation of either is not remarkably close. It requires no
mathematical knowledge at all to determine the circumference of a circle
much more exactly. 'I thought it very strange,' wrote a circle-squarer once to
De Morgan (Budget of Paradoxes, p. 389), 'that so many great scholars in
all ages should have failed in finding the true ratio, and have been
determined to try myself.' 'I have been informed,' proceeds De Morgan, 'that
this trial makes the diameter to the circumference as 64 to 201, giving the
ratio equal to 3·1410625 exactly. The result was obtained by the discoverer
in three weeks after he first heard of the existence of the difficulty. This
quadrator has since published a little slip and entered it at Stationers' Hall.
He says he has done it by actual measurement; and I hear from a private
source that he uses a disc of twelve inches diameter which he rolls upon a
straight rail.' The 'rolling is a very creditable one; it is as much below the
mark as Archimedes was above it. Its performer is a joiner who evidently
knows well what he is about when he measures; he is not wrong by 1 in
3000.' Such skilful mechanicians as the builders of the pyramid could have
obtained a closer approximation still by mere measurement. Besides, as
they were manifestly mathematicians, such an approximation as was
obtained by Archimedes must have been well within their power; and that
approximation lies well within the limits above indicated. Professor Smyth
remarks that the ratio was 'a quantity which men in general, and all human
science too, did not begin to trouble themselves about until long, long ages,
languages, and nations had passed away after the building of the great
pyramid; and after the sealing up, too, of that grand primeval and
prehistoric monument of the patriarchal age of the earth according to
Scripture.' I do not know where the Scripture records the sealing up of the
great pyramid; but it is all but certain that during the very time when the
pyramid was being built astronomical observations were in progress which,
for their interpretation, involved of necessity a continual reference to the
ratio in question. No one who considers the wonderful accuracy with which,
nearly two thousand years before the Christian era, the Chaldæans had
determined the famous cycle of the Saros, can doubt that they must have

observed the heavenly bodies for several centuries before they could have
achieved such a success; and the study of the motions of the celestial bodies
compels 'men to trouble themselves' about the famous ratio of the
circumference to the diameter.

We now come upon a new relation (contained in the dimensions of the
pyramid as thus determined) which, by a strange coincidence, causes the
height of the pyramid to appear to symbolise the distance of the sun. There
were 5813 pyramid inches, or 5819 British inches, in the height of the
pyramid according to the relations already indicated. Now, in the sun's
distance, according to an estimate recently adopted and freely used,[22] there
are 91,400,000 miles or 5791 thousand millions of inches—that is, there are
approximately as many thousand millions of inches in the sun's distance as
there are inches in the height of the pyramid. If we take the relation as exact
we should infer for the sun's distance 5819 thousand millions of inches, or
91,840,000 miles—an immense improvement on the estimate which for so
many years occupied a place of honour in our books of astronomy. Besides,
there is strong reason for believing that, when the results of recent
observations are worked out, the estimated sun distance will be much nearer
this pyramid value than even to the value 91,400,000 recently adopted. This
result, which one would have thought so damaging to faith in the evidence
from coincidence—nay, quite fatal after the other case in which a close
coincidence had appeared by merest accident—is regarded by the
pyramidalist as a perfect triumph for their faith.

They connect it with another coincidence, viz. that, assuming the height
determined in the way already indicated, then it so happens that the height
bears to half a diagonal of the base the ratio 9 to 10. Seeing that the
perimeter of the base symbolises the annual motion of the earth round the
sun, while the height represents the radius of a circle with that perimeter, it
follows that the height should symbolise the sun's distance. 'That line,
further,' says Professor Smyth (speaking on behalf of Mr. W. Petrie, the
discoverer of this relation), 'must represent' this radius 'in the proportion of
1 to 1,000,000,000' (or ten raised to power nine), 'because amongst other

reasons 10 to 9 is practically the shape of the great pyramid.' For this
building 'has such an angle at the corners, that for every ten units its
structure advances inwards on the diagonal of the base, it practically rises
upwards, or points to sunshine' (sic) 'by nine. Nine, too, out of the ten
characteristic parts (viz. five angles and five sides) being the number of
those parts which the sun shines on in such a shaped pyramid, in such a
latitude near the equator, out of a high sky, or, as the Peruvians say, when
the sun sets on the pyramid with all its rays.' The coincidence itself on
which this perverse reasoning rests is a singular one—singular, that is, as
showing how close an accidental coincidence may run. It amounts to this,
that if the number of days in the year be multiplied by 100, and a circle be
drawn with a circumference containing 100 times as many inches as there
are days in the year, the radius of the circle will be very nearly one
1,000,000,000th part of the sun's distance. Remembering that the pyramid
inch is assumed to be one 500,000,000th part of the earth's diameter, we
shall not be far from the truth in saying that, as a matter of fact, the earth by
her orbital motion traverses each day a distance equal to two hundred times
her own diameter. But, of course, this relation is altogether accidental. It has
no real cause in nature.[23]

Such relations show that mere numerical coincidences, however close,
have little weight as evidence, except where they occur in series. Even then
they require to be very cautiously regarded, seeing that the history of
science records many instances where the apparent law of a series has been
found to be falsified when the theory has been extended. Of course this
reason is not quoted in order to throw doubt on the supposition that the
height of the pyramid was intended to symbolise the sun's distance. That
supposition is simply inadmissible if the hypothesis, according to which the
height was already independently determined in another way, is admitted.
Either hypothesis might be admitted were we not certain that the sun's
distance could not possibly have been known to the builders of the pyramid;
or both hypotheses may be rejected: but to admit both is out of the question.

Considering the multitude of dimensions of length, surface, capacity, and
position, the great number of shapes, and the variety of material existing
within the pyramid, and considering, further, the enormous number of
relations (presented by modern science) from among which to choose, can
it be wondered at if fresh coincidences are being continually recognised? If
a dimension will not serve in one way, use can be found for it in another;
for instance, if some measure of length does not correspond closely with
any known dimension of the earth or of the solar system (an unlikely
supposition), then it can be understood to typify an interval of time. If, even
after trying all possible changes of that kind, no coincidence shows itself
(which is all but impossible), then all that is needed to secure a coincidence
is that the dimensions should be manipulated a little.

Let a single instance suffice to show how the pyramidalists (with perfect
honesty of purpose) hunt down a coincidence. The slant tunnel already
described has a transverse height, once no doubt uniform, now giving
various measures from 47·14 pyramid inches to 47·32 inches, so that the
vertical height from the known inclination of the tunnel would be estimated
at somewhere between 52·64 inches and 52·85. Neither dimension
corresponds very obviously with any measured distance in the earth or solar
system. Nor when we try periods, areas, etc., does any very satisfactory
coincidence present itself. But the difficulty is easily turned into a new
proof of design. Putting all the observations together (says Professor
Smyth), 'I deduced 47·24 pyramid inches to be the transverse height of the
entrance passage; and computing from thence with the observed angle of
inclination the vertical height, that came out 52·76 of the same inches. But
the sum of those two heights, or the height taken up and down, equals 100
inches, which length, as elsewhere shown, is the general pyramid linear
representation of a day of twenty-four hours. And the mean of the two
heights, or the height taken one way only, and impartially to the middle
point between them, equals fifty inches; which quantity is, therefore, the
general pyramid linear representation of only half a day. In which case, let

us ask what the entrance passage has to do with half rather than a whole
day?'

On relations such as these, which, if really intended by the architect,
would imply an utterly fatuous habit of concealing elaborately what he
desired to symbolise, the pyramidalists base their belief that 'a Mighty
Intelligence did both think out the plans for it, and compel unwilling and
ignorant idolators, in a primal age of the world, to work mightily both for
the future glory of the one true God of Revelation, and to establish lasting
prophetic testimony touching a further development, still to take place, of
the absolutely Divine Christian dispensation.'

III.
THE MYSTERY OF THE PYRAMIDS.

Few subjects of inquiry have proved more perplexing than the question of
the purpose for which the pyramids of Egypt were built. Even in the
remotest ages of which we have historical record, nothing seems to have
been known certainly on this point. For some reason or other, the builders
of the pyramids concealed the object of these structures, and this so
successfully that not even a tradition has reached us which purports to have
been handed down from the epoch of the pyramids' construction. We find,
indeed, some explanations given by the earliest historians; but they were
professedly only hypothetical, like those advanced in more recent times.
Including ancient and modern theories, we find a wide range of choice.
Some have thought that these buildings were associated with the religion of
the early Egyptians; others have suggested that they were tombs; others,
that they combined the purposes of tombs and temples, that they were
astronomical observatories, defences against the sands of the Great Desert,
granaries like those made under Joseph's direction, places of resort during
excessive overflows of the Nile; and many other uses have been suggested

for them. But none of these ideas are found on close examination to be
tenable as representing the sole purpose of the pyramids, and few of them
have strong claims to be regarded as presenting even a chief object of these
remarkable structures. The significant and perplexing history of the three
oldest pyramids—the Great Pyramid of Cheops, Shofo, or Suphis, the
pyramid of Chephren, and the pyramid of Mycerinus; and the most
remarkable of all the facts known respecting the pyramids generally, viz.,
the circumstance that one pyramid after another was built as though each
had become useless soon after it was finished, are left entirely unexplained
by all the theories above mentioned, save one only, the tomb theory, and
that does not afford by any means a satisfactory explanation of the
circumstances.

I propose to give here a brief account of some of the most suggestive
facts known respecting the pyramids, and, after considering the difficulties
which beset the theories heretofore advanced, to indicate a theory (new so
far as I know) which seems to me to correspond better with the facts than
any heretofore advanced; I suggest it, however, rather for consideration than
because I regard it as very convincingly supported by the evidence. In fact,
to advance any theory at present with confident assurance of its correctness,
would be simply to indicate a very limited acquaintance with the difficulties
surrounding the subject.

Let us first consider a few of the more striking facts recorded by history
or tradition, noting, as we proceed, whatever ideas they may suggest as to
the intended character of these structures.

It is hardly necessary to say, perhaps, that the history of the Great
Pyramid is of paramount importance in this inquiry. Whatever purpose
pyramids were originally intended to subserve, must have been conceived
by the builders of that pyramid. New ideas may have been superadded by
the builders of later pyramids, but it is unlikely that the original purpose can
have been entirely abandoned. Some great purpose there was, which the
rulers of ancient Egypt proposed to fulfil by building very massive

pyramidal structures on a particular plan. It is by inquiring into the history
of the first and most massive of these structures, and by examining its
construction, that we shall have the best chance of finding out what that
great purpose was.

According to Herodotus, the kings who built the pyramids reigned not
more than twenty-eight centuries ago; but there can be little doubt that
Herodotus misunderstood the Egyptian priests from whom he derived his
information, and that the real antiquity of the pyramid-kings was far greater.
He tells us that, according to the Egyptian priests, Cheops 'on ascending the
throne plunged into all manner of wickedness. He closed the temples, and
forbade the Egyptians to offer sacrifice, compelling them instead to labour
one and all in his service, viz., in building the Great Pyramid.' Still
following his interpretation of the Egyptian account, we learn that one
hundred thousand men were employed for twenty years in building the
Great Pyramid, and that ten years were occupied in constructing a causeway
by which to convey the stones to the place and in conveying them there.
'Cheops reigned fifty years; and was succeeded by his brother Chephren,
who imitated the conduct of his predecessor, built a pyramid—but smaller
than his brother's—and reigned fifty-six years. Thus during one hundred
and six years, the temples were shut and never opened.' Moreover,
Herodotus tells us that 'the Egyptians so detested the memory of these
kings, that they do not much like even to mention their names. Hence they
commonly call the pyramids after Philition, a shepherd who at that time fed
his flocks about the place.' 'After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops,
ascended the throne, he reopened the temples, and allowed the people to
resume the practice of sacrifice. He, too, left a pyramid, but much inferior
in size to his father's. It is built, for half of its height, of the stone of
Ethiopia,' or, as Professor Smyth (whose extracts from Rawlinson's
translation I have here followed) adds 'expensive red granite.' 'After
Mycerinus, Asychis ascended the throne. He built the eastern gateway of
the Temple of Vulcan (Phtha); and, being desirous of eclipsing all his

predecessors on the throne, left as a monument of his reign a pyramid of
brick.'

This account is so suggestive, as will presently be shown, that it may be
well to inquire whether it can be relied on. Now, although there can be no
doubt that Herodotus misunderstood the Egyptians in some matters, and in
particular as to the chronological order of the dynasties, placing the
pyramid kings far too late, yet in other respects he seems not only to have
understood them correctly, but also to have received a correct account from
them. The order of the kings above named corresponds with the sequence
given by Manetho, and also found in monumental and hieroglyphic records.
Manetho gives the names Suphis I., Suphis II., and Mencheres, instead of
Cheops, Chephren, and Mycerinus; while, according to the modern
Egyptologists, Herodotus's Cheops was Shofo, Shufu, or Koufou; Chephren
was Shafre, while he was also called Nou-Shofo or Noum-Shufu as the
brother of Shofo; and Mycerinus was Menhere or Menkerre. But the
identity of these kings is not questioned. As to the true dates there is much
doubt, and it is probable that the question will long continue open; but the
determination of the exact epochs when the several pyramids were built is
not very important in connection with our present inquiry. We may, on the
whole, fairly take the points quoted above from Herodotus, and proceed to
consider the significance of the narrative, with sufficient confidence that in
all essential respects it is trustworthy.

There are several very strange features in the account.

In the first place, it is manifest that Cheops (to call the first king by the
name most familiar to the general reader) attached great importance to the
building of his pyramid. It has been said, and perhaps justly, that it would
be more interesting to know the plan of the architect who devised the
pyramid than the purpose of the king who built it. But the two things are
closely connected. The architect must have satisfied the king that some
highly important purpose in which the king himself was interested, would
be subserved by the structure. Whether the king was persuaded to undertake

the work as a matter of duty, or only to advance his own interests, may not
be so clear. But that the king was most thoroughly in earnest about the work
is certain. A monarch in those times would assuredly not have devoted an
enormous amount of labour and material to such a scheme unless he was
thoroughly convinced of its great importance. That the welfare of his people
was not considered by Cheops in building the Great Pyramid is almost
equally certain. He might, indeed, have had a scheme for their good which
either he did not care to explain to them or which they could not
understand. But the most natural inference from the narrative is that his
purpose had no reference whatever to their welfare. For though one could
understand his own subjects hating him while he was all the time working
for their good, it is obvious that his memory would not have been hated if
some important good had eventually been gained from his scheme. Many a
far-seeing ruler has been hated while living on account of the very work for
which his memory has been revered. But the memory of Cheops and his
successors was held in detestation.

May we, however, suppose that, though Cheops had not the welfare of
his own people in his thoughts, his purpose was nevertheless not selfish, but
intended in some way to promote the welfare of the human race? I say his
purpose, because, whoever originated the scheme, Cheops carried it out; it
was by means of his wealth and through his power that the pyramid was
built. This is the view adopted by Professor Piazzi Smyth and others, in our
own time, and first suggested by John Taylor. 'Whereas other writers,' says
Smyth, 'have generally esteemed that the mysterious persons who directed
the building of the Great Pyramid (and to whom the Egyptians, in their
traditions, and for ages afterwards, gave an immoral and even abominable
character) must therefore have been very bad indeed, so that the world at
large has always been fond of standing on, kicking, and insulting that dead
lion, whom they really knew not; he, Mr. John Taylor, seeing how
religiously bad the Egyptians themselves were, was led to conclude, on the
contrary, that those they hated (and could never sufficiently abuse) might,
perhaps, have been pre-eminently good; or were, at all events, of different

religious faith from themselves.' 'Combining this with certain unmistakable
historical facts,' Mr. Taylor deduced reasons for believing that the directors
of the building designed to record in its proportions, and in its interior
features, certain important religious and scientific truths, not for the people
then living, but for men who were to come 4000 years or so after.

I have already considered at length (see the preceding Essay) the
evidence on which this strange theory rests. But there are certain matters
connecting it with the above narrative which must here be noticed. The
mention of the shepherd Philition, who fed his flocks about the place where
the Great Pyramid was built, is a singular feature of Herodotus's narrative.
It reads like some strange misinterpretation of the story related to him by
the Egyptian priests. It is obvious that if the word Philition did not represent
a people, but a person, this person must have been very eminent and
distinguished—a shepherd-king, not a mere shepherd. Rawlinson, in a note
on this portion of the narrative of Herodotus, suggests that Philitis was
probably a shepherd-prince from Palestine, perhaps of Philistine descent,
'but so powerful and domineering, that it may be traditions of his
oppressions in that earlier age which, mixed up afterwards in the minds of
later Egyptians with the evils inflicted on their country by the subsequent
shepherds of better known dynasties, lent so much fear to their religious
hate of Shepherd times and that name.' Smyth, somewhat modifying this
view, and considering certain remarks of Manetho respecting an alleged
invasion of Egypt by shepherd-kings, 'men of an ignoble race (from the
Egyptian point of view) who had the confidence to invade our country, and
easily subdued it to their power without a battle,' comes to the conclusion
that some Shemite prince, 'a contemporary of, but rather older than, the
Patriarch Abraham,' visited Egypt at this time, and obtained such influence
over the mind of Cheops as to persuade him to erect the pyramid.
According to Smyth, the prince was no other than Melchizedek, king of
Salem, and the influence he exerted was supernatural. With such
developments of the theory we need not trouble ourselves. It seems
tolerably clear that certain shepherd-chiefs who came to Egypt during

Cheops' reign were connected in some way with the designing of the Great
Pyramid. It is clear also that they were men of a different religion from the
Egyptians, and persuaded Cheops to abandon the religion of his people.
Taylor, Smyth, and the Pyramidalists generally, consider this sufficient to
prove that the pyramid was erected for some purpose connected with
religion. 'The pyramid,' in fine, says Smyth, 'was charged by God's inspired
shepherd-prince, in the beginning of human time, to keep a certain message
secret and inviolable for 4000 years, and it has done so; and in the next
thousand years it was to enunciate that message to all men, with more than
traditional force, more than all the authenticity of copied manuscripts or
reputed history; and that part of the pyramid's usefulness is now beginning.'

There are many very obvious difficulties surrounding this theory; as, for
example (i.) the absurd waste of power in setting supernatural machinery at
work 4000 years ago with cumbrous devices to record its object, when the
same machinery, much more simply employed now, would effect the
alleged purpose far more thoroughly; (ii.) the enormous amount of human
misery and its attendant hatreds brought about by this alleged divine
scheme; and (iii.) the futility of an arrangement by which the pyramid was
only to subserve its purpose when it had lost that perfection of shape on
which its entire significance depended, according to the theory itself. But,
apart from these, there is a difficulty, nowhere noticed by Smyth or his
followers, which is fatal, I conceive, to this theory of the pyramid's purpose.
The second pyramid, though slightly inferior to the first in size, and
probably far inferior in quality of masonry, is still a structure of enormous
dimensions, which must have required many years of labour from tens of
thousands of workmen. Now, it seems impossible to explain why Chephren
built this second pyramid, if we adopt Smyth's theory respecting the first
pyramid. For either Chephren knew the purpose for which the Great
Pyramid was built, or he did not know it. If he knew that purpose, and it
was that indicated by Smyth, then he also knew that no second pyramid was
wanted. On that hypothesis, all the labour bestowed on the second pyramid
was wittingly and wilfully wasted. This, of course is incredible. But, on the

other hand, if Chephren did not know what was the purpose for which the
Great Pyramid was built, what reason could Chephren have had for building
a pyramid at all? The only answer to this question seems to be that
Chephren built the second pyramid in hopes of finding out why his brother
had built the first, and this answer is simply absurd. It is clear enough that
whatever purpose Cheops had in building the first pyramid, Chephren must
have had a similar purpose in building the second; and we require a theory
which shall at least explain why the first pyramid did not subserve for
Chephren the purpose which it subserved or was meant to subserve for
Cheops. The same reasoning may be extended to the third pyramid, to the
fourth, and in fine to all the pyramids, forty or so in number, included under
the general designation of the Pyramids of Ghizeh or Jeezeh. The extension
of the principle to pyramids later than the second is especially important as
showing that the difference of religion insisted on by Smyth has no direct
bearing on the question of the purpose for which the Great Pyramid itself
was constructed. For Mycerinus either never left or else returned to the
religion of the Egyptians. Yet he also built a pyramid, which, though far
inferior in size to the pyramids built by his father and uncle, was still a
massive structure, and relatively more costly even than theirs, because built
of expensive granite. The pyramid built by Asychis, though smaller still,
was remarkable as built of brick; in fact, we are expressly told that Asychis
desired to eclipse all his predecessors in such labours, and accordingly left
this brick pyramid as a monument of his reign.

We are forced, in fact, to believe that there was some special relation
between the pyramid and its builder, seeing that each one of these kings
wanted a pyramid of his own. This applies to the Great Pyramid quite as
much as to the others, despite the superior excellence of that structure. Or
rather, the argument derives its chief force from the superiority of the Great
Pyramid. If Chephren, no longer perhaps having the assistance of the
shepherd-architects in planning and superintending the work, was unable to
construct a pyramid so perfect and so stately as his brother's, the very fact
that he nevertheless built a pyramid shows that the Great Pyramid did not

fulfil for Chephren the purpose which it fulfilled for Cheops. But, if
Smyth's theory were true, the Great Pyramid would have fulfilled finally
and for all men the purpose for which it was built. Since this was manifestly
not the case, that theory is, I submit, demonstrably erroneous.

It was probably the consideration of this point, viz. that each king had a
pyramid constructed for himself, which led to the theory that the pyramids
were intended to serve as tombs. This theory was once very generally
entertained. Thus we find Humboldt, in his remarks on American pyramids,
referring to the tomb theory of the Egyptian pyramids as though it were
open to no question. 'When we consider,' he says, 'the pyramidical
monuments of Egypt, of Asia, and of the New Continent, from the same
point of view, we see that, though their form is alike, their destination was
altogether different. The group of pyramids of Ghizeh and at Sakhara in
Egypt; the triangular pyramid of the Queen of the Scythians, Zarina, which
was a stadium high and three in circumference, and which was decorated
with a colossal figure; the fourteen Etruscan pyramids, which are said to
have been enclosed in the labyrinth of the king Porsenna, at Clusium—were
reared to serve as the sepulchres of the illustrious dead. Nothing is more
natural to men than to commemorate the spot where rest the ashes of those
whose memory they cherish whether it be, as in the infancy of the race, by
simple mounds of earth, or, in later periods, by the towering height of the
tumulus. Those of the Chinese and of Thibet have only a few metres of
elevation. Farther to the west the dimensions increase; the tumulus of the
king Alyattes, father of Crœsus, in Lydia, was six stadia, and that of Ninus
was more than ten stadia in diameter. In the north of Europe the sepulchre
of the Scandinavian king Gormus and the queen Daneboda, covered with
mounds of earth, are three hundred metres broad, and more than thirty high.'

But while we have abundant reason for believing that in Egypt, even in
the days of Cheops and Chephren, extreme importance was attached to the
character of the place of burial for distinguished persons, there is nothing in
what is known respecting earlier Egyptian ideas to suggest the probability
that any monarch would have devoted many years of his subjects' labour,

and vast stores of material, to erect a mass of masonry like the Great
Pyramid, solely to receive his own body after death. Far less have we any
reason for supposing that many monarchs in succession would do this, each
having a separate tomb built for him. It might have been conceivable, had
only the Great Pyramid been erected, that the structure had been raised as a
mausoleum for all the kings and princes of the dynasty. But it seems utterly
incredible that such a building as the Great Pyramid should have been
erected for one king's body only—and that, not in the way described by
Humboldt, when he speaks of men commemorating the spot where rest the
remains of those whose memory they cherish, but at the expense of the king
himself whose body was to be there deposited. Besides, the first pyramid,
the one whose history must be regarded as most significant of the true
purpose of these buildings, was not built by an Egyptian holding in great
favour the special religious ideas of his people, but by one who had adopted
other views and those not belonging, so far as can be seen, to a people
among whom sepulchral rites were held in exceptional regard.

A still stronger objection against the exclusively tombic theory resides in
the fact that this theory gives no account whatever of the characteristic
features of the pyramids themselves. These buildings are all, without
exception, built on special astronomical principles. Their square bases are
so placed as to have two sides lying east and west, and two lying north and
south, or, in other words, so that their four faces front the four cardinal
points. One can imagine no reason why a tomb should have such a position.
It is not, indeed, easy to understand why any building at all, except an
astronomical observatory, should have such a position. A temple perhaps
devoted to sun-worship, and generally to the worship of the heavenly
bodies, might be built in that way. For it is to be noticed that the peculiar
figure and position of the pyramids would bring about the following
relations:—When the sun rose and set south of the east and west points, or
(speaking generally) between the autumn and the spring equinoxes, the rays
of the rising and setting sun illuminated the southern face of the pyramid;
whereas during the rest of the year, that is, during the six months between

the spring and autumn equinoxes, the rays of the rising and setting sun
illuminated the northern face. Again, all the year round the sun's rays passed
from the eastern to the western face at solar noon. And lastly, during seven
months and a half of each year, namely, for three months and three quarters
before and after midsummer, the noon rays of the sun fell on all four faces
of the pyramid, or, according to a Peruvian expression (so Smyth avers), the
sun shone on the pyramid 'with all his rays.' Such conditions as these might
have been regarded as very suitable for a temple devoted to sun-worship.
Yet the temple theory is as untenable as the tomb theory. For, in the first
place, the pyramid form—as the pyramids were originally built, with
perfectly smooth slant-faces, not terraced into steps as now through the loss
of the casing-stones—was entirely unsuited for all the ordinary
requirements of a temple of worship. And further, this theory gives no
explanation of the fact that each king built a pyramid, and each king only
one. Similar difficulties oppose the theory that the pyramids were intended
to serve as astronomical observatories. For while their original figure,
however manifestly astronomical in its relations, was quite unsuited for
observatory work, it is manifest that if such had been the purpose of
pyramid-building, so soon as the Great Pyramid had once been built, no
other would be needed. Certainly none of the pyramids built afterwards
could have subserved any astronomical purpose which the first did not
subserve, or have subserved nearly so well as the Great Pyramid those
purposes (and they are but few) which that building may be supposed to
have fulfilled as an astronomical observatory.

Of the other theories mentioned at the beginning of this paper none seem
to merit special notice, except perhaps the theory that the pyramids were
made to receive the royal treasures, and this theory rather because of the
attention it received from Arabian literati, during the ninth and tenth
centuries, than because of any strong reasons which can be suggested in its
favour. 'Emulating,' says Professor Smyth, 'the enchanted tales of Bagdad,'
the court poets of Al Mamoun (son of the far-famed Haroun al Raschid)
'drew gorgeous pictures of the contents of the pyramid's interior.... All the

treasures of Sheddad Ben Ad the great Antediluvian king of the earth, with
all his medicines and all his sciences, they declared were there, told over
and over again. Others, though, were positive that the founder-king was no
other than Saurid Ibn Salhouk, a far greater one than the other; and these
last gave many more minute particulars, some of which are at least
interesting to us in the present day, as proving that, amongst the Egypto-
Arabians of more than a thousand years ago, the Jeezeh pyramids, headed
by the grand one, enjoyed a pre-eminence of fame vastly before all the
other pyramids of Egypt put together; and that if any other is alluded to
after the Great Pyramid (which has always been the notable and favourite
one, and chiefly was known then as the East pyramid), it is either the
second one at Jeezeh, under the name of the West pyramid; or the third one,
distinguished as the Coloured pyramid, in allusion to its red granite,
compared with the white limestone casings of the other two (which,
moreover, from their more near, but by no means exact, equality of size,
went frequently under the affectionate designation of "the pair").'

The report of Ibn Abd Alkohm, as to what was to be found in each of
these three pyramids, or rather of what, according to him, was put into them
originally by King Saurid, runs as follows: 'In the Western pyramid, thirty
treasuries filled with store of riches and utensils, and with signatures made
of precious stones, and with instruments of iron and vessels of earth, and
with arms which rust not, and with glass which might be bended and yet not
broken, and with strange spells, and with several kinds of alakakirs
(magical precious stones) single and double, and with deadly poisons, and
with other things besides. He made also in the East' (the Great Pyramid)
'divers celestial spheres and stars, and what they severally operate in their
aspects, and the perfumes which are to be used to them, and the books
which treat of these matters. He put also into the coloured pyramid the
commentaries of the priests in chests of black marble, and with every priest
a book, in which the wonders of his profession and of his actions and of his
nature were written, and what was done in his time, and what is and what
shall be from the beginning of time to the end of it.' The rest of this worthy's

report relates to certain treasurers placed within these three pyramids to
guard their contents, and (like all or most of what I have already quoted)
was a work of imagination. Ibn Abd Alkohm, in fact, was a romancist of the
first water.

Perhaps the strongest argument against the theory that the pyramids were
intended as strongholds for the concealment of treasure, resides in the fact
that, search being made, no treasure has been discovered. When the
workmen employed by Caliph Al Mamoun, after encountering manifold
difficulties, at length broke their way into the great ascending passage
leading to the so-called King's Chamber, they found 'a right noble
apartment, thirty-four feet long, seventeen broad, and nineteen high, of
polished red granite throughout, walls, floor, and ceiling, in blocks squared
and true, and put together with such exquisite skill that the joints are barely
discernible to the closest inspection. But where is the treasure—the silver
and the gold, the jewels, medicines, and arms?—These fanatics look wildly
around them, but can see nothing, not a single dirhem anywhere. They trim
their torches, and carry them again and again to every part of that red-
walled, flinty hall, but without any better success. Nought but pure polished
red granite, in mighty slabs, looks upon them from every side. The room is
clean, garnished too, as it were, and, according to the ideas of its founders,
complete and perfectly ready for its visitors so long expected, so long
delayed. But the gross minds who occupy it now, find it all barren, and
declare that there is nothing whatever for them in the whole extent of the
apartment from one end to another; nothing except an empty stone chest
without a lid.'

It is, however, to be noted that we have no means of learning what had
happened between the time when the pyramid was built and when Caliph Al
Mamoun's workmen broke their way into the King's Chamber. The place
may, after all, have contained treasures of some kind; nor, indeed, is it
incompatible with other theories of the pyramid to suppose that it was used
as a safe receptacle for treasures. It is certain, however, that this cannot
have been the special purpose for which the pyramids were designed. We

should find in such a purpose no explanation whatever of any of the most
stringent difficulties encountered in dealing with other theories. There could
be no reason why strangers from the East should be at special pains to
instruct an Egyptian monarch how to hide and guard his treasures. Nor, if
the Great Pyramid had been intended to receive the treasures of Cheops,
would Chephren have built another for his own treasures, which must have
included those gathered by Cheops. But, apart from this, how inconceivably
vast must a treasure-hoard be supposed to be, the safe guarding of which
would have repaid the enormous cost of the great Pyramid in labour and
material! And then, why should a mere treasure-house have the
characteristics of an astronomical observatory? Manifestly, if the pyramids
were used at all to receive treasures, it can only have been as an entirely
subordinate though perhaps convenient means of utilising these gigantic
structures.

Having thus gone through all the suggested purposes of the pyramids
save two or three which clearly do not possess any claim to serious
consideration, and having found none which appear to give any sufficient
account of the history and principal features of these buildings, we must
either abandon the inquiry or seek for some explanation quite different from
any yet suggested. Let us consider what are the principal points of which
the true theory of the pyramids should give an account.

In the first place, the history of the pyramids shows that the erection of
the first great pyramid was in all probability either suggested to Cheops by
wise men who visited Egypt from the East, or else some important
information conveyed to him by such visitors caused him to conceive the
idea of building the pyramid. In either case we may suppose, as the history
indeed suggests, that these learned men, whoever they may have been,
remained in Egypt to superintend the erection of the structure. It may be
that the architectural work was not under their supervision; in fact, it seems
altogether unlikely that shepherd-rulers would have much to teach the
Egyptians in the matter of architecture. But the astronomical peculiarities
which form so significant a feature of the Great Pyramid were probably

provided for entirely under the instructions of the shepherd chiefs who had
exerted so strange an influence upon the mind of King Cheops.

Next, it seems clear that self-interest must have been the predominant
reason in the mind of the Egyptian king for undertaking this stupendous
work. It is true that his change of religion implies that some higher cause
influenced him. But a ruler who could inflict such grievous burdens on his
people in carrying out his purpose that for ages afterwards his name was
held in utter detestation, cannot have been solely or even chiefly influenced
by religious motives. It affords an ample explanation of the behaviour of
Cheops, in closing the temples and forsaking the religion of his country, to
suppose that the advantages which he hoped to secure by building the
pyramid depended in some way on his adopting this course. The visitors
from the East may have refused to give their assistance on any other terms,
or may have assured him that the expected benefit could not be obtained if
the pyramid were erected by idolaters. It is certain, in any case, that they
were opposed to idolatry; and we have thus some means of inferring who
they were and whence they came. We know that one particular branch of
one particular race in the East was characterised by a most marked hatred of
idolatry in all its forms. Terah and his family, or, probably, a sect or division
of the Chaldæan people, went forth from Ur of the Chaldees, to go into the
land of Canaan—and the reason why they went forth we learn from a book
of considerable historical interest (the book of Judith) to have been because
'they would not worship the gods of their fathers who were in the land of
the Chaldæans.' The Bible record shows that members of this branch of the
Chaldæan people visited Egypt from time to time. They were shepherds,
too, which accords well with the account of Herodotus above quoted. We
can well understand that persons of this family would have resisted all
endeavours to secure their acquiescence in any scheme associated with
idolatrous rites. Neither promises nor threats would have had much
influence on them. It was a distinguished member of the family, the
patriarch Abraham, who said: 'I have lift up mine hand unto the Lord, the
most high God, the possessor of heaven and earth, that I will not take from

a thread even to a shoe-latchet, and that I will not take anything that is
thine, lest thou shouldest say, I have made Abram rich.' Vain would all the
promises and all the threats of Cheops have been to men of this spirit. Such
men might help him in his plans, suggested, as the history shows, by
teachings of their own, but it must be on their own conditions, and those
conditions would most certainly include the utter rejection of idolatrous
worship by the king in whose behalf they worked, as well as by all who
shared in their labours. It seems probable that they convinced both Cheops
and Chephren, that unless these kings gave up idolatry, the purpose,
whatever it was, which the pyramid was erected to promote, would not be
fulfilled. The mere fact that the Great Pyramid was built either directly at
the suggestion of these visitors, or because they had persuaded Cheops of
the truth of some important doctrine, shows that they must have gained
great influence over his mind. Rather we may say that he must have been so
convinced of their knowledge and power as to have accepted with
unquestioning confidence all that they told him respecting the particular
subject over which they seemed to possess so perfect a mastery.

But having formed the opinion, on grounds sufficiently assured, that the
strangers who visited Egypt and superintended the building of the Great
Pyramid were kinsmen of the patriarch Abraham, it is not very difficult to
decide what was the subject respecting which they had such exact
information. They or their parents had come from the land of the
Chaldæans, and they were doubtless learned in all the wisdom of their
Chaldæan kinsmen. They were masters, in fact, of the astronomy of their
day, a science for which the Chaldæans had shown from the earliest ages
the most remarkable aptitude. What the actual extent of their astronomical
knowledge may have been it would be difficult to say. But it is certain, from
the exact knowledge which later Chaldæans possessed respecting long
astronomical cycles, that astronomical observations must have been carried
on continuously by that people for many hundreds of years. It is highly
probable that the astronomical knowledge of the Chaldæans in the days of
Terah and Abraham was much more accurate than that possessed by the

Greeks even after the time of Hipparchus.[24] We see indeed, in the accurate
astronomical adjustment of the Great Pyramid, that the architects must have
been skilful astronomers and mathematicians; and I may note here, in
passing, how strongly this circumstance confirms the opinion that the
visitors were kinsmen of Terah and Abraham. All we know from Herodotus
and Manetho, all the evidence from the circumstances connected with the
religion of the pyramid-kings, and the astronomical evidence given by the
pyramids themselves, tends to assure us that members of that particular
branch of the Chaldæan family which went out from Ur of the Chaldees
because they would not worship the gods of the Chaldæans, extended their
wanderings to Egypt, and eventually superintended the erection of the Great
Pyramid so far as astronomical and mathematical relations were concerned.

But not only have we already decided that the pyramids were not
intended solely or chiefly to sub serve the purpose of astronomical
observatories, but it is certain that Cheops would not have been personally
much interested in any astronomical information which these visitors might
be able to communicate. Unless he saw clearly that something was to be
gained from the lore of his visitors, he would not have undertaken to erect
any astronomical buildings at their suggestion, even if he had cared enough
for their knowledge to pay any attention to them whatever. Most probably
the reply Cheops would have made to any communications respecting mere
astronomy, would have run much in the style of the reply made by the
Turkish Cadi, Imaum Ali Zadè to a friend of Layard's who had apparently
bored him about double stars and comets: 'Oh my soul! oh my lamb!' said
Ali Zadè, 'seek not after the things which concern thee not. Thou camest
unto us, and we welcomed thee: go in peace. Of a truth thou hast spoken
many words; and there is no harm done, for the speaker is one and the
listener is another. After the fashion of thy people thou hast wandered from
one place to another until thou art happy and content in none. Listen, oh my
son! There is no wisdom equal unto the belief in God! He created the world,
and shall we liken ourselves unto Him in seeking to penetrate into the
mysteries of His creation? Shall we say, Behold this star spinneth round that

star, and this other star with a tail goeth and cometh in so many years! Let it
go! He from whose hand it came will guide and direct it. But thou wilt say
unto me, Stand aside, oh man, for I am more learned than thou art, and have
seen more things. If thou thinkest that thou art in this respect better than I
am, thou art welcome. I praise God that I seek not that which I require not.
Thou art learned in the things I care not for; and as for that which thou hast
seen, I defile it. Will much knowledge create thee a double belly, or wilt
thou seek paradise with thine eyes?' Such, omitting the references to the
Creator, would probably have been the reply of Cheops to his visitors, had
they only had astronomical facts to present him with. Or, in the plenitude of
his kingly power, he might have more decisively rejected their teaching by
removing their heads.

But the shepherd-astronomers had knowledge more attractive to offer
than a mere series of astronomical discoveries. Their ancestors had
Watched from the centres of their sleeping flocks
Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move
Carrying through æther in perpetual round
Decrees and resolutions of the gods;

and though the visitors of King Cheops had themselves rejected the
Sabaistic polytheism of their kinsmen, they had not rejected the doctrine
that the stars in their courses affect the fortunes of men. We know that
among the Jews, probably the direct descendants of the shepherd-chiefs
who visited Cheops, and certainly close kinsmen of theirs, and akin to them
also in their monotheism, the belief in astrology was never regarded as a
superstition. In fact, we can trace very clearly in the books relating to this
people that they believed confidently in the influences of the heavenly
bodies. Doubtless the visitors of King Cheops shared the belief of their
Chaldæan kinsmen that astrology is a true science, 'founded' indeed (as
Bacon expresses their views) 'not in reason and physical contemplations,
but in the direct experience and observation of past ages.' Josephus records
the Jewish tradition (though not as a tradition but as a fact) that 'our first
father, Adam, was instructed in astrology by divine inspiration,' and that

Seth so excelled in the science, that, 'foreseeing the Flood and the
destruction of the world thereby, he engraved the fundamental principles of
his art (astrology) in hieroglyphical emblems, for the benefit of after ages,
on two pillars of brick and stone.' He says farther on that the Patriarch
Abraham, 'having learned the art in Chaldæa, when he journeyed into Egypt
taught the Egyptians the sciences of arithmetic and astrology.' Indeed, the
stranger called Philitis by Herodotus may, for aught that appears, have been
Abraham himself; for it is generally agreed that the word Philitis indicated
the race and country of the visitors, regarded by the Egyptians as of
Philistine descent and arriving from Palestine. However, I am in no way
concerned to show that the shepherd-astronomers who induced Cheops to
build the Great Pyramid were even contemporaries of Abraham and
Melchizedek. What seems sufficiently obvious is all that I care to maintain,
namely, that these shepherd-astronomers were of Chaldæan birth and
training, and therefore astrologers, though, unlike their Chaldæan kinsmen,
they rejected Sabaism or star-worship, and taught the belief in one only
Deity.

Now, if these visitors were astrologers, who persuaded Cheops, and were
honestly convinced themselves, that they could predict the events of any
man's life by the Chaldæan method of casting nativities, we can readily
understand many circumstances connected with the pyramids which have
hitherto seemed inexplicable. The pyramid built by a king would no longer
be regarded as having reference to his death and burial, but to his birth and
life, though after his death it might receive his body. Each king would
require to have his own nativity-pyramid, built with due symbolical
reference to the special celestial influences affecting his fortunes. Every
portion of the work would have to be carried out under special conditions,
determined according to the mysterious influences ascribed to the different
planets and their varying positions—
now high, now low, then hid.
Progressive, retrograde, or standing still.

If the work had been intended only to afford the means of predicting the
king's future, the labour would have been regarded by the monarch as well
bestowed. But astrology involved much more than the mere prediction of
future events. Astrologers claimed the power of ruling the planets—that is,
of course, not of ruling the motions of those bodies, but of providing against
evil influences or strengthening good influences which they supposed the
celestial orbs to exert in particular aspects. Thus we can understand that
while the mere basement layers of the pyramid would have served for the
process of casting the royal nativity, with due mystic observances, the
further progress of building the pyramid would supply the necessary means
and indications for ruling the planets most potent in their influence upon the
royal career.

Remembering the mysterious influence which astrologers ascribed to
special numbers, figures, positions, and so forth, the care with which the
Great Pyramid was so proportioned as to indicate particular astronomical
and mathematical relations is at once explained. The four sides of the
square base were carefully placed with reference to the cardinal points,
precisely like the four sides of the ordinary square scheme of nativity.[25]
The eastern side faced the Ascendant, the southern faced the Mid-heaven,
the western faced the Descendant, and the northern faced the Imum Cœli.
Again, we can understand that the architects would have made a circuit of
the base correspond in length with the number of days in the year—a
relation which, according to Prof. P. Smyth, is fulfilled in this manner, that
the four sides contain one hundred times as many pyramid inches as there
are days in the year. The pyramid inch, again, is itself mystically connected
with astronomical relations, for its length is equal to the five hundred
millionth part of the earth's diameter, to a degree of exactness
corresponding well with what we might expect Chaldæan astronomers to
attain. Prof. Smyth, indeed, believes that it was exactly equal to that
proportion of the earth's polar diameter—a view which would correspond
with his theory that the architects of the Great Pyramid were assisted by
divine inspiration; but what is certainly known about the sacred cubit,

which contained twenty-five of these inches, corresponds better with the
diameter which the Chaldæan astronomers, if they worked very carefully,
would have deduced from observations made in their own country, on the
supposition which they would naturally have made that the earth is a perfect
globe, not compressed at the poles. It is not indeed at all certain that the
sacred cubit bore any reference to the earth's dimensions; but this seems
tolerably well made out—that the sacred cubit was about 25 inches in
length, and that the circuit of the pyramid's base contained a hundred inches
for every day of the year. Relations such as these are precisely what we
might expect to find in buildings having an astrological significance.
Similarly, it would correspond well with the mysticism of astrology that the
pyramid should be so proportioned as to make the height be the radius of a
circle whose circumference would equal the circuit of the pyramid's base.
Again, that long slant tunnel, leading downwards from the pyramid's
northern face, would at once find a meaning in this astrological theory. The
slant tunnel pointed to the pole-star of Cheops' time, when due north below
the true pole of the heavens. This circumstance had no observational utility.
It could afford no indication of time, because a pole-star moves very slowly,
and the pole-star of Cheops' day must have been in view through that tunnel
for more than an hour at a time. But, apart from the mystical significance
which an astrologer would attribute to such a relation, it may be shown that
this slant tunnel is precisely what the astrologer would require in order to
get the horoscope correctly.

Another consideration remains to be mentioned which, while
strengthening the astrological theory of the pyramids, may bring us even
nearer to the true aim of those who planned and built these structures.

It is known also that the Chaldæans from the earliest times pursued the
study of alchemy in connection with astrology, not hoping to discover the
philosopher's stone by chemical investigations alone, but by carrying out
such investigations under special celestial influence. The hope of achieving
this discovery, by which he would at once have had the means of acquiring
illimitable wealth, would of itself account for the fact that Cheops expended

so much labour and material in the erection of the Great Pyramid, seeing
that, of necessity, success in the search for the philosopher's stone would be
a main feature of his fortunes, and would therefore be astrologically
indicated in his nativity-pyramid, or perhaps even be secured by following
mystical observances proper for ruling his planets.

The elixir of life may also have been among the objects which the
builders of the pyramids hoped to discover.

It may be noticed, as a somewhat significant circumstance, that, in the
account given by Ibn Abd Alkohm of the contents of the various pyramids,
those assigned to the Great Pyramid relate entirely to astrology and
associated mysteries. It is, of course, clear that Abd Alkohm drew largely on
his imagination. Yet it seems probable that there was also some basis of
tradition for his ideas. And certainly one would suppose that, as he assigned
a treasurer to the East pyramid ('a statue of black agate, his eyes open and
shining, sitting on a throne with a lance'), he would have credited the
building with treasure also, had not some tradition taught otherwise. But he
says that King Saurid placed in the East pyramid, not treasures, but 'divers
celestial spheres and stars, and what they severally operate in their aspects,
and the perfumes which are to be used to them, and the books which treat of
these matters.'[26]

But, after all, it must be admitted that the strongest evidence in favour of
the astrological (and alchemical) theory of the pyramids is to be found in
the circumstance that all other theories seem untenable. The pyramids were
undoubtedly erected for some purpose which was regarded by their builders
as most important. This purpose certainly related to the personal fortunes of
the kingly builders. It was worth an enormous outlay of money, labour, and
material. This purpose was such, furthermore, that each king required to
have his own pyramid. It was in some way associated with astronomy, for
the pyramids are built with most accurate reference to celestial aspects. It
also had its mathematical and mystical bearings, seeing that the pyramids
exhibit mathematical and symbolical peculiarities not belonging to their

essentially structural requirements. And lastly, the erection of the pyramids
was in some way connected with the arrival of certain learned persons from
Palestine, and presumably of Chaldæan origin. All these circumstances
accord well with the theory I have advanced; while only some of them, and
these not the most characteristic, accord with any of the other theories.
Moreover, no fact known respecting the pyramids or their builders is
inconsistent with the astrological (and alchemical) theory. On the whole,
then, if it cannot be regarded as demonstrated (in its general bearing, of
course, for we cannot expect any theory about the pyramids to be
established in minute details), the astrological theory may fairly be
described as having a greater degree of probability in its favour than any
hitherto advanced.

IV.
SWEDENBORG'S VISIONS OF OTHER WORLDS.

If it were permitted to men to select a sign whereby they should know that a
message came from the Supreme Being, probably the man of science would
select for the sign the communication of some scientific fact beyond the
knowledge of the day, but admitting of being readily put to the test. The
evidence thus obtained in favour of a revelation would correspond in some
sense to that depending on prophecies; but it would be more satisfactory to
men having that particular mental bent which is called the scientific.
Whether this turn of mind is inherent or the result of training, it certainly
leads men of science to be more exacting in considering the value of
evidence than any men, except perhaps lawyers. In the case of the student
of science, St. Paul's statement that 'prophecies' 'shall fail' has been fulfilled,
whereas it may be doubted whether evidence from 'knowledge' would in
like manner 'vanish away.' On the contrary, it would grow stronger and
stronger, as knowledge from observation, from experiment, and from
calculation continually increased. It can scarcely be said that this has

happened with such quasi-scientific statements as have actually been
associated with revelation. If we regard St. Paul's reference to knowledge as
relating to such statements as these, then nothing could be more complete
than the fulfilment of his own prediction, 'Whether there be prophecies,
they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be
knowledge, it shall vanish away.' The evidence from prophecies fails for the
exact inquirer, who perceives the doubts which exist (among the most
earnest believers) as to the exact meaning of the prophetic words, and even
in some cases as to whether prophecies have been long since fulfilled or
relate to events still to come. The evidence from 'tongues' has ceased, and
those are dust who are said to have spoken in strange tongues. The
knowledge which was once thought supernatural has utterly vanished away.
But if, in the ages of faith, some of the results of modern scientific research
had been revealed, as the laws of the solar system, the great principle of the
conservation of energy, or the wave theory of light, or if some of the
questions which still remain for men of science to solve had been answered
in those times, the evidence for the student of science would have been
irresistible. Of course he will be told that even then he would have hardened
his heart; that the inquiry after truth tending naturally to depravity of mind,
he would reject even evidence based on his beloved laws of probability;
that his 'wicked and adulterous generation seeketh "in vain" after a sign,'
and that if he will not accept Moses and the prophets, neither would he
believe though one rose from the dead. Still the desire of the student of
science to base his faith on convincing evidence (in a matter as important to
him as to those who abuse him) does seem to have something reasonable in
it after all. The mental qualities which cause him to be less easily satisfied
than others, came to him in the same way as his bodily qualities; and even if
the result to which his mental training leads him is as unfortunate as some
suppose, that training is not strictly speaking so heinously sinful that
nothing short of the eternal reprobation meted out to him by earthly judges
can satisfy divine justice. So that it may be thought not a wholly
unpardonable sin to speak of a sign which, had it been accorded, would
have satisfied even the most exacting student of science. Apart, too, from all

question of faith, the mere scientific interest of divinely inspired
communications respecting natural laws and processes would justify a
student of science in regarding them as most desirable messages from a
being of superior wisdom and benevolence. If prophecies and tongues, why
not knowledge, as evidence of a divine mission?

Such thoughts are suggested by the claim of some religious teachers to
the possession of knowledge other than that which they could have gained
by natural means. The claim has usually been quite honest. The teacher of
religion tests the reality of his mission in simple à priori confidence that he
has such a mission, and that therefore some one or other of the tests he
applies will afford the required evidence. To one, says St. Paul, is given the
word of wisdom; to another, the word of knowledge; to another, faith; to
another, the gift of healing; to another, the working of miracles; to another,
prophecy; to another, the discerning of spirits; to another, divers kinds of
tongues: and so forth. If a man like Mahomet, who believes in his mission
to teach, finds that he cannot satisfactorily work miracles—that mountains
will not be removed at his bidding—then some other evidence satisfies him
of the reality of his mission. Swedenborg, than whom, perhaps, no more
honest man ever lived, said and believed that to him had been granted the
discerning of spirits. 'It is to be observed,' he said, 'that a man may be
instructed by spirits and angels if his interiors be so open as to enable him
to speak and be in company with them, for man in his essence is a spirit,
and is with spirits as to his interiors; so that he whose interiors are opened
by the Lord may converse with them, as man with man. This privilege I
have enjoyed daily now for twelve years.'

It indicates the fulness of Swedenborg's belief in this privilege that he
did not hesitate to describe what the spirits taught him respecting matters
which belong rather to science than to faith; though it must be admitted that
probably he supposed there was small reason for believing that his
statements could ever be tested by the results of scientific research. The
objects to which his spiritual communications related were conveniently
remote. I do not say this as desiring for one moment to suggest that he

purposely selected those objects, and not others which might be more
readily examined. He certainly believed in the reality of the
communications he described. But possibly there is some law in things
visionary, corresponding to the law of mental operation with regard to
scientific theories; and as the mind theorises freely about a subject little
understood, but cautiously where many facts have been ascertained, so
probably exact knowledge of a subject prevents the operation of those
illusions which are regarded as supernatural communications. It is in a dim
light only that the active imagination pictures objects which do not really
exist; in the clear light of day they can no longer be imagined. So it is with
mental processes.

Probably there is no subject more suitable in this sense for the visionary
than that of life in other worlds. It has always had an attraction for
imaginative minds, simply because it is enwrapped in so profound a
mystery; and there has been little to restrain the fancy, because so little is
certainly known of the physical condition of other worlds. Recently, indeed,
a somewhat sudden and severe check has been placed on the liveliness of
imagination which had enabled men formerly to picture to themselves the
inhabitants of other orbs in space. Spectroscopic analysis and exact
telescopic scrutiny will not permit some speculations to be entertained
which formerly met with favour. Yet even now there has been but a slight
change of scene and time. If men can no longer imagine inhabitants of one
planet because it is too hot, or of another because it is too cold, of one body
because it is too deeply immersed in vaporous masses, or of another
because it has neither atmosphere nor water, we have only to speculate
about the unseen worlds which circle round those other suns, the stars; or,
instead of changing the region of space where we imagine worlds, we can
look backward to the time when planets now cold and dead were warm with
life, or forward to the distant future when planets now glowing with fiery
heat shall have cooled down to a habitable condition.

Swedenborg's imaginative mind seems to have fully felt the charm of
this interesting subject. It was, indeed, because of the charm which he found

in it, that he was readily persuaded into the belief that knowledge had been
supernaturally communicated to him respecting it. 'Because I had a desire,'
he says, 'to know if there are other earths, and to learn their nature and the
character of their inhabitants, it was granted me by the Lord to converse and
have intercourse with spirits and angels who had come from other earths,
with some for a day, with some for a week, and with some for months.
From them I have received information respecting the earths from and near
which they are, the modes of life, customs and worship of their inhabitants,
besides various other particulars of interest, all which, having come to my
knowledge in this way, I can describe as things which I have seen and
heard.'

It is interesting (psychologically) to notice how the reasoning which had
convinced Swedenborg of the existence of other inhabited worlds is
attributed by him to the spirits. 'It is well known in the other life,' he says,
'that there are many earths with men upon them; for there (that is, in the
spiritual life) every one who, from a love of truth and consequent use,
desires it, is allowed to converse with the spirits of other earths, so as to be
assured that there is a plurality of worlds, and be informed that the human
race is not confined to one earth only, but extends to numberless earths.... I
have occasionally conversed on this subject with the spirits of our earth, and
the result of our conversation was that a man of enlarged understanding
may conclude from various considerations that there are many earths with
human inhabitants upon them. For it is an inference of reason that masses
so great as the planets are, some of which exceed this earth in magnitude,
are not empty bodies, created only to be carried in their motion round the
sun, and to shine with their scanty light for the benefit of one earth only; but
that they must have a nobler use. He who believes, as every one ought to
believe, that the Deity created the universe for no other end than the
existence of the human race, and of heaven from it (for the human race is
the seminary of heaven), must also believe that wherever there is an earth
there are human inhabitants. That the planets which are visible to us, being
within the boundary of our solar system, are earths, may appear from

various considerations. They are bodies of earthy matter, because they
reflect the sun's light, and when seen through the telescope appear, not as
stars shining with a flaming lustre, but as earths, variegated with obscure
spots. Like our earth, they are carried round the sun by a progressive
motion, through the path of the Zodiac, whence they have years and seasons
of the year, which are spring, summer, autumn, and winter; and they rotate
upon their axes, which makes days, and times of the day, as morning,
midday, evening, and night. Some of them also have satellites, which
perform their revolutions about their globes, as the moon does about ours.
The planet Saturn, as being farthest from the sun, has besides an immense
luminous ring, which supplies that earth with much, though reflected, light.
How is it possible for anyone acquainted with these facts, and who thinks
from reason, to assert that such bodies are uninhabited?'

Remembering that this reasoning was urged by the spirits, and that
during twelve years Swedenborg's interiors had been opened in such sort
that he could converse with spirits from other worlds, it is surprising that he
should have heard nothing about Uranus or Neptune, to say nothing of the
zone of asteroids, or again, of planets as yet unknown which may exist
outside the path of Neptune. He definitely commits himself, it will be
observed, to the statement that Saturn is the planet farthest from the sun.
And elsewhere, in stating where in these spiritual communications the 'idea'
of each planet was conceived to be situated, he leaves no room whatever for
Uranus and Neptune, and makes no mention of other bodies in the solar
system than those known in his day. This cannot have been because the
spirits from then unknown planets did not feel themselves called upon to
communicate with the spirit of one who knew nothing of their home, for he
received visitors from worlds in the starry heavens far beyond human ken.
It would almost seem, though to the faithful Swedenborgian the thought
will doubtless appear very wicked, that the system of Swedenborg gave no
place to Uranus and Neptune, simply because he knew nothing about those
planets. Otherwise, what a noble opportunity there would have been for
establishing the truth of Swedenborgian doctrines by revealing to the world

the existence of planets hitherto unknown. Before the reader pronounces
this a task beneath the dignity of the spirits and angels who taught
Swedenborg it will be well for him to examine the news which they actually
imparted.

I may as well premise, however, that it does not seem to me worth while
to enter here at any length into Swedenborg's descriptions of the inhabitants
of other worlds, because what he has to say on this subject is entirely
imaginative. There is a real interest for us in his ideas respecting the
condition of the planets, because those ideas were based (though
unconsciously) upon the science of his day, in which he was no mean
proficient. And even where his mysticism went beyond what his scientific
attainments suggested, a psychological interest attaches to the workings of
his imagination. It is as curious a problem to trace his ideas to their origin
as it sometimes is to account for the various phases of a fantastic dream,
such a dream, for instance, as that which Armadale, the doctor, and
Midwinter, in 'Armadale,' endeavour to connect with preceding events. But
Swedenborg's visions of the behaviour and appearance of the inhabitants of
other earths have little interest, because it is hopeless to attempt to account
for even their leading features. For instance, what can we make of such a
passage as the following, relating to the spirits who came from Mercury?
—'Some of them are desirous to appear, not like the spirits of other earths
as men, but as crystalline globes. Their desire to appear so, although they do
not, arises from the circumstance that the knowledges of things immaterial
are in the other life represented by crystals.'

Yet some even of these more fanciful visions significantly indicate the
nature of Swedenborg's philosophy. One can recognise his disciples and his
opponents among the inhabitants of various favoured and unhappy worlds,
and one perceives how the wiser and more dignified of his spiritual visitors
are made to advocate his own views, and to deride those of his adversaries.
Some of the teachings thus circuitously advanced are excellent.

For instance, Swedenborg's description of the inhabitants of Mercury
and their love of abstract knowledge contains an instructive lesson. 'The
spirits of Mercury imagine,' he says, 'that they know so much, that it is
almost impossible to know more. But it has been told them by the spirits of
our earth, that they do not know many things, but few, and that the things
which they know not are comparatively infinite, and in relation to those
they do know are as the waters of the largest ocean to those of the smallest
fountain; and further, that the first advance to wisdom is to know,
acknowledge, and perceive that what we do know, compared with what we
do not know, is so little as hardly to amount to anything.'[27] So far we may
suppose that Swedenborg presents his own ideas, seeing that he is
describing what has been told the Mercurial spirits by the spirits of our
earth, of whom (during these spiritual conversations) he was one. But he
proceeds to describe how angels were allowed to converse with the
Mercurial spirits in order to convince them of their error. 'I saw another
angel,' says he, after describing one such conversation, 'conversing with
them; he appeared at some altitude to the right; he was from our earth, and
he enumerated very many things of which they were ignorant.... As they
had been proud on account of their knowledges, on hearing this they began
to humble themselves. Their humiliation was represented by the sinking of
the company which they formed, for that company then appeared as a
volume or roll, ... as if hollowed in the middle and raised at the sides....
They were told what that signified, that is, what they thought in their
humiliation, and that those who appeared elevated at the sides were not as
yet in any humiliation. Then I saw that the volume was separated, and that
those who were not in humiliation were remanded back towards their earth,
the rest remaining.'

Little being known to Swedenborg, as indeed little is known to the
astronomers of our own time, about Mercury, we find little in the visions
relating to that planet which possesses any scientific interest. He asked the
inhabitants who were brought to him in visions about the sun of the system,
and they replied that it looks larger from Mercury than as seen from other

worlds. This of course was no news to Swedenborg. They explained further,
that the inhabitants enjoy a moderate temperature, without extremes of heat
or cold. 'It was given to me,' proceeds Swedenborg, 'to tell them that it was
so provided by the Lord, that they might not be exposed to excessive heat
from their greater proximity to the sun, since heat does not arise from the
sun's nearness, but from the height and density of the atmosphere, as
appears from the cold on high mountains even in hot climates; also that heat
is varied according to the direct or oblique incidence of the sun's rays, as is
plain from the seasons of winter and summer in every region.' It is curious
to find thus advanced, in a sort of lecture addressed to visionary Mercurials,
a theory which crops up repeatedly in the present day, because the difficulty
which suggests it is dealt with so unsatisfactorily for the most part in our
text-books of science. Continually we hear of some new paradoxist who
propounds as a novel doctrine the teaching that the atmosphere, and not the
sun, is the cause of heat. The mistake was excusable in Swedenborg's time.
In fact it so chanced that, apart from the obvious fact on which the mistake
is usually based—the continued presence, namely, of snow on the summits
of high mountains even in the torrid zone—it had been shown shortly
before by Newton, that the light fleecy clouds seen sometimes even in the
hottest weather above the wool-pack or cumulus clouds are composed of
minute crystals of ice. Seeing that these tiny crystals can exist under the
direct rays of the sun in hot summer weather, many find it difficult to
understand how those rays can of themselves have any heating power. Yet
in reality the reasoning addressed by Swedenborg to his Mercurial friends
was entirely erroneous. If he could have adventured as far forth into time as
he did into space, and could have attended in the spirit the lectures of one
John Tyndall, a spirit of our earth, he would have had this matter rightly
explained to him. In reality the sun's heat is as effective directly at the
summit of the highest mountain as at the sea-level. A thermometer exposed
to the sun in the former position indicates indeed a slightly higher
temperature than one similarly exposed to the sun (when at the same
altitude) at the sea-level. But the air does not get warmed to the same

degree, simply because, owing to its rarity and relative dryness, it fails to
retain any portion of the heat which passes through it.

It is interesting to notice how Swedenborg's scientific conceptions of the
result of the (relatively) airless condition of our moon suggested peculiar
fancies respecting the lunar inhabitants. Interesting, I mean,
psychologically: for it is curious to see scientific and fanciful conceptions
thus unconsciously intermingled. Of the conscious intermingling of such
conceptions instances are common enough. The effects of the moon's airless
condition have been often made the subject of fanciful speculations. The
reader will remember how Scheherazade, in 'The Poet at the Breakfast
Table,' runs on about the moon. 'Her delight was unbounded, and her
curiosity insatiable. If there were any living creatures there, what odd things
they must be. They couldn't have any lungs nor any hearts. What a pity! Did
they ever die? How could they expire if they didn't breathe? Burn up? No
air to burn in. Tumble into some of those horrid pits, perhaps, and break all
to bits. She wondered how the young people there liked it, or whether there
were any young people there. Perhaps nobody was young and nobody was
old, but they were like mummies all of them—what an idea!—two
mummies making love to each other! So she went on in a rattling, giddy
kind of way, for she was excited by the strange scene in which she found
herself, and quite astonished the young astronomer with her vivacity.' But
Swedenborg's firm belief that the fancies engendered in his mind were
scientific realities is very different from the conscious play of fancy in the
passage just quoted. It must be remembered that Swedenborg regarded his
visions with as much confidence as though they were revelations made by
means of scientific instruments; nay, with even more confidence, for he
knew that scientific observations may be misunderstood, whereas he was
fully persuaded that his visions were miraculously provided for his
enlightenment, and that therefore he would not be allowed to misunderstand
aught that was thus revealed to him.

'It is well known to spirits and angels,' he says, 'that there are inhabitants
in the moon, and in the moons or satellites which revolve about Jupiter and

Saturn. Even those who have not seen and conversed with spirits who are
from them entertain no doubt of their being inhabited, for they, too, are
earths, and where there is an earth there is man; man being the end for
which every earth exists, and without an end nothing was made by the
Great Creator. Every one who thinks from reason in any degree enlightened,
must see that the human race is the final cause of creation.'

The moon being inhabited then by human beings, but being very
insufficiently supplied with air, it necessarily follows that these human
beings must be provided in some way with the means of existing in that rare
and tenuous atmosphere. Tremendous powers of inspiration and expiration
would be required to make that air support the life of the human body.
Although Swedenborg could have had no knowledge of the exact way in
which breathing supports life (for Priestley was his junior by nearly half a
century), yet he must clearly have perceived that the quantity of air inspired
has much to do with the vitalising power of the indraught. No ordinary
human lungs could draw in an adequate supply of air from such an
atmosphere as the moon's; but by some great increase of breathing power it
might be possible to live there: at least, in Swedenborg's time there was no
reason for supposing otherwise. Reason, then, having convinced him that
the lunar inhabitants must possess extraordinary breathing apparatus, and
presumably most powerful voices, imagination presented them to him
accordingly. 'Some spirits appeared overhead,' he says, 'and thence were
heard voices like thunder; for their voices sounded precisely like thunder
from the clouds after lightning. I supposed it was a great multitude of spirits
who had the art of giving voices with such a sound. The more simple spirits
who were with me derided them, which greatly surprised me. But the cause
of their derision was soon discovered, which was, that the spirits who
thundered were not many, but few, and were as little as children, and that on
former occasions they (the thunderers) had terrified them by such sounds,
and yet were unable to do them the least harm. That I might know their
character, some of them descended from on high, where they thundered;
and, what surprised me, one carried another on his back, and the two thus

approached me. Their faces appeared not unhandsome, but longer than
those of other spirits. In stature they were like children of seven years old,
but the frame was more robust, so that they were like men. It was told me
by the angels that they were from the moon. He who was carried by the
other came to me, applying himself to my left side under the elbow, and
thence spoke. He said, that when they utter their voices they thunder in this
way,'—and it seems likely enough that if there are any living speaking
beings in the moon, their voice, could they visit the earth, would be found
to differ very markedly from the ordinary human voice. 'In the spiritual
world their thunderous voices have their use. For by their thundering the
spirits from the moon terrify spirits who are inclined to injure them, so that
the lunar spirits go in safety where they will. To convince me the sound
they make was of this kind, he (the spirit who was carried by the other)
retired, but not out of sight, and thundered in like manner. They showed,
moreover, that the voice was thundered by being uttered from the abdomen
like an eructation. It was perceived that this arose from the circumstance
that the inhabitants of the moon do not, like the inhabitants of other earths,
speak from the lungs, but from the abdomen, and thus from air collected
there, the reason of which is that the atmosphere with which the moon is
surrounded is not like that of other earths.'

In his intercourse with spirits from Jupiter, Swedenborg heard of animals
larger than those that live on the earth. It has been a favourite idea of many
believers in other worlds than ours, that though in each world the same
races of animals exist, they would be differently proportioned; and there has
been much speculation as to the probable size of men and other animals in
worlds much larger or much smaller than the earth. When as yet ideas about
other worlds were crude, the idea prevailed that giants exist in the larger
orbs, and pygmies in the smaller. Whether this idea had its origin in
conceptions as to the eternal fitness of things or not, does not clearly appear.
It seems certainly at first view natural enough to suppose that the larger
beings would want more room and so inhabit the larger dwelling-places. It

was a pleasing thought that, if we could visit Jupiter or Saturn, we should
find the human inhabitants there
In bigness to surpass earth's giant sons;

but that if we could visit our moon or Mercury, or whatever smaller
worlds there are, we should find men
Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room
Throng numberless, like that pygmæan race
Beyond the Indian mount; or fairy elves,
Whose midnight revels, by a forest side
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
Or dreams he sees.

Later the theory was started that the size of beings in various worlds
depends on the amount of light received from the central sun. Thus Wolfius
asserted that the inhabitants of Jupiter are nearly fourteen feet high, which
he proved by comparing the quantity of sunlight which reaches the Jovians
with that which we Terrenes receive. Recently, however, it has been noted
that the larger the planet, the smaller in all probability must be the
inhabitants, if any. For if there are two planets of the same density but
unequal size, gravity must be greater at the surface of the larger planet, and
where gravity is great large animals are cumbered by their weight. It is easy
to see this by comparing the muscular strength of two men similarly
proportioned, but unequal in height. Suppose one man five feet in height,
the other six; then the cross section of any given muscle will be less for the
former than for the latter in the proportion of twenty-five (five times five) to
thirty-six (six times six). Roughly, the muscular strength of the bigger man
will be half as great again as that of the smaller. But the weights of the men
will be proportioned as 125 (five times five times five) to 216 (six times six
times six), so that the weight of the bigger man exceeds that of the smaller
nearly as seven exceeds four, or by three-fourths. The taller man exceeds
the smaller, then, much more in weight than he does in strength; he is
accordingly less active in proportion to his size. Within certain limits, of
course, size increases a man's effective as well as his real strength. For

instance, our tall man in the preceding illustration cannot lift his own
weight as readily as the small man can lift his; but he can lift a weight of
three hundred pounds as easily as the small man can lift a weight of two
hundred pounds. When we get beyond certain limits of height, however, we
get absolute weakness as the result of the increase of weight. Swift's
Brobdingnags, for instance, would have been unable to stand upright; for
they were six times as tall as men, and therefore each Brobdingnag would
have weighed 216 times as much as a man, but would have possessed only
thirty-six times the muscular power. Their weight would have been greater,
then, in a sixfold greater degree than their strength, and, so far as their mere
weight was concerned, their condition would have resembled that of an
ordinary man under a load five times exceeding his own weight. As no man
could walk or stand upright under such a load, so the Brobdingnags would
have been powerless to move, despite, or rather because of, their enormous
stature. Applying the general considerations here enunciated to the question
of the probable size of creatures like ourselves in other planets, we see that
men in Jupiter should be much smaller, men in Mercury much larger, than
men on the earth. So also with other animals.

But Swedenborg's spirit visitors from these planets taught differently.
'The horses of our earth,' he says, 'when seen by the spirits of Jupiter,
appeared to me smaller than usual, though rather robust; which arose from
the idea those spirits had respecting them. They informed me that among
them there are animals similar, though much larger; but that they are wild,
and in the woods, and that when they come in sight they cause terror though
they are harmless; they added that their terror of them is natural or
innate.'[28] On the other hand the inhabitants of Mercury, who might be
thirteen feet high yet as active as our men, appeared slenderer than Terrene
men. 'I was desirous to know,' says Swedenborg, 'what kind of face and
person the people in Mercury have, compared with those of the people on
our earth. There therefore stood before me a female exactly resembling the
women on that earth. Her face was beautiful, but it was smaller than that of
a woman of our earth; she was more slender, but of equal height; she wore a

linen head-dress, not artfully yet gracefully disposed. A man also was
presented. He, too, was more slender than the men of our earth; he wore a
garment of deep blue, closely fitted to his body without folds or flowing
skirts. Such, I learn, were the personal form and costume of the humans of
that earth. Afterwards there was shown me a species of the oxen and cows,
which did not indeed differ much from those on our earth, except that they
were smaller, and made some approach to the stag and hind species.' We
have seen, too, that the lunar spirits were no larger than children seven
years old.

One passage of Swedenborg's description of Jupiter is curious. 'Although
on that earth,' he says, 'spirits speak with men' (i.e. with Jovian men) 'man
in his turn does not speak with spirits, except to say, when instructed, that
he will do so no more,'—which we should regard as a bull if it were not
news from the Jovian spirit world. 'Nor is man allowed to tell anyone that a
spirit has spoken to him; if he does so, he is punished. Those spirits of
Jupiter when they were with me, at first supposed they were with a man of
their own earth; but when in my turn I spoke with them, and thought of
publishing what passed between us and so relating it to others, then,
because they were not allowed to chastise me, they discovered they were
with a stranger.'

It has been a favourite idea with those who delight in the argument from
design, that the moons of the remoter planets have been provided for the
express purpose of making up for the small amount of sunlight which
reaches those planets. Jupiter receives only about one twenty-seventh part
of the light which we receive from the sun; but then, has he not four moons
to make his nights glorious? Saturn is yet farther away from the sun, and
receives only the ninetieth part of the light we get from the sun; but then he
has eight moons and his rings, and the nocturnal glory of his skies must go
far to compensate the Saturnians for the small quantity of sunlight they
receive. The Saturnian spirits who visited Swedenborg were manifestly
indoctrinated with these ideas. For they informed him that the nocturnal
light of Saturn is so great that some Saturnians worship it, calling it the

Lord. These wicked spirits are separated from the rest, and are not tolerated
by them. 'The nocturnal light,' say the spirits, 'comes from the immense ring
which at a distance encircles that earth, and from the moons which are
called the satellites of Saturn.' And again, being questioned further
'concerning the great ring which appears from our earth to rise above the
horizon of that planet, and to vary its situations, they said that it does not
appear to them as a ring, but only as a snow-white substance in heaven in
various directions.' Unfortunately for our faith in the veracity of these
spirits, it is certain that the moons of Saturn cannot give nearly so much
light as ours, while the rings are much more effective as darkeners than as
illuminators. One can readily calculate the apparent size of each of the
moons as seen from Saturn, and thence show that the eight discs of the
moons together are larger than our moon's disc in about the proportion of
forty-five to eight. So that if they were all shining as brightly as our full
moon and all full at the same time, their combined light would exceed hers
in that degree. But they are not illuminated as our moon is. They are
illuminated by the same remote sun which illuminates Saturn, while our
moon is illuminated by a sun giving her as much light as we ourselves
receive. Our moon then is illuminated ninety times more brightly than the
moons of Saturn, and as her disc is less than all theirs together, not as one to
ninety, but as sixteen to ninety, it follows that all the Saturnian moons, if
full at the same time, would reflect to Saturn one-sixteenth part of the light
which we receive from the full moon.[29] As regards the rings of Saturn,
nothing can be more certain than that they tend much more to deprive
Saturn of light then to make up by reflection for the small amount of light
which Saturn receives directly from the sun. The part of the ring which lies
between the planet and the sun casts a black shadow upon Saturn, this
shadow sometimes covering an extent of surface many times exceeding the
entire surface of our earth. The shadow thus thrown upon the planet creeps
slowly, first one way, then another, northwards and southwards over the
illuminated hemisphere of the planet (as pictured in the 13th plate of my
treatise on Saturn), requiring for its passage from the arctic to the antarctic
regions and back again to the arctic regions of the planet, a period nearly

equal to that of a generation of terrestrial men. Nearly thirty of our years the
process lasts, during half of which time the northern hemisphere suffers,
and during the other half the southern. The shadow band, which be it
remembered stretches right athwart the planet from the extreme eastern to
the extreme western side of the illuminated hemisphere, is so broad during
the greater part of the time that in some regions (those corresponding to our
temperate zones) the shadow takes two years in passing, during which time
the sun cannot be seen at all, unless for a few moments through some
chinks in the rings, which are known to be not solid bodies, but made up of
closely crowded small moons. And the slow passage of this fearful shadow,
which advances at the average rate of some twenty miles a day, but yet
hangs for years over the regions athwart which it sweeps, occurs in the very
season when the sun's small direct supply of heat would require to be most
freely compensated by nocturnal light—in the winter season, namely, of the
planet. Moreover, not only during the time of the shadow's passage, but
during the entire winter half of the Saturnian year, the ring reflects no light
during the night time, the sun being on the other or summer side of the
ring's plane.[30] The only nocturnal effect which would be observable would
be the obliteration of the stars covered by the ring system. It is strange that,
this being so, the spirits from Saturn should have made no mention of the
circumstance; and even more strange that these spirits and others should
have asserted that the moons and rings of Saturn compensate for the small
amount of light directly received from the sun. Most certainly a
Swedenborg of our own time would find the spirits from Saturn more
veracious and more communicative about these matters, though even what
he would hear from the spirits would doubtless appear to sceptics of the
twenty-first century to be no more than he could have inferred from the
known facts of the science of his day.

But Swedenborg was not content merely to receive visits from the
inhabitants of other planets in the solar system. He was visited also by the
spirits of earths in the starry heaven; nay, he was enabled to visit those
earths himself. For man, even while living in the world, 'is a spirit as to his
interiors, the body which he carries about in the world only serving him for
performing functions in this natural or terrestrial sphere, which is the
lowest.' And to certain men it is granted not only to converse as a spirit with
angels and spirits, but to traverse in a spiritual way the vast distances which
separate world from world and system from system, all the while remaining
in the body. Swedenborg was one of these. 'The interiors of my spirit,' he
says, 'are opened by the Lord, so that while I am in the body I can at the
same time be with angels in heaven, and not only converse with them, but
behold the wonderful things which are there and describe them, that
henceforth it may no more be said, "Who ever came from heaven to assure
us it exists and tell us what is there?" He who is unacquainted with the
arcana of heaven cannot believe that man can see earths so remote, and give
any account of them from sensible experience. But let him know that spaces
and distances, and consequently progressions, existing in the natural world,
in their origin and first causes are changes of the state of the interiors; that
with angels and spirits progressions appear according to changes of state;
and that by changes of state they may be apparently translated from one
place to another, and from one earth to another, even to earths at the
boundaries of the universe; so likewise may man as to his spirit, his body
still remaining in its place. This has been the case with me.'

Before describing his visits to earths in the starry heavens, Swedenborg
is careful to indicate the probability that such earths exist. 'It is well known
to the learned world,' he says, 'that every star is a sun in its place, remaining
fixed like the sun of our earth.' The proper motions of the stars had, alas!
not been discovered in Swedenborg's day, nor does he seem to have been
aware what a wild chase he was really entering upon in his spiritual
progressions. Conceive the pursuit of Sirius or Vega as either sun rushed
through space with a velocity of thirty or forty miles in every second of

time! To resume, however, the account which Swedenborg gives of the
ideas of the learned world of his day. 'It is the distance which makes a star
appear in a small form; consequently' (the logical necessity is not manifest,
however) 'each star, like the sun of our system, has around it planets which
are earths; and the reason these are not visible to us is because of their
immense distance and their having no light but from their own star, which
light cannot be reflected so far as to reach us.' 'To what other end,' proceeds
this most convincing reasoning, 'can be so immense a heaven with such a
multitude of stars? For man is the end for which the universe was created. It
has been ascertained by calculation that supposing there were in the
universe a million earths, and on every earth three hundred millions of men
and two hundred generations within six thousand years, and that to every
man or spirit was allotted a space of three cubic ells, the collective number
of men or spirits could not occupy a space equal to a thousandth part of this
earth, thus not more than that occupied by one of the satellites of Jupiter or
Saturn; a space on the universe almost undiscernible, for a satellite is hardly
visible to the naked eye. What would this be for the Creator of the universe,
to whom the whole universe filled with earths could not be enough' (for
what?), 'seeing that he is infinite.' However, it is not on this reasoning alone
that Swedenborg relies. He tells us, honestly beyond all doubt, that he
knows the truth of what he relates. 'The information I am about to give,' he
says, 'respecting the earths in the starry heaven is from experimental
testimony; from which it will likewise appear how I was translated thither
as to my spirit, the body remaining in its place.'

His progress in his first star-hunt was to the right, and continued for
about two hours. He found the boundary of our solar system marked first by
a white but thick cloud, next by a fiery smoke ascending from a great
chasm. Here some guards appeared, who stopped some of the company,
because these had not, like Swedenborg and the rest, received permission to
pass. They not only stopped those unfortunates, but tortured them, conduct
for which terrestrial analogues might possibly be discovered.

Having reached another system, he asked the spirits of one of the earths
there how large their sun was and how it appeared. They said it was less
than the sun of our earth, and has a flaming appearance. Our sun, in fact, is
larger than other suns in space, for from that earth starry heavens are seen,
and a star larger than the rest appears, which, say those spirits, 'was
declared from heaven' to be the sun of Swedenborg's earthly home.

What Swedenborg saw upon that earth has no special interest. The men
there, though haughty, are loved by their respective wives because they, the
men, are good. But their goodness does not appear very manifest from
anything in the narrative. The only man seen by Swedenborg took from his
wife 'the garment which she wore, and threw it over his own shoulders;
loosening the lower part, which flowed down to his feet like a robe (much
as a man of our earth might be expected to loosen the tie-back of the period,
if he borrowed it in like manner) he thus walked about clad.'

He next visited an earth circling round a star, which he learned was one
of the smaller sort, not far from the equator. Its greater distance was plain
from the circumstance that Swedenborg was two days in reaching it. In this
earth he very nearly fell into a quarrel with the spirits. For hearing that they
possess remarkable keenness of vision, he 'compared them with eagles
which fly aloft, and enjoy a clear and extensive view of objects beneath.' At
this they were indignant, supposing, poor spirits, 'that he compared them to
eagles as to their rapacity, and consequently thought them wicked.' He
hastened to explain, however, that he 'did not liken them to eagles as to their
rapacity, but as to sharpsightedness.'

Swedenborg's account of a third earth in the star-depths contains a very
pretty idea for temples and churches. The temples in that earth 'are
constructed,' he says, of trees, not cut down, but growing in the place where
they were first planted. On that earth, it seems, there are trees of an
extraordinary size and height; these they set in rows when young, and
arrange in such an order that they may serve when they grow up to form
porticoes and colonnades. In the meanwhile, by cutting and pruning, they fit

and prepare the tender shoots to entwine one with another, and join together
so as to form the groundwork and floor of the temple to be constructed, and
to rise at the sides as walls, and above to bend into arches to form the roof.
In this manner they construct the temple with admirable art, elevating it
high above the ground. They prepare also an ascent into it, by continuous
branches of the trees, extended from the trunk and firmly connected
together. Moreover, they adorn the temple without and within in various
ways, by disposing the foliage into particular forms; thus they build entire
groves. But it was not permitted me to see the nature of these temples, only
I was informed that the light of their sun is let in by apertures amongst the
branches, and is everywhere transmitted through crystals; whereby the light
falling on the walls is refracted in colours like those of the rainbow,
particularly blue and orange, of which they are fondest. Such is their
architecture, which they prefer to the most magnificent palaces of our earth.'

Other earths in the starry heavens were visited by Swedenborg, but the
above will serve sufficiently to illustrate the nature of his observations. One
statement, by the way, was made to him which must have seemed unlikely
ever to be contravened, but which has been shown in our time to be
altogether erroneous. In the fourth star-world he visited, he was told that
that earth, which travels round its sun in 200 days of fifteen hours each, is
one of the least in the universe, being scarcely 500 German miles, say 2000
English miles, in circumference. This would make its diameter about 640
English miles. But there is not one of the whole family of planetoids which
has a diameter so great as this, and many of these earths must be less than
fifty miles in diameter. Now Swedenborg remarks that he had his
information from the angels, 'who made a comparison in all these
particulars with things of a like nature on our earth, according to what they
saw in me or in my memory. Their conclusions were formed by angelic
ideas, whereby are instantly known the measure of space and time in a just
proportion with respect to space and time elsewhere. Angelic ideas, which
are spiritual, in such calculations infinitely excel human ideas, which are
natural.' He must therefore have met, unfortunately, with untruthful angels.

The real source of Swedenborg's inspirations will be tolerably obvious—
to all, at least, who are not Swedenborgians. But our account of his visions
would not be complete in a psychological sense without a brief reference to
the personal allusions which the spirits and angels made during their visits
or his wanderings. His distinguished rival, Christian Wolf, was encountered
as a spirit by spirits from Mercury, who 'perceived that what he said did not
rise above the sensual things of the natural man, because in speaking he
thought of honour, and was desirous, as in the world (for in the other world
every one is like his former self), to connect various things into series, and
from these again continually to deduce others, and so form several chains of
such, which they did not see or acknowledge to be true, and which,
therefore, they declared to be chains which neither cohered in themselves
nor with the conclusions, calling them the obscurity of authority;' so they
ceased to question him further, and presently left him. Similarly, a spirit
who in this world had been a 'prelate and a preacher,' and 'very pathetic, so
that he could deeply move his hearers,' got no hearing among the spirits of a
certain earth in the starry heavens; for they said they could tell 'from the
tone of the voice whether a discourse came from the heart or not;' and as his
discourse came not from the heart, 'he was unable to teach them, whereupon
he was silent.' Convenient thus to have spirits and angels to confirm our
impressions of other men, living or dead.

Apart from the psychological interest attaching to Swedenborg's strange
vision, one cannot but be strongly impressed by the idea pervading them,
that to beings suitably constituted all that takes place in other worlds might
be known. Modern science recognises a truth here; for in that mysterious
ether which occupies all space, messages are at all times travelling by
which the history of every orb is constantly recorded. No world, however
remote or insignificant; no period, however distant—but has its history thus
continually proclaimed in ever widening waves. Nay, by these waves also
(to beings who could read their teachings aright) the future is constantly
indicated. For, as the waves which permeate the ether could only be situated
as they actually are, at any moment, through past processes, each one of

which is consequently indicated by those ethereal waves, so also there can
be but one series of events in the future, as the sequel of the relations
actually indicated by the ethereal undulations. These, therefore, speak as
definitely and distinctly of the future as of the past. Could we but rid us of
the gross habiliments of flesh, and by some new senses be enabled to feel
each order of ethereal undulations, even of those only which reach our
earth, all knowledge of the past and future would be within our power. The
consciousness of this underlies the fancies of Swedenborg, just as it
underlies the thought of him who sang—
There's not an orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim.
But while this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it.

V.
OTHER WORLDS AND OTHER UNIVERSES.
If any one shall gravely tell me that I have spent my time idly in a vain and
fruitless inquiry after what I can never become sure of, the answer is that at this rate
he would put down all natural philosophy, as far as it concerns itself in searching into
the nature of such things. In such noble and sublime studies as these, 'tis a glory to
arrive at probability, and the search itself rewards the pains. But there are many
degrees of probable, some nearer to the truth than others, in the determining of which
lies the chief exercise of our judgment. And besides the nobleness and pleasure of the
studies, may we not be so bold as to say that they are no small help to the
advancement of wisdom and morality?—Huyghens, Conjectures concerning the
Planetary Worlds.

The interest with which astronomy is studied by many who care little or
nothing for other sciences is due chiefly to the thoughts which the celestial
bodies suggest respecting life in other worlds than ours. There is no feeling
more deeply seated in the human heart—not the belief in higher than human
powers, not the hope of immortality, not even the fear of death—than the

faith in realms of life where other conditions are experienced than those we
are acquainted with here. It is not vulgar curiosity or idle fancy that
suggests the possibilities of life in other worlds. It has been the conviction
of the profoundest thinkers, of men of highest imagination. The mystery of
the star-depths has had its charm for the mathematician as well as for the
poet; for the exact observer as for the most fruitful theoriser; nay, for the
man of business as for him whose life is passed in communing with nature.
If we analyse the interest with which the generality of men inquire into
astronomical matters apparently not connected with the question of life in
other worlds, we find in every case that it has been out of this question
alone or chiefly that that interest has sprung. The great discoveries made
during the last few years respecting the sun for example, might seem remote
from the subject of life in other worlds. It is true that Sir William Herschel
thought the sun might be the abode of living creatures; and Sir John
Herschel even suggested the possibility that the vast streaks of light called
the solar willow-leaves, objects varying from two hundred to a thousand
miles in length, might be living creatures whose intense lustre was the
measure of their intense vitality. But modern discoveries had rendered all
such theories untenable. The sun is presented to us as a mighty furnace, in
whose fires the most stubborn elements are not merely melted but
vaporised. The material of the sun has been analysed, the motions and
changes taking place on his surface examined, the laws of his being
determined. How, it might be asked, is the question of life in other worlds
involved in these researches? The faith of Sir David Brewster in the sun as
the abode of life being dispelled, how could discoveries respecting the sun
interest those who care about the subject of the plurality of worlds? The
answer to these questions is easily found. The real interest which solar
researches have possessed for those who are not astronomers has resided in
the evidence afforded respecting the sun's position as the fire, light, and life
of the system of worlds whereof our world is one. The mere facts
discovered respecting the sun would be regarded as so much dry detail were
they not brought directly into relation with our earth and its wants, and
therefore with the wants of the other earths which circle round the sun; but

when thus dealt with they immediately excite attention and interest. I do not
speak at random in asserting this, but describe the result of widely ranging
observation. I have addressed hundreds of audiences in Great Britain and
America on the subject of recent solar discoveries, and I have conversed
with many hundreds of persons of various capacity and education, from
men almost uncultured to men of the highest intellectual power; and my
invariable experience has been that solar research derives its chief interest
when viewed in relation to the sun's position as the mighty ruler, the
steadfast sustainer, the beneficent almoner of the system of worlds to which
our earth belongs. It is the same with other astronomical subjects. Few care
for the record of lunar observations, save in relation to the question whether
the moon is or has been the abode of living creatures. The movements of
comets and meteors, and the discoveries recently made respecting their
condition, have no interest except in relation to the position of these bodies
in the economy of solar systems, or to the possible part which they may at
one time have performed in building up worlds and suns. None save
astronomers, and few only of these, care for researches into the star-depths,
except in connection with the thought that every star is a sun and therefore
probably the light and fire of a system of worlds like those which circle
around our own sun.

It is singular how variously this question of life in other worlds has been
viewed at various stages of astronomical progress. From the time of
Pythagoras, who first, so far as is known, propounded the general theory of
the plurality of worlds, down to our own time, when Brewster and
Chalmers on the one hand, and Whewell on the other, have advocated rival
theories probably to be both set aside for a theory at once intermediate to
and more widely ranging in time and space than either, the aspect of the
subject has constantly varied, as new lights have been thrown upon it from
different directions. It may be interesting briefly to consider what has been
thought in the past on this strangely attractive question, and then to indicate
the view towards which modern discoveries seem manifestly to point—a
view not likely to undergo other change than that resulting from clearer

vision and closer approach. In other words, I shall endeavour to show that
the theory to which we are now led by all the known facts is correct in
general, though, as fresh knowledge is obtained, it may undergo
modification in details. We now see the subject from the right point of view,
though as science progresses we may come to see it more clearly and
definedly.

When men believed the earth to be a flat surface above which the
heavens were arched as a tent or canopy, they were not likely to entertain
the belief in other worlds than ours. During the earlier ages of mankind
ideas such as these prevailed. The earth had been fashioned into its present
form and condition, the heavens had been spread over it, the sun, and moon,
and stars had been set in the heavens for its use and adornment, and there
was no thought of any other world.

But while this was the general belief, there was already a school of
philosophy where another doctrine had been taught. Pythagoras had
adopted the belief of Apollonius Pergæus that the sun is the centre of the
planetary paths, the earth one among the planets—a belief inseparable from
the doctrine of the plurality of worlds. Much argument has been advanced
to show that this belief never was adopted before the time of Copernicus,
and unquestionably it must be admitted that the theory was not presented in
the clear and simple form to which we have become accustomed. But it is
not necessary to weigh the conflicting arguments for and against the
opinion that Pythagoras and others regarded the earth as not the fixed centre
of the universe. The certain fact that the doctrine of the plurality of worlds
was entertained (I do not say adopted) by them, proves sufficiently that they
cannot have believed the earth to be fixed and central. The idea of other
worlds like our earth is manifestly inconsistent with the belief that the earth
is the central body around which the whole universe revolves.

That this is so is well illustrated by the fate of the unfortunate Giordano
Bruno. He was one of the first disciples of Copernicus, and, having
accepted the doctrine that the earth travels round the sun as one among his

family of planets, was led very naturally to the belief that the other planets
are inhabited. He went farther, and maintained that as the earth is not the
only inhabited world in the solar system, so the sun is not the only centre of
a system of inhabited worlds, but each star a sun like him, about which
many planets revolve. This was one of the many heresies for which Bruno
was burned at the stake. It is easy, also, to recognise in the doctrine of many
worlds as the natural sequel of the Copernican theory, rather than in the
features of this theory itself, the cause of the hostility with which
theologians regarded it, until, finding it proved, they discovered that it is
directly taught in the books which they interpret for us so variously. The
Copernican theory was not rejected—nay, it was even countenanced—until
this particular consequence of the theory was recognised. But within a few
years from the persecution of Bruno, Galileo was imprisoned, and the last
years of his life made miserable, because it had become clear that in setting
the earth adrift from its position as centre of the universe, he and his brother
Copernicans were sanctioning the belief in other worlds than ours. Again
and again, in the attacks made by clericals and theologians upon the
Copernican theory, this lamentable consequence was insisted upon.
Unconscious that they were advancing the most damaging argument which
could be conceived for the cause they had at heart, they maintained,
honestly but unfortunately, that with the new theory came the manifest
inference that our earth is not the only and by no means the most important
world in the universe—a doctrine manifestly inconsistent (so they said)
with the teachings of the Scriptures.

It was naturally only by a slow progression that men were able to
advance into the domain spread before them by the Copernican theory, and
to recognise the real minuteness of the earth both in space and time. They
more quickly recognised the earth's insignificance in space, because the
new theory absolutely forced this fact upon them. If the earth, whose globe
they knew to be minute compared with her distance from the sun, is really
circling around the sun in a mighty orbit many millions of miles in
diameter, it follows of necessity that the fixed stars must lie so far away that

even the span of the earth's orbit is reduced to nothing by comparison with
the vast depths beyond which lie even the nearest of those suns. This was
Tycho Brahe's famous and perfectly sound argument against the Copernican
theory. 'The stars remain fixed in apparent position all the time, yet the
Copernicans tell us that the earth from which we view the stars is circling
once a year in an orbit many millions of miles in diameter; how is it that
from so widely ranging a point of view we do not see widely different
celestial scenery? Who can believe that the stars are so remote that by
comparison the span of the earth's path is a mere point?' Tycho's argument
was of course valid.[31] Of two things one. Either the earth does not travel
round the sun, or the stars are much farther away than men had conceived
possible in Tycho's time. His mistake lay in rejecting the correct conclusion
because simply it made the visible universe seem many millions of times
vaster than he had supposed. Yet the universe, even as thus enlarged, was
but a point to the universe visible in our day, which in turn will dwindle to a
point compared with the universe as men will see it a few centuries hence;
while that or the utmost range of space over which men can ever extend
their survey is doubtless as nothing to the real universe of occupied space.

Such has been the progression of our ideas as to the position of the earth
in space. Forced by the discoveries of Copernicus to regard our earth as a
mere point compared with the distances of the nearest fixed stars, men
gradually learned to recognise those distances which at first had seemed
infinite as in their turn evanescent even by comparison with that mere point
of space over which man is able by instrumental means to extend his
survey.

Though there has been a similar progression in men's ideas as to the
earth's position in time, that progression has not been carried to a
corresponding extent. Men have not been so bold in widening their
conceptions of time as in widening their conceptions of space. It is here and
thus that, in my judgment, the subject of life in other worlds has been
hitherto incorrectly dealt with. Men have given up as utterly idle the idea
that the existence of worlds is to be limited to the special domain of space

to which our earth belongs; but they are content to retain the conception that
the domain of time to which our earth's history belongs, 'this bank and shoal
of time' on which the life of the earth is cast, is the period to which the
existence of other worlds than ours should be referred.

This, which is to be noticed in nearly all our ordinary treatises on
astronomy, appears as a characteristic peculiarity of works advocating the
theory of the plurality of worlds. Brewster and Dick and Chalmers, all in
fact who have taken that doctrine under their special protection, reason
respecting other worlds as though, if they failed to prove that other orbs are
inhabited now, or are at least now supporting life in some way or other, they
failed of their purpose altogether. The idea does not seem to have occurred
to them that there is room and verge enough in eternity of time not only for
activity but for rest. They must have all the orbs of space busy at once in the
one work which they seem able to conceive as the possible purpose of those
bodies—the support of life. The argument from analogy, which they had
found effective in establishing the general theory of the plurality of worlds,
is forgotten when its application to details would suggest that not all orbs
are at all times either the abode of life or in some way subserving the
purposes of life.

We find, in all the forms of life with which we are acquainted, three
characteristic periods—first the time of preparation for the purposes of life;
next, the time of fitness for those purposes; and thirdly, the time of
decadence tending gradually to death. We see among all objects which exist
in numbers, examples of all these stages existing at the same time. In every
race of living creatures there are the young as yet unfit for work, the
workers, and those past work; in every forest there are saplings, seed-
bearing trees, and trees long past the seed-bearing period. We know that
planets, or rather, speaking more generally, the orbs which people space,
pass through various stages of development, during some only of which
they can reasonably be regarded as the abode of life or supporting life; yet
the eager champion of the theory of many worlds will have them all in these

life-bearing or life-supporting stages, none in any of the stages of
preparation, none in any of the stages of decrepitude or death.

This has probably had its origin in no small degree from the disfavour
with which in former years the theory of the growth and development of
planets and systems of planets was regarded. Until the evidence became too
strong to be resisted, the doctrine that our earth was once a baby world,
with many millions of years to pass through before it could be the abode of
life, was one which only the professed atheist (so said too many divines)
could for a moment entertain; while the doctrine that not the earth alone,
but the whole of the solar system, had developed from a condition utterly
unlike that through which it is now passing, could have had its origin only
in the suggestions of the Evil One. Both doctrines were pronounced to be so
manifestly opposed to the teachings of Moses, and not only so, but so
manifestly inconsistent with the belief in a Supreme Being, that—that
further argument was unnecessary, and denunciation only was required. So
confident were divines on these points, that it would not have been very
wonderful if some few students of science had mistaken assertion for proof,
and so concluded that the doctrines towards which science was
unmistakably leading them really were inconsistent with what they had
been taught to regard as the Word of God. Whether multiplied experiences
taught men of science to wait before thus deciding, or however matters fell
out, it certainly befell before very long that the terrible doctrine of cosmical
development was supported by such powerful evidence, astronomical and
terrestrial, as to appear wholly irresistible. Then, not only was the doctrine
accepted by divines, but shown to be manifestly implied in the sacred
narrative of the formation of the earth and heavens, sun, and moon, and
stars; while upon those unfortunate students of science who had not
changed front in good time, and were found still arguing on the mistaken
assumption that the development of our system was not accordant with that
ancient narrative, freshly forged bolts were flung from the Olympus of
orthodoxy.

So far as the other argument—from the inconsistency of the
development theory with belief in a Supreme Being—was concerned, the
student of science was independent of the interpretations which divines
claim the sole right of assigning to the ancient books. Science has done so
much more than divinity (which in fact has done nothing) to widen our
conceptions of space and time, that she may justly claim full right to deal
with any difficulties arising from such enlargement of our ideas. With the
theological difficulty science would not care to deal at all, were she not
urged to do so by the denunciations of divines; and when, so urged, she
touches that difficulty, she is quickly told that the difficulty is insuperable,
and not long after that it has no existence, and (on both accounts) that it
should have been left alone. But with the difficulty arising from the
widening of our ideas respecting space and time, science may claim good,
almost sole, right to deal. The path to a solution of the problem is not
difficult to find. At a first view, it does seem to those whose vision had been
limited to a contracted field, that the wide domain of time and space in
which processes of development are found to take place is the universe
itself, that to deny the formation of our earth by a special creative act is to
deny the existence of a Creator, that to regard the beginning of our earth as
a process of development is to assert that development has been in
operation from the beginning of all things. But when we recognise clearly
that vastness and minuteness, prolonged and brief duration, are merely
relative, we perceive that in considering our earth's history we have to deal
only with small parts of space and brief periods of time, by comparison
with all space and all time. Our earth is very large compared with a tree or
an animal, but very small compared with the solar system, a mere point
compared with the system of stars to which the sun belongs, and absolutely
as nothing compared with the universe of space; and in like manner, while
the periods of her growth and development occupy periods very long-
lasting compared with those required for the growth and development of a
tree or an animal, they are doubtless but brief compared with the eras of the
development of our solar system, a mere instant compared with the eras of
the development of star-systems, and absolutely evanescent compared with

eternity. We have no more reason for rejecting the belief in a Creator
because our earth or the solar system is found to have developed to its
present condition from an embryonic primordial state, than we have had
ever since men first found that animals and trees are developed from the
germ. The region of development is larger, the period of development lasts
longer, but neither the one nor the other is infinite; and being finite, both
one and the other are simply nothing by comparison with infinity. It is a
startling thought, doubtless, that periods of time compared with which the
life of a man, the existence of a nation, nay, the duration of the human race
itself, sink into insignificance, should themselves in turn be dwarfed into
nothingness by comparison with periods of a still higher order. But the
thought is not more startling than that other thought which we have been
compelled to admit—the thought that the earth on which we live, and the
solar system to which it belongs, though each so vast that all known
material objects are as nothing by comparison, are in turn as nothing
compared with the depths of space separating us from even the nearest
among the fixed stars. One thought, as I have said, we have been compelled
to admit, the other has not as yet been absolutely forced upon us. Though
men have long since given up the idea that the earth and heavens have
endured but a few thousand years, it is still possible to believe that the birth
of our solar system, whether by creative act or by the beginning of
processes of development, belongs to the beginning of all time. But this
view cannot be regarded as even probable. Although it has never been
proved that any definite relation must subsist between time (occupied by
events) and space (occupied by matter), the mind naturally accepts the
belief that such a relation exists. As we find the universe enlarging under
the survey of science, our conceptions of the duration of the universe
enlarge also. When the earth was supposed to be the most important object
in creation, men might reasonably assign to time itself (regarded as the
interval between the beginning of the earth and the consummation of all
things when the earth should perish) a moderate duration; but it is equally
reasonable that, as the insignificance of the earth's domain in space is

recognised, men should recognise also the presumable insignificance of the
earth's existence in time.

In this respect, although we have nothing like the direct evidence
afforded by the measurement of space, we yet have evidence which can
scarcely be called in question. We find in the structure of our earth the signs
of its former condition. We see clearly that it was once intensely hot! and
we know from experimental researches on the cooling of various earths that
many millions of years must have been required by the earth in cooling
down from its former igneous condition. We may doubt whether Bischoff's
researches can be relied upon in details, and so be unwilling to assign with
him a period of 350 millions of years to a single stage of the process of
cooling. But that the entire process lasted tens of millions and probably
hundreds of millions of years cannot be doubted. Recognising such
enormous periods as these in the development of one of the smallest fruits
of the great solar tree of life, we cannot but admit at least the
reasonableness of believing that the larger fruits (Jupiter, for instance, with
340 times as much matter, and Saturn with 100 times) must require periods
still vaster, probably many times larger. Indeed, science shows not only that
this view is reasonable, but that no other view is possible. For the mighty
root of the tree of life, the great orb of the sun, containing 340 thousand
times as much matter as the earth, yet mightier periods would be needed.
The growth and development of these, the parts of the great system, must of
necessity require much shorter time-intervals than the growth and
development of the system regarded as a whole. The enormous period when
the germs only of the sun and planets existed as yet, when the chaotic
substance of the system had not yet blossomed into worlds, the mighty
period which is to follow the death of the last surviving member of the
system, when the whole scheme will remain as the dead trunk of a tree
remains after the last leaf has fallen, after the last movement of sap within
the trunk—these periods must be infinite compared with those which
measure the duration of even the mightiest separate members of the system.

But all this has been left unnoticed by those who have argued in support
of the Brewsterian doctrine of a plurality of worlds. They argue as if it had
never been shown that every member of the solar system, as of all other
such systems in space, has to pass through an enormously long period of
preparation before becoming fit to be the abode of life, and that after being
fit for life (for a period very long to our conceptions, but by comparison
with the other exceedingly short) it must for countless ages remain as an
extinct world. Or else they reason as though it had been proved that the
relatively short life-bearing periods in the existence of the several planets
must of necessity synchronise, instead of all the probabilities lying
overwhelmingly the other way.

While this has been (in my judgment) a defect in what may be called the
Brewsterian theory of other worlds, a defect not altogether dissimilar has
characterised the opposite or Whewellite theory. Very useful service was
rendered to astronomy by Whewell's treatise upon, or rather against, the
plurality of worlds, calling attention as it did to the utter feebleness of the
arguments on which men had been content to accept the belief that other
planets and other systems are inhabited. But some among the most
powerfully urged arguments against that belief tacitly relied on the
assumption of a similarity of general condition among the members of the
solar system. For instance, the small mean density of Jupiter and Saturn
had, on the Brewsterian theory, been explained as probably due to vast
hollow spaces in those planets' interiors—an explanation which (if it could
be admitted) would leave us free to believe that Jupiter and Saturn may be
made of the same materials as our own earth. With this was pleasantly
intermixed the conception that the inhabitant of these planets may have his
'home in subterranean cities warmed by central fires, or in crystal caves
cooled by ocean tides, or may float with the Nereids upon the deep, or
mount upon wings as eagles, or rise upon the pinions of the dove, that he
may flee away and be at rest,' with much more in the same fanciful vein.
We now know that there can be no cavities more than a few miles below the
crust of a planet, simply because, under the enormous pressures which

would exist, the most solid matter would be perfectly plastic. But while
Whewell's general objection to the theory that Jupiter or Saturn is in the
same condition as our earth thus acquires new force, the particular
explanation which he gave of the planet's small density is open to precisely
the same general objection. For he assumes that, because the planet's mean
density is little greater than that of water, the planet is probably a world of
water and ice with a cindery nucleus, or in fact just such a world as would
be formed if a sufficient quantity of water in the same condition as the
water of our seas were placed at Jupiter's greater distance from the sun,
around a nucleus of earthy or cindery matter large enough to make the
density of the entire planet thus formed equal to that of Jupiter, or about
one-third greater than the density of water. In this argument there are in
reality two assumptions, of precisely the same nature as those which
Whewell set himself to combat. It is first assumed that some material
existing on a large scale in our earth, and nearly of the same density as
Jupiter, must constitute the chief bulk of that planet, and secondly that the
temperature of Jupiter's globe must be that which a globe of such material
would have if placed where Jupiter is. The possibility that Jupiter may be in
an entirely different stage of planetary life—or, in other words, that the
youth, middle life, and old age of that planet may belong to quite different
eras from the corresponding periods of our earth's life—is entirely
overlooked. Rather, indeed, it may be said that the extreme probability of
this, on any hypothesis respecting the origin of the solar system, and its
absolute certainty on the hypothesis of the development of that system, are
entirely overlooked.

A fair illustration of the erroneous nature of the arguments which have
been used, not only in advocating rival theories respecting the plurality of
worlds, but also in dealing with subordinate points, may be presented as
follows:

Imagine a wide extent of country covered with scattered trees of various
size, and with plants and shrubs, flowers and herbs, down to the minutest
known. Let us suppose a race of tiny creatures to subsist on one of the fruits

of a tree of moderate size, their existence as a race depending entirely on
the existence of the fruit on which they subsist, while the existence of the
individuals of their race lasts but for a few minutes. Furthermore, let there
be no regular fruit season either on their tree or in their region of vegetable
life, but fruits forming, growing, and decaying all the time.

Let us next conceive these creatures to be possessed of a power of
reasoning respecting themselves, their fruit world, the tree on which it
hangs, and to some degree even respecting such other trees, plants, flowers,
and so forth, as the limited range of their vision might be supposed to
include. It would be a natural thought with them, when first they began to
exercise this power of reasoning, that their fruit home was the most
important object in existence, and themselves the chief and noblest of living
beings. It would also be very natural that they should suppose the formation
of their world to correspond with the beginning of time, and the formation
of their race to have followed the formation of their world by but a few
seconds. They would conclude that a Supreme Being had fashioned their
world and themselves by special creative acts, and that what they saw
outside their fruit world had been also specially created, doubtless to
subserve their wants.

Let us now imagine that gradually, by becoming more closely observant
than they had been, by combining together to make more complete
observations, and above all by preserving the records of observations made
by successive generations, these creatures began to obtain clearer ideas
respecting their world and the surrounding regions of space. They would
find evidence that the fruit on which they lived had not been formed
precisely as they knew it, but had undergone processes of development. The
distressing discovery would be made that this development could not
possibly have taken place in a few seconds, but must have required many
hours, nay, even several of those enormous periods called by us days.

This, however, would only be the beginning of their troubles. Gradually
the more advanced thinkers and the closest observers would perceive that

not only had their world undergone processes of development, but that its
entire mass had been formed by such processes—that in fact it had not been
created at all, in the sense in which they had understood the word, but had
grown. This would be very dreadful to these creatures, because they would
not readily be able to dispossess their minds of the notion that they were the
most important beings in the universe, their domain of space coextensive
with the universe, the duration of their world coextensive with time.

But passing over the difficulties thus arising, and the persecution and
abuse to which those would be subjected who maintained the dangerous
doctrine that their fruit home had been developed, not created, let us
consider how these creatures would regard the question of other worlds than
their own. At first they would naturally be unwilling to admit the possibility
that other worlds as important as their own could exist. But if after a time
they found reason to believe that their world was only one of several
belonging to a certain tree system, the idea would occur to them, and would
gradually come to be regarded as something more than probable, that those
other fruit worlds, like their own, might be the abode of living creatures.
And probably at first, while as yet the development of their own world was
little understood, they would conceive the notion that all the fruits, large or
small, upon their tree system were in the same condition as their own, and
either inhabited by similar races or at least in the same full vigour of life-
bearing existence. But so soon as they recognised the law of development
of their own world, and the relation between such development and their
own requirements, they would form a different opinion, if they found that
only during certain stages of their world's existence life could exist upon it.
If, for instance, they perceived that their fruit world must once have been so
bitter and harsh in texture that no creatures in the least degree like
themselves could have lived upon it, and that it was passing slowly but
surely through processes by which it would become one day dry and
shrivelled and unable to support living creatures, they would be apt, if their
reasoning powers were fairly developed, to inquire whether other fruits
which they saw around them on their tree system were either in the former

or in the latter condition. If they found reason to believe certain fruits were
in one or other of these stages, they would regard such fruits as not yet the
abode of life or as past the life-supporting era. It seems probable even that
another idea would suggest itself to some among their bolder thinkers.
Recognising in their own world in several instances what to their ideas
resembled absolute waste of material or of force, it might appear to them
quite possible that some, perhaps even a large proportion, of the fruits upon
their tree were not only not supporting life at the particular epoch of
observation, but never had supported life and never would—that, through
some cause or other, life would never appear upon such fruits even when
they were excellently fitted for the support of life. They might even
conceive that some among the fruits of their tree had failed or would fail to
come to the full perfection of fruit life.

Looking beyond their own tree—that is, the tree to which their own fruit
world belonged—they would perceive other trees, though their visual
powers might not enable them to know whether such trees bore fruit,
whether they were in other respects like their own, whether those which
seemed larger or smaller were really so, or owed their apparent largeness to
nearness, or their apparent smallness to great distance. They would be apt
perhaps to generalise a little too daringly respecting these remote tree
systems, concluding too confidently that a shrub or a flower was a tree
system like their own, or that a great tree, every branch of which was far
larger than their entire tree system, belonged to the same order and bore
similar fruit. They might mistake, also, in forgetting the probable fact that
as every fruit in their own tree system had its own period of life, very brief
compared with the entire existence of the fruit, so every tree might have its
own fruit-bearing season. Thus, contemplating a tree which they supposed
to be like their own in its nature, they might say, 'Yonder is a tree system
crowded with fruits, each the abode of many myriads of creatures like
ourselves:' whereas in reality the tree might be utterly unlike their own,
might not yet have reached or might long since have passed the fruit-
bearing stage, might when in that stage bear fruit utterly unlike any they

could even imagine, and each such fruit during its brief life-bearing
condition might be inhabited by living beings utterly unlike any creatures
they could conceive.

Yet again, we can very well imagine that the inhabitants of our fruit
world, though they might daringly overleap the narrow limits of space and
time within which their actual life or the life of their race was cast, though
they might learn to recognise the development of their own world and of
others like it, even from the very blossom, would be utterly unable to
conceive the possibility that the tree itself to which their world belonged
had developed by slow processes of growth from a time when it was less
even than their own relatively minute home.

Still less would it seem credible to them, or even conceivable, that the
whole forest region to which they belonged, containing many orders of
trees differing altogether from their own tree system, besides plants and
shrubs, and flowers and herbs (forms of vegetation of whose use they could
form no just conception whatever), had itself grown; that once the entire
forest domain had been under vast masses of water—the substance which
occasionally visited their world in the form of small drops; that such
changes were but minute local phenomena of a world infinitely higher in
order than their own; that that world in turn was but one of the least of the
worlds forming a yet higher system; and so on ad infinitum. Such ideas
would seem to them not merely inconceivable, but many degrees beyond
the widest conceptions of space and time which they could regard as
admissible.

Our position differs only in degree, not in kind, from that of these
imagined creatures, and the reasoning which we perceive (though they
could not) to be just for such creatures is just for us also. It was perfectly
natural that before men recognised the evidences of development in the
structure of our earth they should regard the earth and all things upon the
earth and visible from the earth as formed by special creative acts precisely
as we see them now. But so soon as they perceived that the earth is

undergoing processes of development and has undergone such processes in
the past, it was reasonable, though at first painful, to conclude that on this
point they had been mistaken. Yet as we recognise the absurdity of the
supposition that, because fruits and trees grow, and were not made in a
single instant as we know them, therefore there is no Supreme Being, so
may we justly reject as absurd the same argument, enlarged in scale,
employed to induce the conclusion that because planets and solar systems
have been developed to their present condition, and were not created in
their present form, therefore there is no Creator, no God. I do not know that
the argument ever has been used in this form; but it has been used to show
that those who believe in the development of worlds and systems must of
necessity be atheists, an even more mischievous conclusion than the other;
for none who had not examined the subject would be likely to adopt the
former conclusion, but many might be willing to believe that a number of
their fellow-men hold obnoxious tenets, without inquiring closely or at all
into the reasoning on which the assertion had been based.

But it is more important to notice how our views respecting other worlds
should be affected by those circumstances in the evidence we have, which
correspond with the features of the evidence on which the imagined
inhabitants of the fruit world would form their opinion. It was natural that
when men first began to reason about themselves and their home they
should reject the idea of other worlds like ours, and perhaps it was equally
natural that when first the idea was entertained that the planets may be
worlds like ours, men should conceive that all those worlds are in the same
condition as ours. But it would be, or rather it is, as unreasonable for men to
maintain such an opinion now, when the laws of planetary development are
understood, when the various dimensions of the planets are known, and
when the shortness of the life-supporting period of a planet's existence
compared with the entire duration of the planet has been clearly recognised,
as it would be for the imagined inhabitants of a small fruit on a tree to
suppose that all the other fruits on the tree, though some manifestly far less
advanced in development and others far more advanced than their own,

were the abode of the same forms of life, though these forms were seen to
require those conditions, and no other, corresponding to the stage of
development through which their own world was passing.

Viewing the universe of suns and worlds in the manner here suggested,
we should adopt a theory of other worlds which would hold a position
intermediate between the Brewsterian and the Whewellite theories. (It is not
on this account that I advocate it, let me remark in passing, but simply
because it accords with the evidence, which is not the case with the others.)
Rejecting on the one hand the theory of the plurality of worlds in the sense
implying that all existing worlds are inhabited, and on the other hand the
theory of but one world, we should accept a theory which might be entitled
the Paucity of Worlds, only that relative not absolute paucity must be
understood. It is absolutely certain that this theory is the correct one, if we
admit two postulates, neither of which can be reasonably questioned—viz.,
first, that the life-bearing era of any world is short compared with the entire
duration of that world; and secondly, that there can have been no cause
which set all the worlds in existence, not simultaneously, which would be
amazing enough, but (which would be infinitely more surprising) in such a
way that after passing each through its time of preparation, longer for the
large worlds and shorter for the small worlds, they all reached at the same
time the life-bearing era. But quite apart from this antecedent probability,
amounting as it does to absolute certainty if these two highly probably
postulates are admitted, we have the actual evidence of the planets we can
examine—that evidence proving incontestably, as I have shown elsewhere,
that such planets as Jupiter and Saturn are still in the state of preparation,
still so intensely hot that no form of life could possibly exist upon them, and
that such bodies as our moon have long since passed the life-bearing stage,
and are to all intents and purposes defunct.

But may we not go farther? Recognising in our own world, in many
instances, what to our ideas resembles waste—waste seeds, waste lives,
waste races, waste regions, waste forces—recognising superfluity and
superabundance in all the processes and in all the works of nature, should it

not appear at least possible that some, perhaps even a large proportion, of
the worlds in the multitudinous systems peopling space, are not only not
now supporting life, but never have supported life and never will? Does this
idea differ in kind, however largely to our feeble conceptions it may seem
to differ in degree, from the idea of the imagined creatures on a fruit, that
some or even many fruits excellently fitted for the support of life might not
subserve that purpose? And as those creatures might conceive (as we know)
that some fruits, even many, fail to come to the full perfection of fruit life,
may not we without irreverence conceive (as higher beings than ourselves
may know) that a planet or a sun may fail in the making? We cannot say that
in such a case there would be a waste or loss of material, though we may be
unable to conceive how the lost sun or planet could be utilised. Our
imagined insect reasoners would be unable to imagine that fruits plucked
from their tree system were otherwise than wasted, for they would conceive
that their idea of the purpose of fruits was the only true one; yet they would
be altogether mistaken, as we may be in supposing the main purpose of
planetary existence is the support of life.

In like manner, when we pass in imagination beyond the limits of our
own system, we may learn a useful lesson from the imagined creatures'
reasoning about other tree systems than that to which their world belonged.
Astronomers have been apt to generalise too daringly respecting remote
stars and star systems, as though our solar system were a true picture of all
solar systems, the system of stars to which our sun belongs a true picture of
all star systems. They have been apt to forget that, as every world in our
own system has its period of life, short by comparison with the entire
duration of the world, so each solar system, each system of such systems,
may have its own life-bearing season, infinitely long according to our
conceptions, but very short indeed compared with the entire duration of
which the life-bearing season would be only a single era.

Lastly, though men may daringly overleap the limits of time and space
within which their lives are cast, though they may learn to recognise the
development of their own world and of others like it even from the blossom

of nebulosity, they seem unable to rise to the conception that the mighty
tree which during remote æons bore those nebulous blossoms sprang itself
from cosmical germs. We are unable to conceive the nature of such germs;
the processes of development affecting them belong to other orders than
any processes we know of, and required periods compared with which the
inconceivable, nay, the inexpressible periods required for the development
of the parts of our universe, are as mere instants. Yet have we every reason
which analogy can afford to believe that even the development of a whole
universe such as ours should be regarded as but a minute local phenomenon
of a universe infinitely higher in order, that universe in turn but a single
member of a system of such universes, and so on, even ad infinitum. To
reject the belief that this is possible is to share the folly of beings such as
we have conceived regarding their tiny world as a fit centre whence to
measure the universe, while yet, from such a stand-point, this little earth on
which we live would be many degrees beyond the limits where for them the
inconceivable would begin. To reject the belief that this is not only possible,
but real, is to regard the few short steps by which man has advanced
towards the unknown as a measurable approach towards limits of space,
towards the beginning and the end of all things. Until it can be shown that
space is bounded by limits beyond which neither matter nor void exists, that
time had a beginning before which it was not and tends to an end after
which it will exist no more, we may confidently accept the belief that the
history of our earth is as evanescent in time as the earth itself is evanescent
in space, and that nothing we can possibly learn about our earth, or about
the system it belongs to, or about systems of such systems, can either prove
or disprove aught respecting the scheme and mode of government of the
universe itself. It is true now as it was in days of yore, and it will remain
true as long as the earth and those who dwell on it endure, that what men
know is nothing, the unknown infinite.

VI.
SUNS IN FLAMES.

In November 1876 news arrived of a catastrophe the effects of which must
in all probability have been disastrous, not to a district, or a country, or a
continent, or even a world, but to a whole system of worlds. The
catastrophe happened many years ago—probably at least a hundred—yet
the messenger who brought the news has not been idle on his way, but has
sped along at a rate which would suffice to circle this earth eight times in
the course of a second. That messenger has had, however, to traverse
millions of millions of miles, and only reached our earth November 1876.
The news he brought was that a sun like our own was in conflagration; and
on a closer study of his message something was learned as to the nature of
the conflagration, and a few facts tending to throw light on the question
(somewhat interesting to ourselves) whether our own sun is likely to
undergo a similar mishap at any time. What would happen if he did, we
know already. The sun which has just met with this disaster—that is, which
so suffered a few generations ago—blazed out for a time with several
hundred times its former lustre. If our sun were to increase as greatly in
light and heat, the creatures on the side of our earth turned towards him at
the time would be destroyed in an instant. Those on the dark or night
hemisphere would not have to wait for their turn till the earth, by rotating,
carried them into view of the destroying sun. In much briefer space the
effect of his new fires would be felt all over the earth's surface. The heavens
would be dissolved and the elements would melt with fervent heat. In fact
no description of such a catastrophe, as affecting the night half of the earth,
could possibly be more effective and poetical than St. Peter's account of the
day of the Lord, coming 'as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens
shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent
heat, the earth also and the works that are therein being burned up;' though I
imagine the apostle would have been scarce prepared to admit that the earth
was in danger from a solar conflagration. Indeed, according to another
account, the sun was to be turned into darkness and the moon into blood,

before that great and notable day of the Lord came—a description
corresponding well with solar and lunar eclipses, the most noteworthy
'signs in the heavens,' but agreeing very ill with the outburst of a great solar
conflagration.

Before proceeding to inquire into the singular and significant
circumstances of the recent outburst, it may be found interesting to examine
briefly the records which astronomy has preserved of similar catastrophes
in former years. These may be compared to the records of accidents on the
various railway lines in a country or continent. Those other suns which we
can stars are engines working the mighty mechanism of planetary systems,
as our sun maintains the energies of our own system; and it is a matter of
some interest to us to inquire in how many cases, among the many suns
within the range of vision, destructive explosions occur. We may take the
opportunity, later, to inquire into the number of cases in which the
machinery of solar systems appears to have broken down.

The first case of a solar conflagration on record is that of the new star
observed by Hipparchus some 2000 years ago. In his time, and indeed until
quite recently, an object of this kind was called a new star, or a temporary
star. But we now know that when a star makes its appearance where none
had before been visible, what has really happened has been that a star too
remote to be seen has become visible through some rapid increase of
splendour. When the new splendour dies out again, it is not that a star has
ceased to exist; but simply that a faint star which had increased greatly in
lustre has resumed its original condition. Hipparchus's star must have been
a remarkable object, for it was visible in full daylight, whence we may infer
that it was many times brighter than the blazing Dog-star. It is interesting in
the history of science, as having led Hipparchus to draw up a catalogue of
stars, the first on record. Some moderns, being sceptical, rejected this story
as a fiction; but Biot examining Chinese Chronicles[32] relating to the times
of Hipparchus, finds that in 134 b.c. (about nine years before the date of
Hipparchus's catalogue) a new star was recorded as having appeared in the
constellation Scorpio.

The next new star (that is, stellar conflagration) on record is still more
interesting, as there appears some reason for believing that before long we
may see another outburst of the same star. In the years 945, 1264, and 1572,
brilliant stars appeared in the region of the heavens between Cepheus and
Cassiopeia. Sir J. Herschel remarks, that, 'from the imperfect account we
have of the places of the two earlier, as compared with that of the last,
which was well determined, as well as from the tolerably near coincidence
of the intervals of their appearance, we may suspect them, with Goodricke,
to be one and the same star, with a period of 312 or perhaps of 156 years.'
The latter period may very reasonably be rejected, as one can perceive no
reason why the intermediate returns of the star to visibility should have
been overlooked, the star having appeared in a region which never sets. It is
to be noted that, the period from 945 to 1264 being 319 years, and that from
1264 to 1572 only 308 years, the period of this star (if Goodricke is correct
in supposing the three outbursts to have occurred in the same star) would
seem to be diminishing. At any time, then, this star might now blaze out in
the region between Cassiopeia and Cepheus, for more than 304 years have
already passed since its last outburst.

As the appearance of a new star led Hipparchus to undertake the
formation of his famous catalogue, so did the appearance of the star in
Cassiopeia, in 1572, lead the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe to construct a
new and enlarged catalogue. (This, be it remembered, was before the
invention of the telescope.) Returning one evening (November 11, 1572,
old style) from his laboratory to his dwelling-house, he found, says Sir J.
Herschel, 'a group of country people gazing at a star, which he was sure did
not exist an hour before. This was the star in question.'

The description of the star and its various changes is more interesting at
the present time, when the true nature of these phenomena is understood,
than it was even in the time when the star was blazing in the firmament. It
will be gathered from that description and from what I shall have to say
farther on about the results of recent observations on less splendid new
stars, that, if this star should reappear in the next few years, our observers

will probably be able to obtain very important information from it. The
message from it will be much fuller and more distinct than any we have yet
received from such stars, though we have learned quite enough to remain in
no sort of doubt as to their general nature.

The star remained visible, we learn, about sixteen months, during which
time it kept its place in the heavens without the least variation. 'It had all the
radiance of the fixed stars, and twinkled like them; and was in all respects
like Sirius, except that it surpassed Sirius in brightness and magnitude.' It
appeared larger than Jupiter, which was at that time at his brightest, and was
scarcely inferior to Venus. It did not acquire this lustre gradually, but shone
forth at once of its full size and brightness, 'as if,' said the chroniclers of the
time, 'it had been of instantaneous creation.' For three weeks it shone with
full splendour, during which time it could be seen at noonday 'by those who
had good eyes, and knew where to look for it.' But before it had been seen a
month, it became visibly smaller, and from the middle of December 1572
till March 1574, when it entirely disappeared, it continually diminished in
magnitude. 'As it decreased in size, it varied in colour: at first its light was
white and extremely bright; it then became yellowish; afterwards of a ruddy
colour like Mars; and finished with a pale livid white resembling the colour
of Saturn.' All the details of this account should be very carefully noted. It
will presently be seen that they are highly characteristic.

Those who care to look occasionally at the heavens to know whether this
star has returned to view may be interested to learn whereabouts it should
be looked for. The place may be described as close to the back of the star-
gemmed chair in which Cassiopeia is supposed to sit—a little to the left of
the seat of the chair, supposing the chair to be looked at in its normal
position. But as Cassiopeia's chair is always inverted when the constellation
is most conveniently placed for observation, and indeed as nine-tenths of
those who know the constellation suppose the chair's legs to be the back,
and vice versâ, it may be useful to mention that the star was placed
somewhat thus with respect to the straggling W formed by the five chief
stars of Cassiopeia. There is a star not very far from the place here

indicated, but rather nearer to the middle angle of the W. This, however, is
not a bright star; and cannot possibly be mistaken for the expected visitant.
(The place of Tycho's star is indicated in my School Star-Atlas and also in
my larger Library Atlas. The same remark applies to both the new stars in
the Serpent-Bearer, presently to be described.)

In August 1596 the astronomer Fabricius observed a new
star in the neck of the Whale, which also after a time
disappeared. It was not noticed again till the year 1637,
when an observer rejoicing in the name of Phocyllides
Holwarda observed it, and, keeping a watch, after it had
vanished, upon the place where it had appeared, saw it again
come into view nine months after its disappearance. Since then it has been
known as a variable star with a period of about 331 days 8 hours. When
brightest this star is of the second magnitude. It indicates a somewhat
singular remissness on the part of the astronomers of former days, that a
star shining so conspicuously for a fortnight, once in each period of 331-1⁄3
days, should for so many years have remained undetected. It may, perhaps,
be thought that, noting this, I should withdraw the objection raised above
against Sir J. Herschel's idea that the star in Cassiopeia may return to view
once in 156 years, instead of once in 312 years. But there is a great
difference between a star which at its brightest shines only as a second-
magnitude star, so that it has twenty or thirty companions of equal or
greater lustre above the horizon along with it, and a star which surpasses
three-fold the splendid Sirius. We have seen that even in Tycho Brahe's day,
when probably the stars were not nearly so well known by the community
at large, the new star in Cassiopeia had not shone an hour before the
country people were gazing at it with wonder. Besides, Cassiopeia and the
Whale are constellations very different in position. The familiar stars of
Cassiopeia are visible on every clear night, for they never set. The stars of
the Whale, at least of the part to which the wonderful variable star belongs,
are below the horizon during rather more than half the twenty-four hours;
and a new star there would only be noticed, probably (unless of exceeding

splendour), if it chanced to appear during that part of the year when the
Whale is high above the horizon between eventide and midnight, or in the
autumn and early winter.

It is a noteworthy circumstance about the variable star in the Whale,
deservedly called Mira, or The Wonderful, that it does not always return to
the same degree of brightness. Sometimes it has been a very bright second-
magnitude star when at its brightest, at others it has barely exceeded the
third magnitude. Hevelius relates that during the four years between
October 1672 and December 1676, Mira did not show herself at all! As this
star fades out, it changes in colour from white to red.

Towards the end of September 1604, a new star made its appearance in
the constellation Ophiuchus, or the Serpent-Bearer. Its place was near the
heel of the right foot of 'Ophiuchus huge.' Kepler tells us that it had no hair
or tail, and was certainly not a comet. Moreover, like the other fixed stars, it
kept its place unchanged, showing unmistakably that it belonged to the star-
depths, not to nearer regions. 'It was exactly like one of the stars, except that
in the vividness of its lustre, and the quickness of its sparkling, it exceeded
anything that he had ever seen before. It was every moment changing into
some of the colours of the rainbow, as yellow, orange, purple, and red;
though it was generally white when it was at some distance from the
vapours of the horizon.' In fact, these changes of colour must not be
regarded as indicating aught but the star's superior brightness. Every very
bright star, when close to the horizon, shows these colours, and so much the
more distinctly as the star is the brighter. Sirius, which surpasses the
brightest stars of the northern hemisphere full four times in lustre, shows
these changes of colour so conspicuously that they were regarded as
specially characteristic of this star, insomuch that Homer speaks of Sirius
(not by name, but as the 'star of autumn') shining most beautifully 'when
laved of ocean's wave'—that is, when close to the horizon. And our own
poet, Tennyson, following the older poet, sings how
the fiery Sirius alters hue,
And bickers into red and emerald.

The new star was brighter than Sirius, and was about five degrees lower
down, when at its highest above the horizon, than Sirius when he
culminates. Five degrees being equal to nearly ten times the apparent
diameter of the moon, it will be seen how much more favourable the
conditions were in the case of Kepler's star for those coloured scintillations
which characterised that orb. Sirius never rises very high above the horizon.
In fact, at his highest (near midnight in winter, and, of course, near midday
in summer) he is about as high above the horizon as the sun at midday in
the first week in February. Kepler's star's greatest height above the horizon
was little more than three-fourths of this, or equal to about the sun's
elevation at midday on January 13 or 14 in any year.

Like Tycho Brahe's star, Kepler's was brighter even than Jupiter, and
only fell short of Venus in splendour. It preserved its lustre for about three
weeks, after which time it gradually grew fainter and fainter until some time
between October 1605 and February 1606, when it disappeared. The exact
day is unknown, as during that interval the constellation of the Serpent-
Bearer is above the horizon in the day-time only. But in February 1606,
when it again became possible to look for the new star in the night-time, it
had vanished. It probably continued to glow with sufficient lustre to have
remained visible, but for the veil of light under which the sun concealed it,
for about sixteen months altogether. In fact, it seems very closely to have
resembled Tycho's star, not only in appearance and in the degree of its
greatest brightness, but in the duration of its visibility.

In the year 1670 a new star appeared in the constellation Cygnus,
attaining the third magnitude. It remained visible, but not with this lustre,
for nearly two years. After it had faded almost out of view, it flickered up
again for awhile, but soon after it died out, so as to be entirely invisible.
Whether a powerful telescope would still have shown it is uncertain, but it
seems extremely probable. It may be, indeed, that this new star in the Swan
is the same which has made its appearance within the last few weeks; but
on this point the evidence is uncertain.

On April 20, 1848, Mr. Hind (Superintendent of the Nautical Almanac,
and discoverer of ten new members of the solar system) noticed a new star
of the fifth magnitude in the Serpent-Bearer, but in quite another part of that
large constellation than had been occupied by Kepler's star. A few weeks
later, it rose to the fourth magnitude. But afterwards its light diminished
until it became invisible to ordinary eyesight. It did not vanish utterly,
however. It is still visible with telescopic power, shining as a star of the
eleventh magnitude, that is five magnitudes below the faintest star
discernible with the unaided eye.

This is the first new star which has been kept in view since its apparent
creation. But we are now approaching the time when it was found that as
so-called new stars continue in existence long after they have disappeared
from view, so also they are not in reality new, but were in existence long
before they became visible to the naked eye.

On May 12, 1866, shortly before midnight, Mr. Birmingham, of Tuam,
noticed a star of the second magnitude in the Northern Crown, where
hitherto no star visible to the naked eye had been known. Dr. Schmidt, of
Athens, who had been observing that region of the heavens the same night,
was certain that up to 11 p.m., Athens local time, there was no star above the
fourth magnitude in the place occupied by the new star. So that, if this
negative evidence can be implicitly relied on, the new star must have
sprung at least from the fourth, and probably from a much lower magnitude,
to the second, in less than three hours—eleven o'clock at Athens
corresponding to about nine o'clock by Irish railway time. A Mr. Barker, of
London, Canada, put forward a claim to having seen the new star as early as
May 4—a claim not in the least worth investigating, so far as the credit of
first seeing the new star is concerned, but exceedingly important in its
bearing on the nature of the outburst affecting the star in Corona. It is
unpleasant to have to throw discredit on any definite assertion of facts;
unfortunately, however, Mr. Barker, when his claim was challenged, laid
before Mr. Stone, of the Greenwich Observatory, such very definite records
of observations made on May 4, 8, 9, and 10, that we have no choice but

either to admit these observations, or to infer that he experienced the
delusive effects of a very singular trick of memory. He mentions in his letter
to Mr. Stone that he had sent full particulars of his observations on those
early dates to Professor Watson, of Ann Arbor University, on May 17; but
(again unfortunately) instead of leaving that letter to tell its own story in
Professor Watson's hands, he asked Professor Watson to return it to him: so
that when Mr. Stone very naturally asked Professor Watson to furnish a
copy of this important letter, Professor Watson had to reply, 'About a month
ago, Mr. Barker applied to me for this letter, and I returned it to him, as
requested, without preserving a copy. I can, however,' he proceeded, 'state
positively that he did not mention any actual observation earlier than May
14. He said he thought he had noticed a strange star in the Crown about two
weeks before the date of his first observation—May 14—but not
particularly, and that he did not recognise it until the 14th. He did not give
any date, and did not even seem positive as to identity.... When I returned
the letter of May 17, I made an endorsement across the first page, in regard
to its genuineness, and attached my signature. I regret that I did not preserve
a copy of the letter in question; but if the original is produced, it will appear
that my recollection of its contents is correct.' I think no one can blame Mr.
Stone, if, on the receipt of this letter, he stated that he had not the 'slightest
hesitation' in regarding Mr. Barker's earlier observations as 'not entitled to
the slightest credit.'[33]

It may be fairly taken for granted that the new star leapt very quickly, if
not quite suddenly, to its full splendour. Birmingham, as we have seen, was
the first to notice it, on May 12. On the evening of May 13, Schmidt of
Athens discovered it independently, and a few hours later it was noticed by
a French engineer named Courbebaisse. Afterwards, Baxendell of
Manchester, and others independently saw the star. Schmidt, examining
Argelander's charts of 324,000 stars (charts which I have had the pleasure
of mapping in a single sheet), found that the star was not a new one, but had
been set down by Argelander as between the ninth and tenth magnitudes.

Referring to Argelander's list, we find that the star had been twice observed
—viz., on May 18, 1855, and on March 31, 1856.

Birmingham wrote at once to Mr. Huggins, who, in conjunction with the
late Dr. Miller, had been for some time engaged in observing stars and other
celestial objects with the spectroscope. These two observers at once
directed their telescope armed with spectroscopic adjuncts—the
telespectroscope is the pleasing name of the compound instrument—to the
new-comer. The result was rather startling. It may be well, however, before
describing it, to indicate in a few words the meaning of various kinds of
spectroscopic evidence.

The light of the sun, sifted out by the spectroscope, shows all the colours
but not all the tints of the rainbow. It is spread out into a large rainbow-
tinted streak, but at various places (a few thousand) along the streak there
are missing tints; so that in fact the streak is crossed by a multitude of dark
lines. We know that these lines are due to the absorptive action of vapours
existing in the atmosphere of the sun, and from the position of the lines we
can tell what the vapours are. Thus, hydrogen by its absorptive action
produces four of the bright lines. The vapour of iron is there, the vapour of
sodium, magnesium, and so on. Again, we know that these same vapours,
which, by their absorptive action, cut off rays of certain tints, emit light of
just those tints. In fact, if the glowing mass of the sun could be suddenly
extinguished, leaving his atmosphere in its present intensely heated
condition, the light of the faint sun which would thus be left us would give
(under spectroscopic scrutiny) those very rays which now seem wanting.
There would be a spectrum of multitudinous bright lines, instead of a
rainbow-tinted spectrum crossed by multitudinous dark lines. It is, indeed,
only by contrast that the dark lines appear dark, just as it is only by contrast
that the solar spots seem dark. Not only the penumbra but the umbra of a
sun-spot, not only the umbra but the nucleus, not only the nucleus but the
deeper black which seems to lie at the core of the nucleus, shine really with
a lustre far exceeding that of the electric light, though by contrast with the
rest of the sun's surface the penumbra looks dark, the umbra darker still, the

nucleus deep black, and the core of the nucleus jet black. So the dark lines
across the solar spectrum mark where certain rays are relatively faint,
though in reality intensely lustrous. Conceive another change than that just
imagined. Conceive the sun's globe to remain as at present, but the
atmosphere to be excited to many times its present degree of light and
splendour: then would all these dark lines become bright, and the rainbow-
tinted background would be dull or even quite dark by contrast. This is not
a mere fancy. At times, local disturbances take place in the sun which
produce just such a change in certain constituents of the sun's atmosphere,
causing the hydrogen, for example, to glow with so intense a heat that,
instead of its lines appearing dark, they stand out as bright lines.
Occasionally, too, the magnesium in the solar atmosphere (over certain
limited regions only, be it remembered) has been known to behave in this
manner. It was so during the intensely hot summer of 1872, insomuch that
the Italian observer Tacchini, who noticed the phenomenon, attributed to
such local overheating of the sun's magnesium vapour the remarkable heat
from which we then for a time suffered.

Now, the stars are suns, and the spectrum of a star is simply a miniature
of the solar spectrum. Of course, there are characteristic differences. One
star has more hydrogen, at least more hydrogen at work absorbing its rays,
and thus has the hydrogen lines more strongly marked than they are in the
solar spectrum. Another star shows the lines of various metals more
conspicuously, indicating that the glowing vapours of such elements, iron,
copper, mercury, tin, and so forth, either hang more densely in the star's
atmosphere than in our sun's, or, being cooler, absorb their special tints
more effectively. But speaking generally, a stellar spectrum is like the solar
spectrum. There is the rainbow-tinted streak, which implies that the source
of light is glowing solid, liquid, or highly compressed vaporous matter, and
athwart the streak there are the multitudinous dark lines which imply that
around the glowing heart of the star there are envelopes of relatively cool
vapours.

We can understand, then, the meaning of the evidence obtained from the
new star in the Northern Crown.

In the first place, the new star showed the rainbow-tinted streak crossed
by dark lines, which indicated its sun-like nature. But, standing out on that
rainbow-tinted streak as on a dark background, were four exceedingly
bright lines—lines so bright, though fine, that clearly most of the star's light
came from the glowing vapours to which these lines belonged. Three of the
lines belonged to hydrogen, the fourth was not identified with any known
line.

Let us distinguish between what can certainly be concluded from this
remarkable observation, and what can only be inferred with a greater or less
degree of probability.

It is absolutely certain that when Messrs. Huggins and Miller made their
observation (by which time the new star had faded from the second to the
third magnitude), enormous masses of hydrogen around the star were
glowing with a heat far more intense than that of the star itself within the
hydrogen envelope. It is certain that the increase in the star's light,
rendering the star visible which before had been far beyond the range of
ordinary eyesight, was due to the abnormal heat of the hydrogen
surrounding that remote sun.

But it is not so clear whether the intense glow of the hydrogen was
caused by combustion or by intense heat without combustion. The
difference between the two causes of increased light is important; because
on the opinion we form on this point must depend our opinion as to the
probability that our sun may one day experience a similar catastrophe, and
also our opinion as to the state of the sun in the Northern Crown after the
outburst. To illustrate the distinction in question, let us take two familiar
cases of the emission of light. A burning coal glows with red light, and so
does a piece of iron placed in a coal fire. But the coal and the iron are
undergoing very different processes. The coal is burning, and will presently

be consumed; the iron is not burning (except in the sense that it is burning
hot, which means only that it will make any combustible substance burn
which is brought into contact with it), and it will not be consumed though
the coal fire be maintained around it for days and weeks and months. So
with the hydrogen flames which play at all times over the surface of our
own sun. They are not burning like the hydrogen flames which are used for
the oxy-hydrogen lantern. Were the solar hydrogen so burning, the sun
would quickly be extinguished. They are simply aglow with intensity of
heat, as a mass of red-hot iron is aglow; and, so long as the sun's energies
are maintained, the hydrogen around him will glow in this way without
being consumed. As the new fires of the star in the Crown died out rapidly,
it is possible that in their case there was actual combustion. On the other
hand, it is also possible, and perhaps on the whole more probable, that the
hydrogen surrounding the star was simply set glowing with increased lustre
owing to some cause not as yet ascertained.

Let us see how these two theories have been actually worded by the
students of science themselves who have maintained them.

'The sudden blazing forth of this star,' says Mr. Huggins, 'and then the
rapid fading away of its light, suggest the rather bold speculation that in
consequence of some great internal convulsion, a large volume of hydrogen
and other gases was evolved from it, the hydrogen, by its combination with
some other element,' in other words, by burning, 'giving out the light
represented by the bright lines, and at the same time heating to the point of
vivid incandescence the solid matter of the star's surface.' 'As the liberated
hydrogen gas became exhausted' (I now quote not Huggins's own words,
but words describing his theory in a book which he has edited) 'the flame
gradually abated, and, with the consequent cooling, the star's surface
became less vivid, and the star returned to its original condition.'

On the other hand, the German physicists, Meyer and Klein, consider the
sudden development of hydrogen, in quantities sufficient to explain such an
outburst, exceedingly unlikely. They have therefore adopted the opinion,

that the sudden blazing out of the star was occasioned by the violent
precipitation of some mighty mass, perhaps a planet, upon the globe of that
remote sun, 'by which the momentum of the falling mass would be changed
into molecular motion, or in other words into heat and light.' It might even
be supposed, they urge, that the star in the Crown, by its swift motion, may
have come in contact with one of the star clouds which exist in large
numbers in the realms of space. 'Such a collision would necessarily set the
star in a blaze and occasion the most vehement ignition of its hydrogen.'

Fortunately, our sun is safe for many millions of years to come from
contact from any one of its planets. The reader must not, however, run away
with the idea that the danger consists only in the gradual contraction of
planetary orbits sometimes spoken of. That contraction, if it is taking place
at all, of which we have not a particle of evidence, would not draw Mercury
to the sun's surface for at least ten million millions of years. The real danger
would be in the effects which the perturbing action of the larger planets
might produce on the orbit of Mercury. That orbit is even now very
eccentric, and must at times become still more so. It might, but for the
actual adjustment of the planetary system, become so eccentric that
Mercury could not keep clear of the sun; and a blow from even small
Mercury (only weighing, in fact, 390 millions of millions of millions of
tons), with a velocity of some 300 miles per second, would warm our sun
considerably. But there is no risk of this happening in Mercury's case—
though the unseen and much more shifty Vulcan (in which planet I beg to
express here my utter disbelief) might, perchance, work mischief if he
really existed.

As for star clouds lying in the sun's course, we may feel equally
confident. The telescope assures us that there are none immediately on the
track, and we know, also, that, swiftly though the sun is carrying us
onwards through space,[34] many millions of years must pass before he is
among the star families towards which he is rushing.

Of the danger from combustion, or from other causes of ignition than
those considered by Meyer and Klein, it still remains to speak. But first, let
us consider what new evidence has been thrown upon the subject by the
observations made on the star which flamed out last November.

The new star was first seen by Professor Schmidt, who has had the good
fortune of announcing to astronomers more than one remarkable
phenomenon. It was he who discovered in November 1866 that a lunar
crater had disappeared, an announcement quite in accordance with the facts
of the case. We have seen that he was one of the independent discoverers of
the outburst in the Northern Crown. On November 24, at the early hour of
5.41 in the evening (showing that Schmidt takes time by the forelock at his
observatory), he noticed a star of the third magnitude in the constellation of
the Swan, not far from the tail of that southward-flying celestial bird. He is
quite sure that on November 20, the last preceding clear evening, the star
was not there. At midnight its light was very yellow, and it was somewhat
brighter than the neighbouring star Eta Pegasi, on the Flying Horse's
southernmost knee (if anatomists will excuse my following the ordinary
usage which calls the wrist of the horse's fore-arm the knee). He sent news
of the discovery forthwith to Leverrier, the chief of the Paris observatory;
and the observers there set to work to analyse the light of the stranger.
Unfortunately the star's suddenly acquired brilliancy rapidly faded. M. Paul
Henry estimated the star's brightness on December 2 as equal only to that of
a fifth-magnitude star. Moreover, the colour, which had been very yellow on
November 24, was by this time 'greenish, almost blue.' On December 2, M.
Cornu, observing during a short time when the star was visible through a
break between clouds, found that the star's spectrum consisted almost
entirely of bright lines. On December 5, he was able to determine the
position of these lines, though still much interrupted by clouds. He found
three bright lines of hydrogen, the strong (really double) line of sodium, the
(really triple) line of magnesium, and two other lines. One of these last
seemed to agree exactly in position with a bright line belonging to the
corona seen around the sun during total eclipse.[35]

The star has since faded gradually in lustre until, at present, it is quite
invisible to the naked eye.

We cannot doubt that the catastrophe which befell this star is of the same
general nature as is that which befell the star in the Northern Crown. It is
extremely significant that all the elements which manifested signs of
intense heat in the case of the star in the Swan, are characteristic of our
sun's outer appendages. We know that the coloured flames seen around the
sun during total solar eclipse consist of glowing hydrogen, and of glowing
matter giving a line so near the sodium line that in the case of a stellar
spectrum it would, probably, not be possible to distinguish one from the
other. Into the prominences there are thrown from time to time masses of
glowing sodium, magnesium, and (in less degree) iron and other metallic
vapours. Lastly, in that glorious appendage, the solar corona, which extends
for hundreds of thousands of miles from the sun's surface, there are
enormous quantities of some element, whose nature is as yet unknown,
showing under spectroscopic analysis the bright line which seems to have
appeared in the spectrum of the flaming sun in the Swan.

This evidence seems to me to suggest that the intense heat which
suddenly affected this star had its origin from without. At the same time, I
cannot agree with Meyer and Klein in considering that the cause of the heat
was either the downfall of a planetary mass on the star, or the collision of
the star with a star-cloudlet, or nebula, traversing space in one direction
while the star swept onwards in another. A planet could not very well come
into final conflict with its sun at one fell swoop. It would gradually draw
nearer and nearer, not by the narrowing of its path, but by the change of the
path's shape. The path would, in fact, become more and more eccentric;
until, at length, at its point of nearest approach, the planet would graze its
primary, exciting an intense heat where it struck, but escaping actual
destruction that time. The planet would make another circuit, and again
graze its sun, at or near the same part of the planet's path. For several
circuits this would continue, the grazes not becoming more effective each
time, but rather less. The interval between them, however, would grow

continually less and less. At last the time would come when the planet's
path would be reduced to the circular form, its globe touching its sun's all
the way round, and then the planet would very quickly be reduced to
vapour, and partly burned up, its substance being absorbed by its sun. But
all the successive grazes would be indicated to us by accessions in the star's
lustre, the period between each seeming outburst being only a few months
at first, and becoming gradually less and less (during a long course of years,
perhaps even of centuries), until the planet was finally destroyed. Nothing
of this sort has happened in the case of any so-called new star.

As for the rush of a star through a nebulous mass, that is a theory which
would scarcely be entertained by any one acquainted with the enormous
distances separating the gaseous star-clouds properly called nebulæ. There
may be small clouds of the same sort scattered much more densely through
space; but we have not a particle of evidence that this actually is the case.
All we certainly know about star-cloudlets suggest that the distances
separating them from each other are comparable with those which separate
star from star, in which case the idea of a star coming into collision with a
star-cloudlet, and still more the idea of this occurring several times in a
century, is wild in the extreme.

On the whole, the theory seems more probable than any of these, that
enormous flights of large meteoric masses travel around those stars which
thus occasionally break forth in conflagration, such flights travelling on
exceedingly eccentric paths, and requiring enormously long periods to
complete each circuit of their vast orbits. In conceiving this, we are not
imagining anything new. Such a meteoric flight would differ only in degree
not kind from meteoric flights which are known to circle around our own
sun. I am not sure, indeed, that it can be definitely asserted that our sun has
no meteoric appendages of the same nature as those which, if this theory be
true, excite to intense periodic activity the sun round which they circle. We
know that comets and meteors are closely connected, every comet being
probably (many certainly) attended by flights of meteoric masses. The
meteors which produce the celebrated November showers of falling stars

follow in the track of a comet invisible to the naked eye. May we not
reasonably suppose, then, that those glorious comets which have not only
been visible but conspicuous, shining even in the day-time, and brandishing
round tails which, like that of the 'wonder in heaven, the great dragon,'
seemed to 'draw the third part of the stars of heaven,' are followed by much
denser flights of much more massive meteors? Now some among these
giant comets have paths which carry them very close to our sun. Newton's
comet, with its tail a hundred millions of miles in length, all but grazed the
sun's globe. The comet of 1843, whose tail, says Sir J. Herschel, 'stretched
half-way across the sky,' must actually have grazed the sun, though but
lightly, for its nucleus was within 80,000 miles of his surface, and its head
was more than 160,000 miles in diameter. And these are only two among
the few comets whose paths are known. At any time we might be visited by
a comet mightier than either, travelling on an orbit intersecting the sun's
surface, followed by flights of meteoric masses enormous in size and many
in number, which, falling on the sun's globe with the enormous velocity
corresponding to their vast orbital range and their near approach to the sun
—a velocity of some 360 miles per second—would, beyond all doubt,
excite his whole frame, and especially his surface regions, to a degree of
heat far exceeding what he now emits.

We have had evidence of the tremendous heat to which the sun's surface
would be excited by the downfall of a shower of large meteoric masses.
Carrington and Hodgson, on September 1, 1859, observed (independently)
the passage of two intensely bright bodies across a small part of the sun's
surface—the bodies first increasing in brightness, then diminishing, then
fading away. It is generally believed that these were meteoric masses raised
to fierce heat by frictional resistance. Now so much brighter did they
appear, or rather did that part of the sun's surface appear through which they
had rushed, that Carrington supposed the dark glass screen used to protect
the eye had broken, and Hodgson described the brightness of this part of the
sun as such that the part shone like a brilliant star on the background of the
glowing solar surface. Mark, also, the consequences of the downfall of

those two bodies only. A magnetic disturbance affected the whole frame of
the earth at the very time when the sun had been thus disturbed. Vivid
auroras were seen not only in both hemispheres, but in latitudes where
auroras are very seldom witnessed. 'By degrees,' says Sir J. Herschel,
'accounts began to pour in of great auroras seen not only in these latitudes,
but at Rome, in the West Indies, in the tropics within eighteen degrees of
the equator (where they hardly ever appear); nay, what is still more striking,
in South America and in Australia—where, at Melbourne, on the night of
September 2, the greatest aurora ever seen there made its appearance. These
auroras were accompanied with unusually great electro-magnetic
disturbances in every part of the world. In many places the telegraph wires
struck work. They had too many private messages of their own to convey.
At Washington and Philadelphia, in America, the electric signal-men
received severe electric shocks. At a station in Norway the telegraphic
apparatus was set fire to; and at Boston, in North America, a flame of fire
followed the pen of Bain's electric telegraph, which writes down the
message upon chemically prepared paper.' Seeing that where the two
meteors fell the sun's surface glowed thus intensely, and that the effect of
this accession of energy upon our earth was thus well marked, can it be
doubted that a comet, bearing in its train a flight of many millions of
meteoric masses, and falling directly upon the sun, would produce an
accession of light and heat whose consequences would be disastrous? When
the earth has passed through the richer portions (not the actual nuclei, be it
remembered) of meteor systems, the meteors visible from even a single
station have been counted by tens of thousands, and it has been computed
that millions must have fallen upon the whole earth. These were meteors
following in the train of very small comets. If a very large comet followed
by no denser a flight of meteors, but each meteoric mass much larger, fell
directly upon the sun, it would not be the outskirts but the nucleus of the
meteoric train which would impinge upon him. They would number
thousands of millions. The velocity of downfall of each mass would be
more than 360 miles per second. And they would continue to pour in upon
him for several days in succession, millions falling every hour. It seems not

improbable that, under this tremendous and long-continued meteoric hail,
his whole surface would be caused to glow as intensely as that small part
whose brilliancy was so surprising in the observation made by Carrington
and Hodgson. In that case, our sun, seen from some remote star whence
ordinarily he is invisible, would shine out as a new sun, for a few days,
while all things living on our earth, and whatever other members of the
solar system are the abode of life, would inevitably be destroyed.

The reader must not suppose that this idea has been suggested merely in
the attempt to explain outbursts of stars. The following passage from a
paper of considerable scientific interest by Professor Kirkwood, of
Bloomington, Indiana, a well-known American astronomer, shows that the
idea had occurred to him for a very different reason. He speaks here of a
probable connection between the comet of 1843 and the great sun-spot
which appeared in June 1843. I am not sure, however, but that we may
regard the very meteors which seem to have fallen on the sun on September
1, 1859, as bodies travelling in the track of the comet of 1843—just as the
November meteors seen in 1867–8, 9, etc., until 1872, were bodies certainly
following in the track of the telescopic comet of 1866. 'The opinion has
been expressed by more than one astronomer,' he says, speaking of
Carrington's observation, 'that this phenomenon was produced by the fall of
meteoric matter upon the sun's surface. Now, the fact may be worthy of note
that the comet of 1843 actually grazed the sun's atmosphere about three
months before the appearance of the great sun-spot of the same year. Had it
approached but little nearer, the resistance of the atmosphere would
probably have brought its entire mass to the solar surface. Even at its actual
distance it must have produced considerable atmospheric disturbance. But
the recent discovery that a number of comets are associated with meteoric
matter, travelling in nearly the same orbits, suggests the inquiry whether an
enormous meteorite following in the comet's train, and having a somewhat
less perihelion distance, may not have been precipitated upon the sun, thus
producing the great disturbance observed so shortly after the comet's
perihelion passage.'

There are those, myself among the number, who consider the periodicity
of the solar spots, that tide of spots which flows to its maximum and then
ebbs to its minimum in a little more than eleven years, as only explicable on
the theory that a small comet having this period, and followed by a meteor
train, has a path intersecting the sun's surface. In an article entitled 'The Sun
a Bubble,' which appeared in the 'Cornhill Magazine' for October 1874, I
remarked that from the observed phenomena of sun-spots we might be led
to suspect the existence of some as yet undetected comet with a train of
exceptionally large meteoric masses, travelling in a period of about eleven
years round the sun, and having its place of nearest approach to that orb so
close to the solar surface that, when the main flight is passing, the stragglers
fall upon the sun's surface. In this case, we could readily understand that, as
this small comet unquestionably causes our sun to be variable to some
slight degree in brilliancy, in a period of about eleven years, so some much
larger comet circling around Mira, in a period of about 331 days, may
occasion those alternations of brightness which have been described above.
It may be noticed in passing, that it is by no means certain that the time
when the sun is most spotted is the time when he gives out least light.
Though at such times his surface is dark where the spots are, yet elsewhere
it is probably brighter than usual; at any rate, all the evidence we have tends
to show that when the sun is most spotted, his energies are most active. It is
then that the coloured flames leap to their greatest height and show their
greatest brilliancy, then also that they show the most rapid and remarkable
changes of shape.

Supposing there really is, I will not say danger, but a possibility, that our
sun may one day, through the arrival of some very large comet travelling
directly towards him, share the fate of the suns whose outbursts I have
described above, we might be destroyed unawares, or we might be aware
for several weeks of the approach of the destroying comet. Suppose, for
example, the comet, which might arrive from any part of the heavens, came
from out that part of the star-depths which is occupied by the constellation
Taurus—then, if the arrival were so timed that the comet, which might

reach the sun at any time, fell upon him in May or June, we should know
nothing of that comet's approach: for it would approach in that part of the
heavens which was occupied by the sun, and his splendour would hide as
with a veil the destroying enemy. On the other hand, if the comet, arriving
from the same region of the heavens, so approached as to fall upon the sun
in November or December, we should see it for several weeks. For it would
then approach from the part of the heavens high above the southern horizon
at midnight. Astronomers would be able in a few days after it was
discovered to determine its path and predict its downfall upon the sun,
precisely as Newton calculated the path of his comet and predicted its near
approach to the sun. It would be known for weeks then that the event which
Newton contemplated as likely to cause a tremendous outburst of solar heat,
competent to destroy all life upon the surface of our earth, was about to take
place; and, doubtless, the minds of many students of science would be
exercised during that interval in determining whether Newton was right or
wrong. For my own part, I have very little doubt that, though the change in
the sun's condition in consequence of the direct downfall upon his surface
of a very large comet would be but temporary, and in that sense slight—for
what are a few weeks in the history of an orb which has already existed
during thousands of millions of years?—yet the effect upon the inhabitants
of the earth would be by no means slight. I do not think, however, that any
students of science would remain, after the catastrophe, to estimate or to
record its effects.

Fortunately, all that we have learned hitherto from the stars favours the
belief that, while a catastrophe of this sort may be possible, it is exceedingly
unlikely. We may estimate the probabilities precisely in the same way that
an insurance company estimates the chance of a railway accident. Such a
company considers the number of accidents which occur among a given
number of railway journeys, and from the smallness of the number of
accidents compared with the largeness of the number of journeys estimates
the safety of railway travelling. Our sun is one among many millions of
suns, any one of which (though all but a few thousands are actually

invisible) would become visible to the naked eye, if exposed to the same
conditions as have affected the suns in flames described in the preceding
pages. Seeing, then, that during the last two thousand years or thereabouts,
only a few instances of the kind, certainly not so many as twenty, have been
recorded, while there is reason to believe that some of these relate to the
same star which has blazed out more than once, we may fairly consider the
chance exceedingly small that during the next two thousand, or even the
next twenty thousand years, our sun will be exposed to a catastrophe of the
kind.

We might arrive at this conclusion independently of any considerations
tending to show that our sun belongs to a safe class of system-rulers, and
that all, or nearly all, the great solar catastrophes have occurred among suns
of a particular class. There are, however, several considerations of the kind
which are worth noting.

In the first place, we may dismiss as altogether unlikely the visit of a
comet from the star-depths to our sun, on a course carrying the comet
directly upon the sun's surface. But if, among the comets travelling in
regular attendance upon the sun, there be one whose orbit intersects the
sun's globe, then that comet must several times ere this have struck the sun,
raising him temporarily to a destructive degree of heat. Now, such a comet
must have a period of enormous length, for the races of animals now
existing upon the earth must all have been formed since that comet's last
visit—on the assumption, be it remembered, that the fall of a large comet
upon the sun, or rather the direct passage of the sun through the meteoric
nucleus of a large comet, would excite the sun to destructive heat. If all
living creatures on the earth are to be destroyed when some comet
belonging to the solar system makes its next return to the sun, that same
comet at its last visit must have raised the sun to an equal, or even greater
intensity of heat, so that either no such races as at present exist had then
come into being, or, if any such existed, they must at that time have been
utterly destroyed. We may fairly believe that all comets of the destructive
sort have been eliminated. Judging from the evidence we have on the

subject, the process of the formation of the solar system was one which
involved the utilisation of cometic and meteoric matter; and it fortunately so
chanced that the comets likely otherwise to have been most mischievous—
those, namely, which crossed the track of planets, and still more those
whose paths intersected the globe of the sun—were precisely those which
would be earliest and most thoroughly used up in this way.

Secondly, it is noteworthy that all the stars which have blazed out
suddenly, except one, have appeared in a particular region of the heavens—
the zone of the Milky Way (all, too, on one half of that zone). The single
exception is the star in the Northern Crown, and that star appeared in a
region which I have found to be connected with the Milky Way by a well-
marked stream of stars, not a stream of a few stars scattered here and there,
but a stream where thousands of stars are closely aggregated together,
though not quite so closely as to form a visible extension of the Milky Way.
In my map of 324,000 stars this stream can be quite clearly recognised; but,
indeed, the brighter stars scattered along it form a stream recognisable with
the naked eye, and have long since been regarded by astronomers as such,
forming the stars of the Serpent and the Crown, or a serpentine streak
followed by a loop of stars shaped like a coronet. Now the Milky Way, and
the outlying streams of stars connected with it, seem to form a region of the
stellar universe where fashioning processes are still at work. As Sir W.
Herschel long since pointed out, we can recognise in various parts of the
heavens various stages of development, and chief among the regions where
as yet Nature's work seems incomplete, is the Galactic zone—especially
that half of it where the Milky Way consists of irregular streams and clouds
of stellar light. As there is no reason for believing that our sun belongs to
this part of the galaxy, but on the contrary good ground for considering that
he belongs to the class of insulated stars, few of which have shown signs of
irregular variation, while none have ever blazed suddenly out with many
hundred times their former lustre, we may fairly infer a very high degree of
probability in favour of the belief that, for many ages still to come, the sun

will continue steadily to discharge his duties as fire, light, and life of the
solar system.

VII.
THE RINGS OF SATURN.

The rings of Saturn, always among the most interesting objects of
astronomical research, have recently been subjected to close scrutiny under
high telescopic powers by Mr. Trouvelot, of the Harvard Observatory,
Cambridge, U.S. The results which he has obtained afford very significant
evidence respecting these strange appendages, and even throw some degree
of light on the subject of cosmical evolution. The present time, when Saturn
is the ruling planet of the night, seems favourable for giving a brief account
of recent speculations respecting the Saturnian ring-system, especially as
the observations of Mr. Trouvelot appear to remove all doubt as to the true
nature of the rings, if indeed any doubt could reasonably be entertained
after the investigations made by European and American astronomers when
the dark inner ring had but recently been recognised.

It may be well to give a brief account of the progress of observation
from the time when the rings were first discovered.

In passing, I may remark that the failure of Galileo to ascertain the real
shape of these appendages has always seemed to me to afford striking
evidence of the importance of careful reasoning upon all observations
whose actual significance is not at once apparent. If Galileo had been thus
careful to analyse his observations of Saturn, he could not have failed to
ascertain their real meaning. He had seen the planet apparently attended by
two large satellites, one on either side, 'as though supporting the aged
Saturn upon his slow course around the sun.' Night after night he had seen
these attendants, always similarly placed, one on either side of the planet,

and at equal distances from it. Then in 1612 he had again examined the
planet, and lo, the attendants had vanished, 'as though Saturn had been at
his old tricks, and had devoured his children.' But after a while the attendant
orbs had reappeared in their former positions, had seemed slowly to grow
larger, until at length they had presented the appearance of two pairs of
mighty arms encompassing the planet. If Galileo had reasoned upon these
changes of appearance, he could not have failed, as it seems to me, to
interpret their true meaning. The three forms under which the rings had
been seen by him sufficed to indicate the true shape of the appendage.
Because Saturn was seen with two attendants of apparently equal size and
always equi-distant from him, it was certain that there must be some
appendage surrounding him, and extending to that distance from his globe.
Because this appendage disappeared, it was certain that it must be thin and
flat. Because it appeared at another time with a dark space between the
arms and the planet, it was certain that the appendage is separated by a wide
gap from the body of the planet. So that Galileo might have concluded—not
doubtfully, but with assured confidence—that the appendage is a thin flat
ring nowhere attached to the planet, or, as Huyghens said some forty years
later, Saturn 'annulo cingitur tenui, plano, nusquam cohærente.' Whether
such reasoning would have been accepted by the contemporaries of Galileo
may be doubtful. The generality of men are not content with reasoning
which is logically sound, but require evidence which they can easily
understand. Very likely Huyghens' proof from direct observation, though in
reality not a whit more complete and far rougher, would have been regarded
as the first true proof of the existence of Saturn's ring, just as Sir W.
Herschel's observation of one star actually moving round another was
regarded as the first true proof of the physical association of certain stars, a
fact which Michell had proved as completely and far more neatly half a
century earlier, by a method, however, which was 'caviare to the general.'

However, as matters chanced, the scientific world was not called upon to
decide between the merits of a discovery made by direct observation and
one effected by means of abstract reasoning. It was not until Saturn had

been examined with much higher telescopic power than Galileo could
employ, that the appendage which had so perplexed the Florentine
astronomer was seen to be a thin flat ring, nowhere touching the planet, and
considerably inclined to the plane in which Saturn travels. We cannot
wonder that the discovery was regarded as a most interesting one.
Astronomers had heretofore had to deal with solid masses, either known to
be spheroidal, like the earth, the sun, the moon, Jupiter, and Venus, or
presumed to be so, like the stars. The comets might be judged to be
vaporous masses of various forms; but even these were supposed to
surround or to attend upon globe-shaped nuclear masses. Here, however, in
the case of Saturn's ring, was a quoit-shaped body travelling around the sun
in continual attendance upon Saturn, whose motions, no matter how they
varied in velocity or direction, were so closely followed by this strange
attendant that the planet remained always centrally poised within the span
of its ring-girdle. To appreciate the interest with which this strange
phenomenon was regarded, we must remember that as yet the law of gravity
had not been recognised. Huyghens discovered the ring (or rather perceived
its nature) in 1659, but it was not till 1666 that Newton first entertained the
idea that the moon is retained in its orbit about the earth by the attractive
energy which causes unsupported bodies to fall earthwards; and he was
unable to demonstrate the law of gravity before 1684. Now, in a general
sense, we can readily understand in these days how a ring around a planet
continues to travel along with the planet despite all changes of velocity or
direction of motion. For the law of gravity teaches that the same causes
which tend to change the direction and velocity of the planet's motion tend
in precisely the same degree to change the direction and velocity of the
ring's motion. But when Huyghens made his discovery it must have
appeared a most mysterious circumstance that a ring and planet should be
thus constantly associated—that during thousands of years no collision
should have occurred whereby the relatively delicate structure of the ring
had been destroyed.

Only six years later a discovery was made by two English observers,
William and Thomas Ball, which enhanced the mystery. Observing the
northern face of the ring, which was at that time turned earthwards, they
perceived a black stripe of considerable breadth dividing the ring into two
concentric portions. The discovery did not attract so much attention as it
deserved, insomuch that when Cassini, ten years later, announced the
discovery of a corresponding dark division on the southern surface, none
recalled the observation made by the brothers Ball. Cassini expressed the
opinion that the ring is really divided into two, not merely marked by a dark
stripe on its southern face. This conclusion would, of course, have been an
assured one, had the previous observation of a dark division on the northern
face been remembered. With the knowledge which we now possess, indeed,
the darkness of the seeming stripe would be sufficient evidence that there
must be a real division there between the rings; for we know that no mere
darkness of the ring's substance could account for the apparent darkness of
the stripe. It has been well remarked by Professor Tyndall, that if the moon's
whole surface could be covered with black velvet, she would yet appear
white when seen on the dark background of the sky. And it may be doubted
whether a circular strip of black velvet 2000 miles wide, placed where we
see the dark division between the rings, would appear nearly as dark as that
division. Since we could only admit the possibility of some substance
resembling our darker rocks occupying this position (for we know of
nothing to justify the supposition that a substance as dark as lampblack or
black velvet could be there), we are manifestly precluded from supposing
that the dark space is other than a division between two distinct rings.

Yet Sir W. Herschel, in examining the rings of Saturn with his powerful
telescopes, for a long time favoured the theory that there is no real division.
He called it the 'broad black mark,' and argued that it can neither indicate
the existence of a zone of hills upon the ring, nor of a vast cavernous
groove, for in either case it would present changes of appearance (according
to the ring's changes of position) such as he was unable to detect. It was not
until the year 1790, eleven years after his observations had commenced,

that, perceiving a corresponding broad black mark upon the ring's southern
face, Herschel expressed a 'suspicion' that the ring is divided into two
concentric portions by a circular gap nearly 2000 miles in width. He
expressed at the same time, very strongly, his belief that this division was
the only one in Saturn's ring-system.

A special interest attached at that time to the question whether the ring is
divided or not, for Laplace had then recently published the results of his
mathematical inquiry into the movements of such a ring as Saturn's, and,
having proved that a single solid ring of such enormous width could not
continue to move around the planet, had expressed the opinion that Saturn's
ring consists in reality of many concentric rings, each turning, with its own
proper rotation rate, around the central planet. It is singular that Herschel,
who, though not versed in the methods of the higher mathematics, had
considerable native power as a mathematician, was unable to perceive the
force of Laplace's reasoning. Indeed, this is one of those cases where
clearness of perception rather than profundity of mathematical insight was
required. Laplace's equations of motion did not express all the relations
involved, nor was it possible to judge, from the results he deduced, how far
the stability of the Saturnian rings depended on the real structure of these
appendages. One who was well acquainted with mechanical matters, and
sufficiently versed in mathematics to understand how to estimate generally
the forces acting upon the ring-system, could have perceived as readily the
general conditions of the problem as the most profound mathematician. One
may compare the case to the problem of determining whether the action of
the moon in causing the tidal wave modifies in any manner the earth's
motion of rotation. We know that as a mathematical question this is a very
difficult one. The Astronomer Royal, for example, not long ago dealt with it
analytically, and deduced the conclusion that there is no effect on the earth's
rotation, presently however, discovering by a lucky chance a term in the
result which indicates an effect of that kind. But if we look at the matter in
its mechanical aspect, we perceive at once, without any profound
mathematical research, that the retardation so hard to detect mathematically

must necessarily take place. As Sir E. Beckett says in his masterly work,
Astronomy without Mathematics, 'the conclusion is as evident without
mathematics as with them, when once it has been suggested.' So when we
consider the case of a wide flat ring surrounding a mighty planet like
Saturn, we perceive that nothing could possibly save such a ring from
destruction if it were really one solid structure.

To recognise this the more clearly, let us first notice the dimensions of
the planet and rings.

We have in Saturn a globe about 70,000 miles in mean diameter, an
equatorial diameter being about 73,000 miles, the polar diameter 66,000
miles. The attractive force of this mighty mass upon bodies placed on its
surface is equal to about one-fifth more than terrestrial gravity if the body is
near the pole of Saturn, and is almost exactly the same as terrestrial gravity
if the body is at the planet's equator. Its action on the matter of the ring is, of
course, very much less, because of the increased distance, but still a force is
exerted on every part of the ring which is comparable with the familiar
force of terrestrial gravity. The outer edge of the outer ring lies about
83,500 miles from the planet's centre, the inner edge of the inner ring (I
speak throughout of the ring-system as known to Sir W. Herschel and
Laplace) about 54,500 miles from the centre, the breadth of the system of
bright rings being about 29,000 miles. Between the planet's equator and the
inner edge of the innermost bright ring there intervenes a space of about
20,000 miles. Roughly speaking, it may be said that the attraction of the
planet on the substance of the ring's inner edge is less than gravity at
Saturn's equator (or, which is almost exactly the same thing, is less than
terrestrial gravity) in about the proportion of 9 to 20; or, still more roughly,
the inner edge of Saturn's inner bright ring is drawn inwards by about half
the force of gravity at the earth's surface. The outer edge is drawn towards
Saturn by a force less than terrestrial gravity in the proportion of about 3 to
16—say roughly that the force thus exerted by Saturn on the matter of the
outer edge of the ring-system is equivalent to about one-fifth of the force of
gravity at the earth's surface.

It is clear, first, that if the ring-system did not rotate, the forces thus
acting on the material of the rings would immediately break them into
fragments, and, dragging these down to the planet's equator, would leave
them scattered in heaps upon that portion of Saturn's surface. The ring
would in fact be in that case like a mighty arch, each portion of which
would be drawn towards Saturn's centre by its own weight. This weight
would be enormous if Bessel's estimate of the mass of the ring-system is
correct. He made the mass of the ring rather greater than the mass of the
earth—an estimate which I believe to be greatly in excess of the truth.
Probably the rings do not amount in mass to more than a fourth part of the
earth's mass. But even that is enormous, and subjected as is the material of
the rings to forces varying from one-half to a fifth of terrestrial gravity, the
strains and pressures upon the various parts of the system would exceed
thousands of times those which even the strongest material built up into
their shape could resist. The system would no more be able to resist such
strains and pressures than an arch of iron spanning the Atlantic would be
able to sustain its own weight against the earth's attraction.

It would be necessary then that the ring-system should rotate around the
planet. But it is clear that the proper rate of rotation for the outer portion
would be very different from the rate suited for the inner portion. In order
that the inner portion should travel around Saturn entirely relieved of its
weight, it should complete a revolution in about seven hours twenty-three
minutes. The outer portion, however, should revolve in about thirteen hours
fifty-eight minutes, or nearly fourteen hours. Thus the inner part should
rotate in little more than half the time required by the outer part. The result
would necessarily be that the ring-system would be affected by tremendous
strains, which it would be quite unable to resist. The existence of the great
division would manifestly go far to diminish the strains. It is easily shown
that the rate of turning where the division is, would be once in about eleven
hours and twenty-five minutes, not differing greatly from the mean between
the rotation-periods for the outside and for the inside edges of the system.
Even then, however, the strains would be hundreds of times greater than the

material of the ring could resist. A mass comparable in weight to our earth,
compelled to rotate in (say) nine hours when it ought to rotate in eleven or
in seven, would be subjected to strains exceeding many times the
resistances which the cohesive power of its substance could afford. That
would be the condition of the inner ring. And in like manner the outer ring,
if it rotated in about twelve hours and three-quarters, would have its outer
portions rotating too fast and its inner portions too slowly, because their
proper periods would be fourteen hours and eleven hours and a half
respectively. Nothing but the division of the ring into a number of narrow
hoops could possibly save it from destruction through the internal strains
and pressures to which its material would be subjected.

Even this complicated arrangement, however, would not save the ring-
system. If we suppose a fine hoop to turn around a central attracting body as
the rings of Saturn rotate around the planet, it may be shown that unless the
hoop is so weighted that its centre of gravity is far from the planet, there
will be no stability in the resulting motions; the hoop will before long be
made to rotate eccentrically, and eventually be brought into destructive
collision with the central planet.

It was here that Laplace left the problem. Nothing could have been more
unsatisfactory than his result, though it was accepted for nearly half a
century unquestioned. He had shown that a weighted fine hoop may
possibly turn around a central attracting mass without destructive changes
of position, but he had not proved more than the bare possibility of this,
while nothing in the appearance of Saturn's rings suggests that any such
arrangement exists. Again, manifestly a multitude of narrow hoops, so
combined as to form a broad flat system of rings, would be constantly in
collision inter se. Besides, each one of them would be subjected to
destructive strains. For though a fine uniform hoop set rotating at a proper
rate around an attracting mass at its centre would be freed from all strains,
the case is very different with a hoop so weighted as to have its centre of
gravity greatly displaced. Laplace had saved the theoretical stability of the
motions of a fine ring at the expense of the ring's power of resisting the

strains to which it would be exposed. It seems incredible that such a result
(expressed, too, very doubtingly by the distinguished mathematician who
had obtained it) should have been accepted so long almost without question.
There is nothing in nature in the remotest degree resembling the
arrangement imagined by Laplace, which indeed appears on à priori
grounds impossible. It was not claimed for it that it removed the original
difficulties of the problem; and it introduced others fully as serious. So
strong, however, is authority in the scientific world that none ventured to
express any doubts except Sir W. Herschel, who simply denied that the two
rings were divided into many, as Laplace's theory required. As time went on
and the signs of many divisions were at times recognised, it was supposed
that Laplace's reasoning had been justified; and despite the utter
impossibility of the arrangement he had suggested, that arrangement was
ordinarily described as probably existing.

At length, however, a discovery was made which caused the whole
question to be reopened.

On November 10, 1850, W. Bond, observing the planet with the
telescope of the Harvard Observatory, perceived within the inner bright ring
a feeble illumination which he was at a loss to understand. On the next
night the faint light was better seen. On the 15th, Tuttle, who was observing
with Bond, suggested the idea that the light within the inner bright ring was
due to a dusky ring inside the system of bright rings. On November 25, Mr.
Dawes in England perceived this dusky ring, and announced the discovery
before the news had reached England that Bond had already seen the dark
ring. The credit of the discovery is usually shared between Bond and
Dawes, though the usual rule in such matters would assign the discovery to
Bond alone. It was found that the dark ring had already been seen at Rome
so far back as 1828, and again by Galle at Berlin in May 1838. The Roman
observations were not satisfactory. Those by Galle, however, were sufficient
to have established the fact of the ring's existence; indeed, in 1839 Galle
measured the dark ring. But very little attention was attracted to this
interesting discovery, insomuch that when Bond and Dawes announced

their observation of the dark ring in 1850, the news was received by
astronomers with all the interest attaching to the detection of before unnoted
phenomena.

It may be well to notice under what conditions the dark ring was
detected in 1850. In September 1848 the ring had been turned edgewise
towards the sun, and as rather more than seven years are occupied in the
apparent gradual opening out of the ring from that edge view to its most
open appearance (when the outline of the ring-system is an eclipse whose
lesser axis is nearly equal to half the greater), it will be seen that in
November 1850 the rings were but slightly opened. Thus the recognition of
the dark ring within the bright system was made under unfavourable
conditions. For four preceding years—that is, from the year 1846—the
rings had been as little or less opened; and again for several years preceding
1846, though the rings had been more open, the planet had been
unfavourably placed for observation in northern latitudes, crossing the
meridian at low altitudes. Still, in 1838 and 1839, when the rings were most
open, although the planet was never seen under favourable conditions, the
opening of the rings, then nearly at its greatest, made the recognition of the
dark ring possible; and we have seen that Galle then made the discovery.
When Bond rediscovered the dark ring, everything promised that before
long the appendage would be visible with telescopes far inferior in power to
the great Harvard refractor. Year after year the planet was becoming more
favourably placed for observation, while all the time the rings were opening
out. Accordingly it need not surprise us to learn that in 1853 the dark ring
was seen with a telescope less than three inches and a half in aperture. Even
so early as 1851, Mr. Hartnup, observing the planet with a telescope eight
inches and a half in aperture, found that 'the dark ring could not be
overlooked for an instant.'

But while this increase in the distinctness of the dark ring was to be
expected, from the mere fact that the ring was discovered under relatively
unfavourable conditions, yet the fact that Saturn was thus found to have an
appendage of a remarkable character, perfectly obvious even with moderate

telescopic power, was manifestly most surprising. The planet had been
studied for nearly two centuries with telescopes exceeding in power those
with which the dark ring was now perceived. Some among these telescopes
were not only of great power, but employed by observers of the utmost
skill. The elder Herschel had for a quarter of a century studied Saturn with
his great reflectors eighteen inches in aperture, and had at times turned on
the planet his monstrous (though not mighty) four-feet mirror. Schröter had
examined the dark space within the inner bright ring for the special purpose
of determining whether the ring-system is really disconnected from the
globe. He had used a mirror nineteen inches in aperture, and he had
observed that the dark space seen on either side of Saturn inside the ring-
system not only appeared dark, but actually darker than the surrounding
sky. This was presumably (though not quite certainly) an effect of contrast
only, the dark space being bounded all round by bright surfaces. If real, the
phenomenon signified that whereas the space outside the ring, where the
satellites of the planet travel, was occupied by some sort of cosmical dust,
the space within the ring-system was, as it were, swept and garnished, as
though all the scattered matter which might otherwise have occupied that
region had been either attracted to the body of the planet or to the rings.[36]
But manifestly the observation was entirely inconsistent with the
supposition that there existed in Schröter's time a dark or dusky ring within
the bright system. Again, the elder Struve made the most careful
measurement of the whole of the ring-system in 1826, when the system was
as well placed for observation as in 1856 (or, in other words, as well placed
as it can possibly be); but though he used a telescope nine inches and a half
in aperture, and though his attention was specially attracted to the inner
edge of the inner bright ring (which seemed to him indistinct), he did not
detect the dark ring. Yet we have seen that in 1851, under much less
favourable conditions, a less practised observer, using a telescope of less
aperture, found that the dark ring could not be overlooked for an instant. It
is manifest that all these considerations point to the conclusion that the dark
ring is a new formation, or, at the least, that it has changed notably in
condition during the present century.

I have hitherto only considered the appearance of the dusky ring as seen
on either side of the planet's globe within the bright rings. The most
remarkable feature of the appendage remains still to be mentioned—the
fact, namely, that the bright body of the planet can be seen through this
dusky ring. Where the dark ring crosses the planet, it appears as a rather
dark belt, which might readily be mistaken for a belt upon the planet's
surface; for the outline of the planet can be seen through the ring as through
a film of smoke or a crape veil.

Now it is worthy of notice that whereas the dark ring was not detected
outside the planet's body until 1838, nor generally recognised by
astronomers until 1850, the dark belt across the planet, really caused by the
dusky ring, was observed more than a century earlier. In 1715 the younger
Cassini saw it, and perceived that it was not curved enough for a belt really
belonging to the planet. Hadley again observed that the belt attended the
ring as this opened out and closed, or, in other words, that the dark belt
belonged to the ring, not to the body of the planet. And in many pictures of
Saturn's system a dark band is shown along the inner edge of the inner
bright ring where it crosses the body of the planet. It seems to me that we
have here a most important piece of evidence respecting the rings. It is clear
that the inner part of the inner bright ring has for more than a century and a
half (how much more we do not know) been partially transparent, and it is
probable that within its inner edge there has been all the time a ring of
matter; but this ring has only within the last half-century gathered
consistency enough to be discernible. It is manifest that the existence of the
dark belt shown in the older pictures would have led directly to the
detection of the dark ring, had not this appendage been exceedingly faint.
Thus, while the observation of the dark belt across the planet's face proves
the dusky ring to have existed in some form long before it was perceived,
the same fact only helps to render us certain that the dark ring has changed
notably in condition during the present century.

The discovery of this singular appendage, an object unique in the solar
system, naturally attracted fresh attention to the question of the stability of

the rings. The idea was thrown out by the elder Bond that the new ring may
be fluid, or even that the whole ring-system may be fluid, and the dark ring
simply thinner than the rest. It was thought possible that the ring-system is
of the nature of a vast ocean, whose waves are steadily advancing upon the
planet's globe. The mathematical investigation of the subject was also
resumed by Professor Benjamin Pierce, of Harvard, and it was satisfactorily
demonstrated that the stability of a system of actual rings of solid matter
required so nice an adjustment of so many narrow rings as to render the
system far more complex than even Laplace had supposed. 'A stable
formation can,' he said, 'be nothing other than a very great number of
separate narrow rigid rings, each revolving with its proper relative velocity.'
As was well remarked by the late Professor Nichol, 'If this arrangement or
anything like it were real, how many new conditions of instability do we
introduce. Observation tells us that the division between such rings must be
extremely narrow, so that the slightest disturbance by external or internal
causes would cause one ring to impinge upon another; and we should thus
have the seed of perpetual catastrophes.' Nor would such a constitution
protect the system against dissolution. 'There is no escape from the
difficulties, therefore, but through the final rejection of the idea that Saturn's
rings are rigid or in any sense a solid formation.'

The idea that the ring-system may be fluid came naturally next under
mathematical scrutiny. Strangely enough, the physical objections to the
theory of fluidity appear to have been entirely overlooked. Before we could
accept such a theory, we must admit the existence of elements differing
entirely from those with which we are familiar. No fluid known to us could
retain the form of the rings of Saturn under the conditions to which they are
exposed. But the mathematical examination of the subject disposed so
thoroughly of the theory that the rings can consist of continuous fluid
masses, that we need not now discuss the physical objections to the theory.

There remains only the theory that the Saturnian ring-system consists of
discrete masses analogous to the streams of meteors known to exist in great
numbers within the solar system. The masses may be solid or fluid, may be

strewn in relatively vacant space, or may be surrounded by vaporous
envelopes; but that they are discrete, each free to travel on its own course,
seemed as completely demonstrated by Pierce's calculations as anything not
actually admitting of direct observation could possibly be. The matter was
placed beyond dispute by the independent analysis to which Clerk Maxwell
subjected the mathematical problem. It had been selected in 1855 as the
subject for the Adams Prize Essay at Cambridge, and Clerk Maxwell's
essay, which obtained the prize, showed conclusively that only a system of
many small bodies, each free to travel upon its course under the varying
attractions to which it was subjected by Saturn itself, and by the Saturnian
satellites, could possibly continue to girdle a planet as the rings of Saturn
girdle him.

It is clear that all the peculiarities hitherto observed in the Saturnian
ring-system are explicable so soon as we regard that system as made up of
multitudes of small bodies. Varieties of brightness simply indicate various
degrees of condensation of these small satellites. Thus the outer ring had
long been observed to be less bright than the inner. Of course it did not
seem impossible that the outer ring might be made of different materials;
yet there was something bizarre in the supposition that two rings forming
the same system were thus different in substance. It would not have been at
all noteworthy if different parts of the same ring differed in luminosity—in
fact, it was much more remarkable that each zone of the system seemed
uniformly bright all round. But that one zone should be of one tint, another
of an entirely different tint, was a strange circumstance so long as the only
available interpretation seemed to be that one zone was made (throughout)
of one substance, the other of another. If this was strange when the
difference between the inner and outer bright rings was alone considered,
how much stranger did it seem when the multitudinous divisions in the
rings were taken into account! Why should the ring-system, 30,000 miles in
width, be thus divided into zones of different material? An arrangement so
artificial is quite unlike all that is elsewhere seen among the subjects of the
astronomer's researches. But when the rings are regarded as made up of

multitudes of small bodies, we can quite readily understand how the nearly
circular movements of all of these, at different rates, should result in the
formation of rings of aggregation and rings of segregation, appearing at the
earth's distance as bright rings and faint rings. The dark ring clearly
corresponds in appearance with a ring of thinly scattered satellites. Indeed,
it seems impossible otherwise to account for the appearance of a dusky belt
across the globe of the planet where the dark ring crosses the disc. If the
material of the dark ring were some partly transparent solid or fluid
substance, the light of the planet received through the dark ring added to the
light reflected by the dark ring itself, would be so nearly equivalent to the
light received from the rest of the planet's disc, that either no dark belt
would be seen, or the darkening would be barely discernible. In some
positions a bright belt would be seen, not a dark one. But a ring of scattered
satellites would cast as its shadow a multitude of black spots, which would
give to the belt in shadow a dark grey aspect. A considerable proportion of
these spots would be hidden by the satellites forming the dark ring, and in
every case where a spot was wholly or partially hidden by a satellite, the
effect (at our distant station where the separate satellites of the dark ring are
not discernible) would simply be to reduce pro tanto the darkness of the
grey belt of shadow. But certainly more than half the shadows of the
satellites would remain in sight; for the darkness of the ring at the time of
its discovery showed that the satellites were very sparsely strewn. And these
shadows would be sufficient to give to the belt a dusky hue, such as it
presented when first discovered.[37]

The observations which have recently been made by Mr. Trouvelot
indicate changes in the ring-system, and especially in the dark ring, which
place every other theory save that to which we have thus been led entirely
out of the question. It should be noted that Mr. Trouvelot has employed
telescopes of unquestionable excellence and varying in aperture from six
inches to twenty-six inches, the latter aperture being that of the great
telescope of the Washington Observatory (the largest refractor in the world).

He has noted in the first place that the interior edge of the outer bright
ring, which marks the outer limit of the great division, is irregular, but
whether the irregularity is permanent or not he does not know. The great
division itself is found not to be actually black, but, as was long since noted
by Captain Jacob, of the Madras Observatory, a very dark brown, as though
a few scattered satellites travelled along this relatively vacant zone of the
system. Mr. Trouvelot has further noticed that the shadow of the planet
upon the rings, and especially upon the outer ring, changes continually in
shape, a circumstance which he attributes to irregularities in the surface of
the rings. For my own part, I should be disposed to attribute these changes
in the shape of the planet's shadow (noted by other observers also) to rapid
changes in the deep cloud-laden atmosphere of the planet. Passing on,
however, to less doubtful observations, we find that the whole system of
rings has presented a clouded and spotted aspect during the last four years.
Mr. Trouvelot specially describes this appearance as observed on the parts
of the ring outside the disc, called by astronomers the ansæ (because of
their resemblance to handles), and it would seem, therefore, that the spotted
and cloudy portions are seen only where the background on which the rings
are projected is black. This circumstance clearly suggests that the darkness
of these parts is due to the background, or, in other words, that the sky is in
reality seen through those parts of the ring-system, just as the darkness of
the slate-coloured interior ring is attributed, on the satellite theory, to the
background of sky visible through the scattered flight of satellites forming
the dark ring. The matter composing the dark ring has been observed by Mr.
Trouvelot to be gathered in places into compact masses, which prevent the
light of the planet from being seen through those portions of the dark ring
where the matter is thus massed together. It is clear that such peculiarities
could not possibly present themselves in the case of a continuous solid or
fluid ring-system, whereas they would naturally occur in a ring formed of
multitudes of minute bodies travelling freely around the planet.

The point next to be mentioned is still more decisive. When the dark ring
was carefully examined with powerful telescopes during the ten years

following its discovery by Bond, at which time it was most favourably
placed for observation, it was observed that the outline of the planet could
be seen across the entire breadth of the dark ring. All the observations
agreed in this respect. It was, indeed, noticed by Dawes that outside the
planet's disc the dark ring showed varieties of tint, its inner half being
darker than its outer portion. Lassell, observing the planet under most
favourable conditions with his two-feet mirror at Malta, could not perceive
these varieties of tint, which therefore we may judge to have been either not
permanent or very slightly marked. But, as I have said, all observers agreed
that the outline of the planet could be seen athwart the entire width of the
dark ring. Mr. Trouvelot, however, has found that during the last four years
the planet has not been visible through the whole width of the dark ring, but
only through the inner half of the ring's breadth. It appears, then, that either
the inner portion is getting continually thinner and thinner—that is, the
satellites composing it are becoming continually more sparsely strewn—or
that the outer portion is becoming more compact, doubtless by receiving
stray satellites from the interior of the inner bright ring.

It is clear that in Saturn's ring-system, if not in the planet itself, mighty
changes are still taking place. It may be that the rings are being so fashioned
under the forces to which they are subjected as to be on their way to
becoming changed into separate satellites, inner members of that system
which at present consists of eight secondary planets. But, whatever may be
the end towards which these changes are tending, we see processes of
evolution taking place which may be regarded as typifying the more
extensive and probably more energetic processes whereby the solar system
itself reached its present condition. I ventured more than ten years ago, in
the preface to my treatise upon the planet Saturn, to suggest the possibility
'that in the variations perceptibly proceeding in the Saturnian ring-system a
key may one day be found to the law of development under which the solar
system has reached its present condition.' This suggestion seems to me
strikingly confirmed by the recent discoveries. The planet Saturn and its
appendages, always interesting to astronomers, are found more than ever

worthy of close investigation and scrutiny. We may here, as it were, seize
nature in the act, and trace out the actual progress of developments which at
present are matters rather of theory than of observation.

VIII.
COMETS AS PORTENTS
The blazing star,
Threat'ning the world with famine, plague, and war;
To princes death; to kingdoms many curses;
To all estates inevitable losses;
To herdsmen rot; to ploughmen hapless seasons;
To sailors storms; to cities civil treasons.

Although comets are no longer regarded with superstitious awe as in old
times, mystery still clings to them. Astronomers can tell what path a comet
is travelling upon, and say whence it has come and whither it will go, can
even in many cases predict the periodic returns of a comet, can analyse the
substance of these strange wanderers, and have recently discovered a
singular bond of relationship between comets and those other strange
visitants from the celestial depths, the shooting stars. But astronomy has
hitherto proved unable to determine the origin of comets, the part they
perform in the economy of the universe, their real structure, the causes of
the marvellous changes of shape which they undergo as they approach the
sun, rush round him, and then retreat. As Sir John Herschel has remarked:
'No one, hitherto, has been able to assign any single point in which we
should be a bit better or worse off, materially speaking, if there were no
such thing as a comet. Persons, even thinking persons, have busied
themselves with conjectures; such as that they may serve for fuel for the sun
(into which, however, they never fall), or that they may cause warm
summers, which is a mere fancy, or that they may give rise to epidemics, or
potato-blights, and so forth.' And though, as he justly says, 'this is all wild

talking,' yet it will probably continue until astronomers have been able to
master the problems respecting comets which hitherto have foiled their best
efforts. The unexplained has ever been and will ever be marvellous to the
general mind. Just as unexplored regions of the earth have been tenanted in
imagination by
anthropophagi and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders,

so do wondrous possibilities exist in the unknown and the ill-understood
phenomena of nature.

In old times, when the appearance and movements of comets were
supposed to be altogether uncontrolled by physical laws, it was natural that
comets should be regarded as signs from heaven, tokens of Divine wrath
towards some, and of the interposition of Divine providence in favour of
others. As Seneca well remarked: 'There is no man so dull, so obtuse, so
turned to earthly things, who does not direct all the powers of his mind
towards things Divine when some novel phenomenon appears in the
heavens. While all follows its usual course up yonder, familiarity robs the
spectacle of its grandeur. For so is man made. However wonderful may be
what he sees day after day, he looks on it with indifference; while matters of
very little importance attract and interest him if they depart from the
accustomed order. The host of heavenly constellations beneath the vault of
heaven, whose beauty they adorn, attract no attention; but if any unusual
appearance be noticed among them, at once all eyes are turned
heavenwards. The sun is only looked on with interest when he is
undergoing eclipse. Men observe the moon only under like conditions.... So
thoroughly is it a part of our nature to admire the new rather than the great.
The same is true of comets. When one of these fiery bodies of unusual form
appears, every one is eager to know what it means; men forget other objects
to inquire about the new arrival; they know not whether to wonder or to
tremble; for many spread fear on all sides, drawing from the phenomenon
most grave prognostics.'

There is no direct reference to comets in the Bible, either in the Old
Testament or the New. It is possible that some of the signs from heaven
recorded in the Bible pages were either comets or meteors, and that even
where in some places an angel or messenger from God is said to have
appeared and delivered a message, what really happened was that some
remarkable phenomenon in the heavens was interpreted in a particular
manner by the priests, and the interpretation afterwards described as the
message of an angel. The image of the 'flaming sword which turned every
way' may have been derived from a comet; but we can form no safe
conclusion about this, any more than we can upon the question whether the
'horror of great darkness' which fell upon Abraham (Genesis xv. 12) when
the sun was going down, was caused by an eclipse;[38] or whether the going
back of the shadow upon the dial of Ahaz was caused by a mock sun. The
star seen by the wise men from the east may have been a comet, since the
word translated 'star' signifies any bright object seen in the heavens, and is
in fact the same word which Homer, in a passage frequently referred to,
uses to signify either a comet or a meteor. The way in which it appeared to
go before them, when (directed by Herod, be it noticed) they went to
Bethlehem, almost due south of Jerusalem, would correspond to a meridian
culmination low down—for the star had manifestly not been visible in the
earlier evening, since we are told that they rejoiced when they saw the star
again. It was probably a comet travelling southwards; and, as the wise men
had travelled from the east, it had very likely been first seen in the west as
an evening star, wherefore its course was retrograde—that is, supposing it
was a comet.[39] It may possibly have been an apparition of Halley's comet,
following a course somewhat similar to that which it followed in the year
1835, when the perihelion passage was made on November 15, and the
comet running southwards disappeared from northern astronomers, though
in January it was 'received' by Sir J. Herschel, to use his own expression, 'in
the southern hemisphere.' There was an apparition of Halley's comet in the
year 66, or seventy years after the Nativity; and the period of the comet
varies, according to the perturbing influences affecting the comet's motion,
from sixty-nine to eighty years.

Homer does not, to the best of my recollection, refer anywhere directly
to comets. Pope, indeed, who made very free with Homer's references to the
heavenly bodies,[40] introduces a comet—and a red one, too!—into the
simile of the heavenly portent in Book IV.:—
As the red comet from Saturnius sent
To fright the nations with a dire portent
(A fatal sign to armies in the plain,
Or trembling sailors on the wintry main),
With sweeping glories glides along in air,
And shakes the sparkles from its blazing hair:
Between two armies thus, in open sight,
Shot the bright goddess in a trail of light.

But Homer says nothing of this comet. If Homer had introduced a comet,
we may be sure it would not have shaken sparkles from its blazing tail.
Homer said simply that 'Pallas rushed from the peaks of heaven, like the
bright star sent by the son of crafty-counselled Kronus (as a sign either to
sailors, or the broad array of the nations), from which many sparks proceed.'
Strangely enough, Pingré and Lalande, the former noted for his researches
into ancient comets, the latter a skilful astronomer, agree in considering that
Homer really referred to a comet, and they even regard this comet as an
apparition of the comet of 1680. They cite in support of this opinion the
portent which followed the prayer of Anchises, 'Æneid,' Book II. 692, etc.:
'Scarce had the old man ceased from praying, when a peal of thunder was
heard on the left, and a star, gliding from the heavens amid the darkness,
rushed through space followed by a long train of light; we saw the star,'
says Æneas, 'suspended for a moment above the roof, brighten our home
with its fires, then, tracing out a brilliant course, disappear in the forests of
Ida; then a long train of flame illuminated us, and the place around reeked
with the smell of sulphur. Overcome by these startling portents, my father
arose, invoked the gods, and worshipped the holy star.' It is impossible to
recognise here the description of a comet. The noise, the trail of light, the
visible motion, the smell of sulphur, all correspond with the fall of a
meteorite close by; and doubtless Virgil simply introduced into the narrative
the circumstances of some such phenomenon which had been witnessed in

his own time. To base on such a point the theory that the comet of 1680 was
visible at the time of the fall of Troy, the date of which is unknown, is
venturesome in the extreme. True, the period calculated for the comet of
1680, when Pingré and Lalande agreed in this unhappy guess, was 575
years; and if we multiply this period by five we obtain 2875 years, taking
1680 from which leaves 1195 years b.c., near enough to the supposed date
of the capture of Troy. Unfortunately, Encke (the eminent astronomer to
whom we owe that determination of the sun's distance which for nearly half
a century held its place in our books, but has within the last twenty years
been replaced by a distance three millions of miles less) went over afresh
the calculations of the motions of that famous comet, and found that,
instead of 575 years, the most probable period is about 8814 years. The
difference amounts only to 8239 years; but even this small difference rather
impairs the theory of Lalande and Pingré.[41]

Three hundred and seventy-one years before the Christian era, a comet
appeared which Aristotle (who was a boy at the time) has described.
Diodorus Siculus writes thus respecting it: 'In the first year of the 102d
Olympiad, Alcisthenes being Archon of Athens, several prodigies
announced the approaching humiliation of the Lacedæmonians; a blazing
torch of extraordinary size, which was compared to a flaming beam, was
seen during several nights.' Guillemin, from whose interesting work on
Comets I have translated the above passage, remarks that this same comet
was regarded by the ancients as having not merely presaged but produced
the earthquakes which caused the towns of Helice and Bura to be
submerged. This was clearly in the thoughts of Seneca when he said of this
comet that as soon as it appeared it brought about the submergence of Bura
and Helice.

In those times, however, comets were not regarded solely as signs of
disaster. As the misfortunes of one nation were commonly held to be of
advantage to other nations, so the same comet might be regarded very
differently by different nations or different rulers. Thus the comet of the
year 344 b.c. was regarded by Timoleon of Corinth as presaging the success

of his expedition against Corinth. 'The gods announced,' said Diodorus
Siculus, 'by a remarkable portent, his success and future greatness; a blazing
torch appeared in the heavens at night, and went before the fleet of
Timoleon until he arrived in Sicily.' The comets of the years 134 b.c. and
118 b.c. were not regarded as portents of death, but as signalising, the
former the birth, the latter the accession, of Mithridates. The comet of 43
b.c. was held by some to be the soul of Julius Cæsar on its way to the abode
of the gods. Bodin, a French lawyer of the sixteenth century, regarded this
as the usual significance of comets. He was, indeed, sufficiently modest to
attribute the opinion to Democritus, but the whole credit of the discovery
belonged to himself. He maintained that comets only indicate approaching
misfortunes because they are the spirits or souls of illustrious men, who for
many years have acted the part of guardian angels, and, being at last ready
to die, celebrate their last triumph by voyaging to the firmament as flaming
stars. 'Naturally,' he says, 'the appearance of a comet is followed by plague,
pestilence, and civil war; for the nations are deprived of the guidance of
their worthy rulers, who, while they were alive, gave all their efforts to
prevent intestine disorders.' Pingré comments justly on this, saying that 'it
must be classed among base and shameful flatteries, not among philosophic
opinions.'

Usually, however, it must be admitted that the ancients, like the men of
the Middle Ages, regarded comets as harbingers of evil. 'A fearful star is the
comet,' says Pliny, 'and not easily appeased, as appeared in the late civil
troubles when Octavius was consul; a second time by the intestine war of
Pompey and Cæsar; and, in our own time, when, Claudius Cæsar having
been poisoned, the empire was left to Domitian, in whose reign there
appeared a blazing comet.' Lucan tells us of the second event here referred
to, that during the war 'the darkest nights were lit up by unknown stars' (a
rather singular way of saying that there were no dark nights); 'the heavens
appeared on fire, flaming torches traversed in all directions the depths of
space; a comet, that fearful star which overthrows the powers of the earth,
showed its horrid hair.' Seneca also expressed the opinion that some comets

portend mischief: 'Some comets,' he said, 'are very cruel and portend the
worst misfortunes; they bring with them and leave behind them the seeds of
blood and slaughter.'

It was held, indeed, by many in those times a subject for reproach that
some were too hard of heart to believe when these signs were sent. It was a
point of religious faith that 'God worketh' these 'signs and wonders in
heaven.' When troubles were about to befall men, 'nation rising against
nation, and kingdom against kingdom, with great earthquakes in divers
places, and famines, and pestilences, and fearful sights,' then 'great signs
shall there be from heaven.' Says Josephus, commenting on the obstinacy of
the Jews in such matters, 'when they were at any time premonished from the
lips of truth itself, by prodigies and other premonitory signs of their
approaching ruin, they had neither eyes nor ears nor understanding to make
a right use of them, but passed them over without heeding or so much as
thinking of them; as, for example, what shall we say of the comet in the
form of a sword that hung over Jerusalem for a whole year together?' This
was probably the comet described by Dion Cassius (Hist. Roman. lxv. 8) as
having been visible between the months of April and December in the year
69 a.d. This or the comet of 66 a.d. might have been Halley's comet. The
account of Josephus as to the time during which it was visible would not
apply to Halley's, or, indeed, to any known comet whatever; doubtless he
exaggerated. He says: 'The comet was of the kind called Xiphias, because
their tail resembles the blade of a sword,' and this would apply fairly well to
Halley's comet as seen in 1682, 1759, and 1835; though it is to be
remembered that comets vary very much even at successive apparitions,
and it would be quite unsafe to judge from the appearance of a comet seen
eighteen centuries ago that it either was or was not the same as some comet
now known to be periodic.

The comet of 79 a.d. is interesting as having given rise to a happy retort
from Vespasian, whose death the comet was held to portend. Seeing some
of his courtiers whispering about the comet, 'That hairy star,' he said, 'does

not portend evil to me. It menaces rather the king of the Parthians. He is a
hairy man, but I am bald.'

Anna Comnena goes even beyond Josephus. He only rebuked other men
for not believing so strongly as he did himself in the significance of comets
—a rebuke little needed, indeed, if we can judge from what history tells us
of the terrors excited by comets. But the judicious daughter of Alexius was
good enough to approve of the wisdom which provided these portents.
Speaking of a remarkable comet which appeared before the irruption of the
Gauls into the Roman empire, she says: 'This happened by the usual
administration of Providence in such cases; for it is not fit that so great and
strange an alteration of things as was brought to pass by that irruption of
theirs should be without some previous denunciation and admonishment
from heaven.'

Socrates, the historian (b. 6, c. 6), says that when Gainas besieged
Constantinople, 'so great was the danger which hung over the city, that it
was presignified and portended by a huge blazing comet which reached
from heaven to the earth, the like whereof no man had ever seen before.'
And Cedrenus, in his 'Compendium of History,' states that a comet appeared
before the death of Johannes Tzimicas, the emperor of the East, which
foreshadowed not alone his death, but the great calamities which were to
befall the Roman empire by reason of their civil wars. In like manner, the
comet of 451 announced the death of Attila, that of 455 the death of
Valentinian. The death of Merovingius was announced by the comet of 577,
of Chilperic by that of 584, of the Emperor Maurice by that of 602, of
Mahomet by that of 632, of Louis the Debonair by that of 837, and of the
Emperor Louis II. by that of 875. Nay, so confidently did men believe that
comets indicated the approaching death of great men, that they did not
believe a very great man could die without a comet. So they inferred that
the death of a very great man indicated the arrival of a comet; and if the
comet chanced not to be visible, so much the worse—not for the theory, but
—for the comet. 'A comet of this kind,' says Pingré, 'was that of the year
814, presaging the death of Charlemagne.' So Guillemin quotes Pingré; but

he should rather have said, such was the comet whose arrival was
announced by Charlemagne's death—and in no other way, for it was not
seen by mortal man.

The reader who chances to be strong as to his dates may have observed
that some of the dates above mentioned for comets do not accord exactly
with the dates of the events associated with those comets. Thus Louis the
Debonair did not die in 837, but in 840. This, however, is a matter of very
little importance. If some men, after their comet has called for them, are 'an
unconscionable time in dying,' as Charles II. said of himself, it surely must
not be considered the fault of the comet. Louis himself regarded the comet
of 837 as his death-warrant; the astrologers admitted as much: what more
could be desired? The account of the matter given in a chronicle of the time,
by a writer who called himself 'The Astronomer,' is curious enough: 'During
the holy season of Easter, a phenomenon, ever fatal and of gloomy
foreboding, appeared in the heavens. As soon as the emperor, who paid
attention to such phenomena, received the first announcement of it, he gave
himself no rest until he had called a certain learned man and myself before
him. As soon as I arrived, he anxiously asked me what I thought of such a
sign. I asked time of him, in order to consider the aspect of the stars, and to
discover the truth by their means, promising to acquaint him on the
morrow; but the emperor, persuaded that I wished to gain time, which was
true, in order not to be obliged to announce anything fatal to him, said to
me: "Go on the terrace of the palace, and return at once to tell me what you
have seen, for I did not see this star last evening, and you did not point it
out to me; but I know that it is a comet; tell me what you think it announces
to me." Then, scarcely allowing me time to say a word, he added: "There is
still another thing you keep back: it is that a change of reign and the death
of a prince are announced by this sign." And as I advanced the testimony of
the prophet, who said: "Fear not the signs of the heavens as the nations fear
them," the prince, with his grand nature and the wisdom which never
forsook him, said: "We must only fear Him who has created both us and this
star. But, as this phenomenon may refer to us, let us acknowledge it as a

warning from heaven."' Accordingly, Louis himself and all his court fasted
and prayed, and he built churches and monasteries. But all was of no avail.
In little more than three years he died; showing, as the historian Raoul
Glaber remarked, that 'these phenomena of the universe are never presented
to man without surely announcing some wonderful and terrible event.' With
a range of three years in advance, and so many kings and princes as there
were about in those days, and are still, it would be rather difficult for a
comet to appear without announcing some such wonderful and terrible
event as a royal death.

The year 1000 a.d. was by all but common consent regarded as the date
assigned for the end of the world. For a thousand years Satan had been
chained, and now he was to be loosened for a while. So that when a comet
made its appearance, and, terrible to relate, continued visible for nine days,
the phenomenon was regarded as something more than a nine days' wonder.
Besides the comet, a very wonderful meteor was seen. 'The heavens
opened, and a kind of flaming torch fell upon the earth, leaving behind a
long track of light like the path of a flash of lightning. Its brightness was so
great that it frightened not only those who were in the fields, but even those
who were in their houses. As this opening in the sky slowly closed men saw
with horror the figure of a dragon, whose feet were blue, and whose head'
[like that of Dickens's dwarf] 'seemed to grow larger and larger.' A picture
of this dreadful meteor accompanies the account given by the old
chronicler. For fear the exact likeness of the dragon might not be recognised
(and, indeed, to see it one must 'make believe a good deal'), there is placed
beside it a picture of a dragon to correspond, which picture is in turn
labelled 'Serpens cum ceruleis pedibus.' It was considered very wicked in
the year 1000 to doubt that the end of all things was at hand. But somehow
the world escaped that time.

In the year 1066 Halley's comet appeared to announce to the Saxons the
approaching conquest of England by William the Norman. A contemporary
poet made a singular remark, which may have some profound poetical
meaning, but certainly seems a little indistinct on the surface. He said that

'the comet had been more favourable to William than nature had been to
Cæsar; the latter had no hair, but William had received some from the
comet.' This is the only instance, so far as I know, in which a comet has
been regarded as a perruquier. A monk of Malmesbury spoke more to the
purpose, according to then received ideas, in thus apostrophising the comet:
'Here art thou again, cause of tears to many mothers! It is long since I saw
thee last, but I see thee now more terrible than ever; thou threatenest my
country with complete ruin.'

Halley's comet, with its inconveniently short period of about seventy-
seven years, has repeatedly troubled the nations and been regarded as a sign
sent from Heaven:
Ten million cubic miles of head,
Ten billion leagues of tail,

all provided for the sole purpose of warning one petty race of earth-folks
against the evils likely to be brought against them by another. This comet
has appeared twenty-four times since the date of its first recorded
appearance, which some consider to have been 12 b.c., and others refer to a
few years later. It may be interesting to quote here Babinet's description of
the effects ascribed in 1455 to this comet, often the terror of nations, but the
triumph of mathematicians, as the first whose motions were brought into
recognisable obedience to the laws of gravity.[42]

'The Mussulmans, with Mahomet II. at their head, were besieging
Belgrade, which was defended by Huniade, surnamed the Exterminator of
the Turks. Halley's comet appeared and the two armies were seized with
equal fear. Pope Calixtus III., himself seized by the general terror, ordered
public prayers and timidly anathematised the comet and the enemies of
Christianity. He established the prayer called the noon Angelus, the use of
which is continued in all Catholic churches. The Franciscans (Frères
Mineurs) brought 40,000 defenders to Belgrade, besieged by the conqueror
of Constantinople, the destroyer of the Eastern Empire. At last the battle
began; it continued two days without ceasing. A contest of two days caused

40,000 combatants to bite the dust. The Franciscans, unarmed, crucifix in
hand, were in the front rank, invoking the papal exorcism against the comet,
and turning upon the enemy that heavenly wrath of which none in those
times dared doubt.'

The great comet of 1556 has been regarded as the occasion of the
Emperor Charles V.'s abdication of the imperial throne; a circumstance
which seems rendered a little doubtful by the fact that he had already
abdicated when the comet appeared—a mere detail, perhaps, but suggesting
the possibility that cause and effect may have been interchanged by
mistake, and that it was Charles's abdication which occasioned the
appearance of the comet. According to Gemma's account the comet was
conspicuous rather from its great light than from the length of its tail or the
strangeness of its appearance. 'Its head equalled Jupiter in brightness, and
was equal in diameter to nearly half the apparent diameter of the moon.' It
appeared about the end of February, and in March presented a terrible
appearance, according to Ripamonte. 'Terrific indeed,' says Sir J. Herschel,
'it might well have been to the mind of a prince prepared by the most abject
superstition to receive its appearance as a warning of approaching death,
and as specially sent, whether in anger or in mercy, to detach his thoughts
from earthly things, and fix them on his eternal interests. Such was its effect
on the Emperor Charles V., whose abdication is distinctly ascribed by many
historians to this cause, and whose words on the occasion of his first
beholding it have even been recorded—
"His ergo indiciis me mea fata vocant"—

the language and the metrical form of which exclamation afford no
ground for disputing its authenticity, when the habits and education of those
times are fairly considered.' It is quite likely that, having already abdicated
the throne, Charles regarded the comet as signalling his retirement from
power—an event which he doubtless considered a great deal too important
to be left without some celestial record. But the words attributed to him are
in all probability apocryphal.

The comet of 1577 was remarkable for the strangeness of its aspect,
which in some respects resembled that of the comet of 1858, called
Donati's. It required only the terror with which such portentous objects were
witnessed in the Middle Ages to transform the various streamers, curved
and straight, extending from such an object, into swords and spears, and
other signs of war and trouble. Doubtless, we owe to the fears of the Middle
Ages the strange pictures claiming to present the actual aspect of some of
the larger comets. Halley's comet did not escape. It was compared to a
straight sword at one visit, to a curved scimitar in 1456, and even at its last
return in 1835 there were some who recognised in the comet a resemblance
to a misty head. Other comets have been compared to swords of fire, bloody
crosses, flaming daggers, spears, serpents, fiery dragons, fish, and so forth.
But in this respect no comet would seem to have been comparable with that
of 1528, of which Andrew Paré writes as follows: 'This comet was so
horrible and dreadful, and engendered such terror in the minds of men, that
they died, some from fear alone, others from illness engendered by fear. It
was of immense length and blood-red colour; at its head was seen the figure
of a curved arm, holding a large sword in the hand as if preparing to strike.
At the point of this sword were three stars; and on either side a number of
axes, knives, and swords covered with blood, amongst which were many
hideous human faces with bristling beards and hair.'

Such peculiarities of shape, and also those affecting the position and
movements of comets, were held to be full of meaning. As Bayle pointed
out in his 'Thoughts about the Comet of 1680,' these fancies are of great
antiquity. Pliny tells us that in his time astrologers claimed to interpret the
meaning of a comet's position and appearance, and that also of the direction
towards which its rays pointed. They could, moreover, explain the effects
produced by the fixed stars whose rays were conjoined with the comet's. If
a comet resembles a flute, then musicians are aimed at; when comets are in
the less dignified parts of the constellations, they presage evil to immodest
persons; if the head of a comet forms an equilateral triangle or a square with
fixed stars, then it is time for mathematicians and men of science to

tremble. When they are in the sign of the Ram, they portend great wars and
widespread mortality, the abasement of the great and the elevation of the
small, besides fearful droughts in regions over which that sign
predominates; in the Virgin, they imply many grievous ills to the female
portion of the population; in the Scorpion, they portend a plague of reptiles,
especially locusts; in the Fishes, they indicate great troubles from religious
differences, besides war and pestilence. When, like the one described by
Milton, they 'fire the length of Ophiuchus huge,' they show that there will
be much mortality caused by poisoning.

The comet of 1680, which led Bayle to write the treatise to which
reference has just been made, was one well calculated to inspire terror.
Indeed, if the truth were known, that comet probably brought greater danger
to the inhabitants of the earth than any other except the comet of 1843—the
danger not, however, being that derived from possible collision between the
earth and a comet, but that arising from the possible downfall of a large
comet upon the sun, and the consequent enormous increase of the sun's
heat. That, according to Newton, is the great danger men have to fear from
comets; and the comet of 1680 was one which in that sense was a very
dangerous one. There is no reason why a comet from outer space should not
fall straight towards the sun, as at one time the comet of 1680 was supposed
to be doing. All the comfort that science can give the world on that point is
that such a course for a comet is only one out of many millions of possible
courses, all fully as likely; and that, therefore, the chance of a comet falling
upon the sun is only as one in many millions. Still, the comet of 1680 made
a very fair shot at the sun, and a very slight modification of its course by
Jupiter or Saturn might have brought about the catastrophe which Newton
feared. Whether, if a comet actually fell upon the sun, anything very
dreadful would happen, is not so clear. Newton's ideas respecting comets
were formed in ignorance of many physical facts and laws which in our day
render reasoning upon the subject comparatively easy. Yet, even in our time,
it is not possible to assert confidently that such fears are idle. During the
solar outburst witnessed by Carrington and Hodgson in September 1859, it

is supposed that the sun swallowed a large meteoric mass; and, as great
cornets are probably followed by many such masses, it seems reasonable to
infer that if such a comet fell upon the sun, his surface being pelted with
such exceptionally large masses, stoned with these mighty meteoric balls,
would glow all over (or nearly so) as brightly as a small spot of that surface
glowed upon that occasion. Now that portion was so bright that Carrington
thought 'that by some chance a ray of light had penetrated a hole in the
screen attached to the object-glass by which the general image is thrown in
shade, for the brilliancy was fully equal to that of direct sunlight.'
Manifestly, if the whole surface of the sun, or any large portion of the
surface, were caused to glow with that exceeding brilliancy, surpassing
ordinary sunlight in the same degree that ordinary sunlight surpassed the
shaded solar image in Carrington's observations, the result would be
disastrous in the extreme for the inhabitants of that half of the earth which
chanced to be in sunlight at the time; and if (as could scarcely fail to
happen) the duration of that abnormal splendour were more than half a day,
then the whole earth would probably be depopulated by the intense heat.
The danger, as I have said, is slight—partly because there is small chance of
a collision between the sun and a comet, partly because we have no certain
reasons for assuming that a collision would be followed by the heating of
the sun for a while to a very high temperature. Looking around at the suns
which people space, and considering their history, so far as it has been made
known to us, for the last two thousand years, we find small occasion for
fear. Those suns seem to have been for the most part safe from any sudden
or rapid accessions of heat; and if they travel thus safely in their mighty
journeys through space, we may well believe that our sun also is safe.
Nevertheless, there have been catastrophes here and there. Now one sun and
now another has blazed out with a hundred times its usual lustre, gradually
losing its new fires and returning to its customary brightness; but after what
destruction among those peopling its system of worlds who shall say?
Spectroscopic analysis, that powerful help to the modern astronomical
inquirer, has shown in one of these cases that just such changes had taken
place as we might fairly expect would follow if a mighty comet fell into the

sun. If this interpretation be correct, then we are not wholly safe. Any day
might bring us news of a comet sailing full upon our sun from out the
depths of space. Then astronomers would perhaps have the opportunity of
ascertaining the harmlessness of a collision between the ruler of our system
and one of the long-tailed visitors from the celestial spaces. Or possibly,
astronomers and the earth's inhabitants generally might find out the reverse,
though the knowledge would not avail them much, seeing that the
messenger who would bring it would be the King of Terrors himself.

It was well, perhaps, that Newton's discovery of the law of gravitation,
and the application of this law to the comets of 1680 and 1682 (the latter
our old friend Halley's comet, then properly so called as studied by him),
came in time to aid in removing to some slight degree the old superstitions
respecting comets. For in England many remembered the comets of the
Great Plague and of the Great Fire of London. These comets came so
closely upon the time of the Plague and the Fire respectively, that it was not
wonderful if even the wiser sort were struck by the coincidence and could
scarcely regard it as accidental. It is not easy for the student of science in
our own times, when the movements of comets are as well understood as
those of the most orderly planets, to place himself in the position of men in
the times when no one knew on what paths comets came, or whither they
retreated after they had visited our sun. Taught as men were, on the one
hand, that it was wicked to question what seemed to be the teaching of the
Scriptures, that changes or new appearances in the heavens were sent to
warn mankind of approaching troubles, and perplexed as they were, on the
other, by the absence of any real knowledge respecting comets and meteors,
it was not so easy as we might imagine from our own way of viewing these
matters, to shake off a superstition which had ruled over men's minds for
thousands of years.

No sect had been free from this superstition. Popes and priests had
taught their followers to pray against the evil influences of comets and other
celestial portents; Luther and Melanchthon had condemned in no measured
terms the rashness and impiety of those who had striven to show that the

heavenly bodies and the earth move in concordance with law—those 'fools
who wish to reverse the entire science of astronomy.' A long interval had
elapsed between the time when the Copernican theory was struggling for
existence—when, but that more serious heresies engaged men's attention
and kept religious folk by the ears, that astronomical heresy would probably
have been quenched in blood—and the forging by Newton of the final link
of the chain of reasoning on which modern astronomy is based; but in those
times the minds of men moved more slowly than in ours. The masses still
held to the old beliefs about the heavenly bodies. Defoe, indeed, speaking
of the terror of men at the time of the Great Plague, says that they 'were
more addicted to prophecies and astrological conjurations, dreams, and old
wives' tales, than ever they were before or since.' But in reality, it was only
because of the great misery then prevailing that men seemed more
superstitious than usual; for misery brings out the superstitions—the
fetishisms, if we may so speak—which are inherent in many minds, but
concealed from others in prosperous times, out of shame, or perhaps a
worthier feeling. Even in our own times great national calamities would
show that many superstitions exist which had been thought extinct, and we
should see excited among the ill-educated that particular form of
persecution which arises, not from zeal for religion and not from
intolerance, but from the belief that the troubles have been sent because of
unbelief and the fear that unless some expiation be made the evil will not
pass away from the midst of the people. It is at such times of general
affliction that minds of the meaner sort have proved 'zealous even to
slaying.'

The influence of strange appearances in the heavens on even thoughtful
and reasoning minds, at such times of universal calamity, is well shown by
Defoe's remarks on the comets of the years 1664 and 1666. 'The old
women,' he says, 'and the phlegmatic, hypochondriacal part of the other sex,
whom I could almost call old women too, remarked that those two comets
passed directly over the city' [though that appearance must have depended
on the position whence these old women, male and female, observed the

comet], 'and that so very near the houses, that it was plain they imported
something peculiar to the city alone; and that the comet before the
Pestilence was of a faint, dull, languid colour, and its motion very heavy,
solemn, and slow; but that the comet before the Fire was bright and
sparkling, or, as others said, flaming, and its motion swift and furious: and
that accordingly one foretold a heavy judgment, slow but severe, terrible
and frightful, as was the Plague; but the other foretold a stroke, sudden,
swift, and fiery, as was the Conflagration. Nay, so particular some people
were, that, as they looked upon that comet preceding the Fire, they fancied
that they not only saw it pass swiftly and fiercely, and could perceive the
motion with their eye, but even that they heard it; that it made a mighty
rushing noise, fierce and terrible, though at a distance and but just
perceivable. I saw both these stars, and must confess had I had so much the
common notion of such things in my head, that I was apt to look upon them
as the forerunners and warnings of God's judgments, and especially when,
the Plague having followed the first, I yet saw another of the same kind, I
could not but say, God had not yet sufficiently scourged the city' [London].

The comets of 1680 and 1682, though they did not bring plagues or
conflagrations immediately, yet were not supposed to have been altogether
without influence. The convenient fiction, indeed, that some comets operate
quickly and others slowly, made it very difficult for a comet to appear to
which some evil effects could not be ascribed. If any one can find a single
date, since the records of history have been carefully kept, which was so
fortunately placed that, during no time following it within five years, no
prince, king, emperor, or pope died, no war was begun, or ended
disastrously for one side or the other engaged in it, no revolution was
effected, neither plague nor pestilence occurred, neither droughts nor floods
afflicted any nation, no great hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanic outbursts, or
other trouble was recorded, he will then have shown the bare possibility that
a comet might have appeared which seemed to presage neither abrupt nor
slow-moving calamities. But it is not possible to name such a date, nor even
a date which was not followed within two years at the utmost by a calamity

such as superstition might assign to a comet. And so closely have such
calamities usually followed, that scarce a comet could appear which might
not be regarded as the precursor of very quickly approaching calamity. Even
if a comet had come which seemed to bring no trouble, nay, if many such
comets had come, men would still have overlooked the absence of any
apparent fulfilment of the predicted troubles. Henry IV. well remarked,
when he was told that astrologers predicted his death because a certain
comet had been observed: 'One of these days they will predict it truly, and
people will remember better the single occasion when the prediction will be
fulfilled than the many other occasions when it has been falsified by the
event.'

The troubles connected with the comets of 1680 and 1682 were removed
farther from the dates of the events themselves than usual, at least so far as
the English interpretation of the comets was concerned. 'The great comet in
1680,' says one, 'followed by a lesser comet in 1682, was evidently the
forerunner of all those remarkable and disastrous events that ended in the
revolution of 1688. It also evidently presaged the revocation of the edict of
Nantes, and the cruel persecution of the Protestants, by the French king
Louis XIV., afterwards followed by those terrible wars which, with little
intermission, continued to ravage the finest parts of Europe for nearly
twenty-four years.'

If in some respects the fears inspired by comets have been reduced by
modern scientific discoveries respecting these bodies, yet in other respects
the very confidence engendered by the exactness of modern astronomical
computations has proved a source of terror. There is nothing more
remarkable, for instance, in the whole history of cometary superstition, than
the panic which spread over France in the year 1773, in consequence of a
rumour that the mathematician Lalande had predicted the occurrence of a
collision between a comet and the earth, and that disastrous effects would
inevitably follow. The foundation of the rumour was slight enough in all
conscience. It had simply been announced that Lalande would read before
the Academy of Sciences a paper entitled 'Reflections on those Comets

which can approach the Earth.' That was absolutely all; yet, from that one
fact, not only were vague rumours of approaching cometic troubles spread
abroad, but the statement was definitely made that on May 20 or 21, 1773,
'a comet would encounter the earth.'[43] So great was the fear thus excited,
that, in order to calm it, Lalande inserted in the 'Gazette de France' of May
7, 1773, the following advertisement:—'M. Lalande had not time to read his
memoir upon comets which may approach the earth and cause changes in
her motions; but he would observe that it is impossible to assign the epochs
of such events. The next comet whose return is expected is the one which
should return in eighteen years; but it is not one of those which can hurt the
earth.'

This note had not the slightest effect in restoring peace to the minds of
unscientific Frenchmen. M. Lalande's study was crowded with anxious
persons who came to inquire about his memoir. Certain devout folk, 'as
ignorant as they were imbecile,' says a contemporary journal, begged the
Archbishop of Paris to appoint forty hours' prayer to avert the danger and
prevent the terrible deluge. For this was the particular form most men
agreed that the danger would take. That prelate was on the point, indeed, of
complying with their request, and would have done so, but that some
members of the Academy explained to him that by so doing he would excite
ridicule.

Far more effective, and, to say truth, far better judged, was the irony of
Voltaire, in his deservedly celebrated 'Letter on the Pretended Comet.' It ran
as follows:—

'Grenoble, May 17, 1773.

'Certain Parisians who are not philosophers, and who, if we are to
believe them, will not have time to become such, have informed me that the
end of the world approaches, and will occur without fail on the 20th of this
present month of May. They expect, that day, a comet, which is to take our

little globe from behind and reduce it to impalpable powder, according to a
certain prediction of the Academy of Sciences which has not yet been made.

'Nothing is more likely than this event; for James Bernouilli, in his
"Treatise upon the Comet" of 1680, predicted expressly that the famous
comet of 1680 would return with terrible uproar (fracas) on May 19, 1719;
he assured us that in truth its perruque would signify nothing mischievous,
but that its tail would be an infallible sign of the wrath of heaven. If James
Bernouilli mistook, it is, after all, but a matter of fifty-four years and three
days.

'Now, so small an error as this being regarded by all geometricians as of
little moment in the immensity of ages, it is manifest that nothing can be
more reasonable than to hope (sic, espérer) for the end of the world on the
20th of this present month of May 1773, or in some other year. If the thing
should not come to pass, "omittance is no quittance" (ce qui est différé, n'est
pas perdu).

'There is certainly no reason for laughing at M. Trissotin, triple idiot
though he is (tout Trissotin qu'il est), when he says to Madame Philaminte
(Molière's "Femmes Savantes," acte iv. scène 3),
'Nous l'avons en dormant, madame, échappé belle;
Un monde près de nous a passé tout du long,
Est chu tout au travers de notre tourbillon;
Et, s'il eût en chemin rencontré notre terre,
Elle eût été brisée en morceaux comme verre.

'A comet coursing along its parabolic orbit may come full tilt against our
earth. But then, what will happen? Either that comet will have a force equal
to that of our earth, or greater, or less. If equal, we shall do the comet as
much harm as it will do us, action and reaction being equal; if greater, the
comet will bear us away with it; if less, we shall bear away the comet.

'This great event may occur in a thousand ways, and no one can affirm
that our earth and the other planets have not experienced more than one
revolution, through the mischance of encountering a comet on their path.

'The Parisians will not desert their city on the 20th inst.; they will sing
songs, and the play of "The Comet and the World's End" will be performed
at the Opéra Comique.'

The last touch is as fine in its way as Sydney Smith's remark that, if
London were destroyed by an earthquake, the surviving citizens would
celebrate the event by a public dinner among the ruins. Voltaire's prediction
was not fulfilled exactly to the letter, but what actually happened was even
funnier than what his lively imagination had suggested. It was stated by a
Parisian Professor in 1832 (as a reason why the Academy of Sciences
should refute an assertion then rife to the effect that Biela's comet would
encounter the earth that year) that during the cometic panic of 1773 'there
were not wanting people who knew too well the art of turning to their
advantage the alarm inspired by the approaching comet, and places in
Paradise were sold at a very high rate.[44] The announcement of the comet
of 1832 may produce similar effects,' he said, 'unless the authority of the
Academy apply a prompt remedy; and this salutary intervention is at this
moment implored by many benevolent persons.'

In recent years the effects produced on the minds of men by comets have
been less marked than of yore, and appear to have depended a good deal on
circumstances. The comet of the year 1858 (called Donati's), for example,
occasioned no special fears, at least until Napoleon III. made his famous
New-Year's day speech, after which many began to think the comet had
meant mischief. But the comet of 1861, though less conspicuous,
occasioned more serious fears. It was held by many in Italy to presage a
very great misfortune indeed, viz. the restoration of Francis II. to the throne
of the Two Sicilies. Others thought that the downfall of the temporal power
of the Papacy and the death of Pope Pius IX. were signified. I have not
heard that any very serious consequences were expected to follow the
appearance of Coggia's comet in 1874. The great heat which prevailed
during parts of the summer of 1876 was held by many to be connected in
some way with a comet which some very unskilful telescopist constructed
in his imagination out of the glare of Jupiter in the object-glass of his

telescope. Another benighted person, seeing the Pleiades low down through
a fog, turned them into a comet, about the same time. Possibly the idea was,
that since comets are supposed to cause great heats, great heats may be
supposed to indicate a comet somewhere; and with minds thus prepared, it
was not wonderful, perhaps, that telescopic glare, or an imperfect view of
our old friends the Pleiades, should have been mistaken for a vision of the
heat-producing comet.

It should be a noteworthy circumstance to those who still continue to
look on comets as signs of great catastrophes, that a war more remarkable
in many respects than any which has ever yet been waged between two
great nations—a war swift in its operations and decisive in its effects—a
war in which three armies, each larger than all the forces commanded by
Napoleon I. during the campaign of 1813, were captured bodily—should
have been begun and carried on to its termination without the appearance of
any great comet. The civil war in America, a still more terrible calamity to
that great nation than the success of Moltke's operations to the French, may
be regarded by believers as presignified by the great comet of 1861. But it
so chances that the war between France and Germany occurred near the
middle of one of the longest intervals recorded in astronomical annals as
unmarked by a single conspicuous comet—the interval between the years
1862 and 1874.

If the progress of just ideas respecting comets has been slow, it must
nevertheless be regarded as on the whole satisfactory. When we remember
that it was not a mere idle fancy which had to be opposed, not mere terrors
which had to be calmed, but that the idea of the significance of changes in
the heavens had come to be regarded by mankind as a part of their religion,
it cannot but be thought a hopeful sign that all reasoning men in our time
have abandoned the idea that comets are sent to warn the inhabitants of this
small earth. Obeying in their movements the same law of gravitation which
guides the planets in their courses, the comets are tracked by the skilful
mathematician along those remote parts of their course where even the
telescope fails to keep them in view. Not only are they no longer regarded

as presaging the fortunes of men on this earth, but men on this earth are
able to predict the fortunes of comets. Not only is it seen that they cannot
influence the fates of the earth or other planets, but we perceive that the
earth and planets by their attractive energies influence, and in no
unimportant degree, the fates of these visitants from outer space.
Encouraging, truly, is the lesson taught us by the success of earnest study
and careful inquiry in determining some at least among the laws which
govern bodies once thought the wildest and most erratic creatures in the
whole of God's universe.

IX.
THE LUNAR HOAX.

Then he gave them an account of the famous moon hoax, which came out in 1835.
It was full of the most barefaced absurdities, yet people swallowed it all; and even
Arago is said to have treated it seriously as a thing that could not well be true, for Mr.
Herschel would have certainly notified him of these marvellous discoveries. The
writer of it had not troubled himself to invent probabilities, but had borrowed his
scenery from the 'Arabian Nights' and his lunar inhabitants from 'Peter Wilkins.'—
Oliver Wendell Holmes (in The Poet at the Breakfast-Table).

In one of the earliest numbers of 'Macmillan's Magazine, the late Professor
De Morgan, in an article on Scientific Hoaxing, gave a brief account of the
so-called 'lunar hoax'—an instance of scientific trickery frequently
mentioned, though probably few are familiar with the real facts. De Morgan
himself possessed a copy of the second English edition of the pamphlet,
published in London in 1836. But the original pamphlet edition, published
in America in September 1835, is not easily to be obtained. The proprietors
of the New York 'Sun,' in which the fictitious narrative first appeared,
published an edition of 60,000 copies, and every copy was sold in less than
a month. Lately a single copy of that edition was sold for three dollars
seventy-five cents.[45]

The pamphlet is interesting in many respects, and I propose to give here
a brief account of it. But first it may be well to describe briefly the origin of
the hoax.

It is said that after the French revolution of 1830 Nicollet, a French
astronomer of some repute, especially for certain lunar observations of a
very delicate and difficult kind, left France in debt and also in bad odour
with the republican party. According to this story, Arago the astronomer was
especially obnoxious to Nicollet, and it was as much with the view of
revenging himself on his foe as from a wish to raise a little money that
Nicollet wrote the moon-fable. It is said further that Arago was entrapped,
as Nicollet desired, and circulated all over Paris the wonders related in the
pamphlet, until Nicollet wrote to his friend Bouvard explaining the trick. So
runs the story, but the story cannot be altogether true. Nicollet may have
prepared the narrative and partly written it, but there are passages in the

pamphlet as published in America which no astronomer could have written.
Possibly there is some truth in De Morgan's supposition that the original
work was French. This may have been Nicollet's: and the American edition
was probably enlarged by the translator, who, according to this account,
was Richard Alton Locke,[46] to whom in America the whole credit, or
discredit, of the hoax is commonly attributed. There can be no doubt that
either the French version was much more carefully designed than the
American, or there was no truth in the story that Arago was deceived by the
narrative; for in its present form the story, though clever, could not for an
instant have deceived any one acquainted with the most elementary laws of
optics. The whole story turns on optical rather than on astronomical
considerations; but every astronomer of the least skill is acquainted with the
principles on which the construction of optical instruments depends.
Though the success of the deception recently practised on M. Chasles by
the forger of the Pascal papers has been regarded as showing how easily
mathematicians may be entrapped, yet even M. Chasles would not have
been deceived by bad mathematics; and Arago, a master of the science of
optics, could not but have detected optical blunders which would be glaring
to the average Cambridge undergraduate.

But let us turn to the story itself.

The account opens with a passage unmistakably from an American hand,
though purporting, be it remembered, to be quoted from the 'Supplement to
the Edinburgh Journal of Science.' 'In this unusual addition to our journal,
we have the happiness of making known to the British public, and thence to
the whole civilised world, recent discoveries in astronomy which will build
an imperishable monument to the age in which we live, and confer upon the
present generation of the human race a proud distinction through all future
time. It has been poetically said' [where and by whom?] 'that the stars of
heaven are the hereditary regalia of man, as the intellectual sovereign of the
animal creation. He may now fold the zodiac around him with a loftier
consciousness of his mental supremacy.' To the American mind enwrapment
in the star-jewelled zodiac may appear as natural as their ordinary oratorical

references to the star-spangled banner; but the idea is essentially
transatlantic, and not even the most poetical European astronomer could
have risen to such a height of imagery.

Passing over several pages of introductory matter, we come to the
description of the method by which a telescope of sufficient magnifying
power to show living creatures in the moon was constructed by Sir John
Herschel. It had occurred, it would seem, to the elder Herschel to construct
an improved series of parabolic and spherical reflectors 'uniting all the
meritorious points in the Gregorian and Newtonian instruments, with the
highly interesting achromatic discovery of Dolland'(sic). [This is much as
though one should say that a clever engineer had conceived the idea of
constructing an improved series of railway engines, combining all the
meritorious points in stationary and locomotive engines, with Isaac Watts'
highly ingenious discovery of screw propulsion. For the Gregorian and
Newtonian instruments simply differ in sending the rays received from the
great mirror in different directions, and Dolland's discovery relates to the
ordinary forms of telescopes with large lens, not with large mirror.]
However, accumulating infirmities and eventually death prevented Sir
William Herschel from applying his plan, which 'evinced the most profound
research in optical science, and the most dexterous ingenuity in mechanical
contrivance. But his son, Sir John Herschel, nursed and cradled in the
observatory, and a practical astronomer from his boyhood, determined upon
testing it at whatever cost. Within two years of his father's death he
completed his new apparatus, and adapted it to the old telescope with nearly
perfect success.' A short account of the observations made with this
instrument, now magnifying six thousand times, follows, in which most of
the astronomical statements are very correctly and justly worded, being, in
fact, borrowed from a paper by Sir W. Herschel on observation of the moon
with precisely that power.

But this great improvement upon all former telescopes still left the
observer at a distance of forty miles from the moon; and at that distance no
object less than about twenty yards in diameter could be distinguished, and

even objects of that size 'would appear only as feeble, shapeless points.' Sir
John 'had the satisfaction to know that if he could leap astride a cannon-
ball, and travel upon its wings of fury for the respectable period of several
millions of years, he would not obtain a more enlarged view of the more
distant stars than he could now possess in a few minutes of time; and that it
would require an ultra-railroad speed of fifty miles an hour for nearly the
livelong year, to secure him a more favourable inspection of the gentle
luminary of the night;' but 'the exciting question whether this "observed" of
all the sons of men, from the days of Eden to those of Edinburgh, be
inhabited by beings, like ourselves, of consciousness and curiosity, was left
to the benevolent index of natural analogy, or to the severe tradition that the
moon is tenanted only by the hoary solitaire, whom the criminal code of the
nursery had banished thither for collecting fuel on the Sabbath-day.'[47] But
the time had arrived when the great discovery was to be made, by which at
length the moon could be brought near enough, by telescopic power, for
living creatures on her surface to be seen if any exist.

The account of the sudden discovery of the new method, during a
conversation between Sir John Herschel and Sir David Brewster, is one of
the most cleverly conceived (though also one of the absurdest) passages in
the pamphlet. 'About three years ago, in the course of a conversational
discussion with Sir David Brewster upon the merits of some ingenious
suggestions by the latter, in his article on Optics in the "Edinburgh
Encyclopædia," p. 644, for improvements in Newtonian reflectors, Sir John
Herschel adverted to the convenient simplicity of the old astronomical
telescopes that were without tubes, and the object-glass of which, placed
upon a high pole, threw the focal image to a distance of 150 and even 200
feet. Dr. Brewster readily admitted that a tube was not necessary, provided
the focal image were conveyed into a dark apartment and there properly
received by reflectors.... The conversation then became directed to that all-
invincible enemy, the paucity of light in powerful magnifiers. After a few
moments' silent thought, Sir John diffidently enquired whether it would not
be possible to effect a transfusion of artificial light through the focal object

of vision! Sir David, somewhat startled at the originality of the idea, paused
awhile, and then hesitatingly referred to the refrangibility of rays, and the
angle of incidence. Sir John, grown more confident, adduced the example
of the Newtonian reflector, in which the refrangibility was corrected by the
second speculum, and the angle of incidence restored by the third.'

All this part of the narrative is simply splendid in absurdity. Hesitating
references to refrangibility and the angle of incidence would have been
sheerly idiotic under the supposed circumstances; and in the Newtonian
reflector (which has only two specula or mirrors) there is no refrangibility
to be corrected; apart from which, 'correcting refrangibility' has no more
meaning than 'restoring the angle of incidence.'

'"And," continued Sir John, "why cannot the illuminating microscope,
say the hydro-oxygen, be applied to render distinct, and, if necessary, even
to magnify, the focal object?" Sir David sprung from his chair' [and well he
might, though not] 'in an ecstasy of conviction, and, leaping half-way to the
ceiling, exclaimed, "Thou art the man!" Each philosopher anticipated the
other in presenting the prompt illustration that if the rays of the hydro-
oxygen microscope, passed through a drop of water containing the larvæ of
a gnat and other objects invisible to the naked eye, rendered them not only
keenly but firmly magnified to dimensions of many feet; so could the same
artificial light, passed through the faintest focal object of a telescope, both
distinctify (to coin a new word for an extraordinary occasion) and magnify
its feeblest component members. The only apparent desideratum was a
recipient for the focal image which should transfer it, without refranging it,
to the surface on which it was to be viewed under the revivifying light of
the microscopic reflectors.'

Singularly enough, the idea here mentioned does not appear to many so
absurd as it is in reality. It is known that the image formed by the large lens
of an ordinary telescope or the large mirror of a reflecting telescope is a real
image; not a merely virtual image like that which is seen in a looking-glass.
It can be received on a sheet of paper or other white surface just as the

image of surrounding objects can be thrown upon the white table of the
camera obscura. It is this real image, in fact, which we look at in using a
telescope of any sort, the portion of such a telescope nearest to the eye
being in reality a microscope for viewing the image formed by the great
lens or mirror, as the case may be. And it does not seem to some altogether
absurd to speak of illuminating this image by transfused light, or of casting
by means of an illuminating microscope a vastly enlarged picture of this
image upon a screen. But of course the image being simply formed by the
passage of rays (which originally came from the object whose image they
form) through a certain small space, to send other rays (coming from some
other luminous object) through the same small space, is not to improve, but,
so far as any effect is produced at all, to impair, the distinctness of the
image. In fact, if these illuminating rays reached the eye, they would
seriously impair the distinctness of the image. Their effect may be
compared exactly with the effect of rays of light cast upon the image in a
camera obscura; and, to see what the effect of such rays would be, we need
only consider why it is that the camera is made 'obscura,' or dark. The effect
of the transfusion of light through a telescopic image may be easily tried by
any one who cares to make the experiment. He has only to do away with the
tube of his telescope (substituting two or three straight rods to hold the glass
in its place), and then in the blaze of a strong sun to direct the telescope on
some object lying nearly towards the sun. Or if he prefer artificial light for
the experiment, then at night let him direct the telescope so prepared upon
the moon, while a strong electric light is directed upon the place where the
focal image is formed (close in front of the eye). The experiment will not
suggest very sanguine hopes of good result from the transfusion of artificial
light. Yet, to my own knowledge, not a few who were perfectly well aware
that the lunar hoax was not based on facts, have gravely reasoned that the
principle suggested might be sound, and, in fact, that they could see no
reason why astronomers should not try it, even though it had been first
suggested as a joke.

To return, however, to the narrative. 'The co-operative philosophers,
having hit upon their method, determined to test it practically. They decided
that a medium of the purest plate-glass (which it is said they obtained, by
consent, be it observed, from the shop-window of M. Desanges, the jeweller
to his ex-majesty Charles X., in High Street) was the most eligible they
could discover. It answered perfectly with a telescope which magnified a
hundred times, and a microscope of about thrice that power.' Thus fortified
by experiment, and 'fully sanctioned by the high optical authority of Sir
David Brewster, Sir John laid his plan before the Royal Society, and
particularly directed to it the attention of his Royal Highness the Duke of
Sussex, the ever munificent patron of science and the arts. It was
immediately and enthusiastically approved by the committee chosen to
investigate it, and the chairman, who was the Royal President' (this
continual reference to royalty is manifestly intended to give a British tone
to the narrative), 'subscribed his name for a contribution of £10,000, with a
promise that he would zealously submit the proposed instrument as a fit
object for the patronage of the privy purse. He did so without delay; and his
Majesty, on being informed that the estimated expense was £70,000,
naïvely enquired if the costly instrument would conduce to any
improvement in navigation. On being informed that it undoubtly would, the
sailor king promised a carte blanche for any amount which might be
required.'

All this is very clever. The 'sailor king' comes in as effectively to give
vraisemblance to the narrative as 'Crabtree's little bronze Shakspeare that
stood over the fireplace,' and the 'postman just come to the door with a
double letter from Northamptonshire.'

Then comes a description of the construction of the object-glass, twenty-
four feet in diameter, 'just six times the size of the elder Herschel's;' who, by
the way, never made a telescope with an object-glass. The account of Sir
John Herschel's journey from England, and even some details of the
construction of the observatory, were based on facts, indeed, so many
persons in America as well as in England were acquainted with some of

these circumstances, that it was essential to follow the facts as closely as
possible. Of course, also, some explanation had to be given of the
circumstance that nothing had before been heard respecting the gigantic
instrument taken out by Sir John Herschel. 'Whether,' says the story, 'the
British Government were sceptical concerning the promised splendour of
the discoveries, or wished them to be scrupulously veiled until they had
accumulated a full-orbed glory for the nation and reign in which they
originated, is a question which we can only conjecturally solve. But certain
it is that the astronomer's royal patrons enjoined a masonic taciturnity upon
him and his friends until he should have officially communicated the results
of his great experiment.'

It was not till the night of January 10, 1835, that the mighty telescope
was at length directed towards our satellite. The part of the moon selected
was on the eastern part of her disc. 'The whole immense power of the
telescope was applied, and to its focal image about one half of the power of
the microscope. On removing the screen of the latter, the field of view was
covered throughout its entire area with a beautifully distinct and even vivid
representation of basaltic rock. Its colour was a greenish brown; and the
width of the columns, as defined by their interstices on the canvas, was
invariably twenty-eight inches. No fracture whatever appeared in the mass
first presented; but in a few seconds a shelving pile appeared, of five or six
columns' width, which showed their figure to be hexagonal, and their
articulations similar to those of the basaltic formation at Staffa. This
precipitous cliff was profusely covered with a dark red flower, precisely
similar, says Dr. Grant, to the Papaver Rhœus, or Rose Poppy, of our
sublunary cornfields; and this was the first organic production of nature in a
foreign world ever revealed to the eyes of men.'

It would be wearisome to go through the whole series of observations
thus fabled, and only a few of the more striking features need be indicated.
The discoveries are carefully graduated in interest. Thus we have seen how,
after recognising basaltic formations, the observers discovered flowers: they
next see a lunar forest, whose 'trees were of one unvaried kind, and unlike

any on earth except the largest kind of yews in the English churchyards.'
(There is an American ring in this sentence, by the way, as there is in one, a
few lines farther on, where the narrator having stated that by mistake the
observers had the Sea of Clouds instead of a more easterly spot in the field
of view, proceeds to say: 'However, the moon was a free country, and we
not as yet attached to any particular province.') Next a lunar ocean is
described, 'the water nearly as blue as that of the deep sea, and breaking in
large white billows upon the strand, while the action of very high tides was
quite manifest upon the face of the cliffs for more than a hundred miles.'
After a description of several valleys, hills, mountains and forests, we come
to the discovery of animal life. An oval valley surrounded by hills, red as
the purest vermilion, is selected as the scene. 'Small collections of trees, of
every imaginable kind, were scattered about the whole of this luxuriant
area; and here our magnifiers blessed our panting hopes with specimens of
conscious existence. In the shade of the woods we beheld brown
quadrupeds having all the external characteristics of the bison, but more
diminutive than any species of the bos genus in our natural history.' Then
herds of agile creatures like antelopes are described, 'abounding on the
acclivitous glades of the woods.' In the contemplation of these sprightly
animals the narrator becomes quite lively. 'This beautiful creature,' says he,
'afforded us the most exquisite amusement. The mimicry of its movements
upon our white painted canvas was as faithful and luminous as that of
animals within a few yards of the camera obscura. Frequently, when
attempting to put our fingers upon its beard, it would suddenly bound away
as if conscious of our earthly impertinence; but then others would appear,
whom we could not prevent nibbling the herbage, say or do to them what
we would.'

A strange amphibious creature, of a spherical form, rolling with great
velocity along a pebbly beach, is the next object of interest, but is presently
lost sight of in a strong current setting off from the angle of an island. After
this there are three or four pages descriptive of various lunar scenes and
animals, the latter showing a tendency, singular considering the

circumstances, though very convenient for the narrator, to become higher
and higher in type as the discoveries proceed, until an animal somewhat of
the nature of the missing link is discovered. It is found in the Endymion (a
circular walled plain) in company with a small kind of reindeer, the elk, the
moose, and the horned bear, and is described as the biped beaver. It
'resembles the beaver of the earth in every other respect than in its
destitution of a tail, and its invariable habit of walking upon only two feet.
It carries its young in its arms like a human being, and moves with an easy
gliding motion. Its huts are constructed better and higher than those of
many tribes of human savages, and, from the appearance of smoke in nearly
all of them, there is no doubt of its being acquainted with the use of fire.
Still, its head and body differ only in the points stated from that of the
beaver; and it was never seen except on the borders of lakes and rivers, in
which it has been observed to immerse for a period of several seconds.'

The next step towards the climax brings us to domestic animals, 'good
large sheep, which would not have disgraced the farms of Leicestershire or
the shambles of Leadenhall Market; we fairly laughed at the recognition of
so familiar an acquaintance in so distant a land. Presently they appeared in
great numbers, and, on reducing the lenses, we found them in flocks over a
great part of the valley. I need not say how desirous we were of finding
shepherds to these flocks, and even a man with blue apron and rolled-up
sleeves would have been a welcome sight to us, if not to the sheep; but they
fed in peace, lords of their own pastures, without either protector or
destroyer in human shape.'

In the meantime, discussion had arisen as to the lunar locality where
men, or creatures resembling them, would most likely be found. Herschel
had a theory on the subject—viz., that just where the balancing or libratory
swing of the moon brings into view the greatest extent beyond the eastern
or western parts of that hemisphere which is turned earthwards in the
moon's mean or average position, lunar inhabitants would probably be
found, and nowhere else. This, by the way (speaking seriously), is a rather
curious anticipation of a view long subsequently advanced by Hansen, and

for a time adopted by Sir J. Herschel, that possibly the remote hemisphere
of the moon may be a fit abode for living creatures, the oceans and
atmosphere which are wanting on the nearer hemisphere having been (on
this hypothesis) drawn over to the remoter because of a displacement of the
moon's centre of gravity. I ventured in one of my first books on astronomy
to indicate objections to this theory, the force of which Sir J. Herschel
admitted in a letter addressed to me on the subject.

Taking, then, an opportunity when the moon had just swung to the
extreme limit of her balancing, or, to use technical terms, when she had
attained her maximum libration in longitude, the observers approached the
level opening to Lake Langrenus, as the narrator calls this fine walled plain,
which, by the way, is fully thirty degrees of lunar longitude within the
average western limit of the moon's visible hemisphere. 'Here the valley
narrows to a mile in width, and displays scenery on both sides picturesque
and romantic beyond the powers of a prose description. Imagination, borne
on the wings of poetry, could alone gather similes to portray the wild
sublimity of this landscape, where dark behemoth crags stood over the
brows of lofty precipices, as if a rampart in the sky; and forests seemed
suspended in mid-air. On the eastern side there was one soaring crag,
crested with trees, which hung over in a curve like three-fourths of a Gothic
arch, and being of a rich crimson colour, its effect was most strange upon
minds unaccustomed to the association of such grandeur with such beauty.
But, whilst gazing upon them in a perspective of about half a mile, we were
thrilled with astonishment to perceive four successive flocks of large
winged creatures, wholly unlike any kind of birds, descend with a slow
even motion from the cliffs on the western side and alight upon the plain.
They were first noticed by Dr. Herschel, who exclaimed: "Now, gentlemen,
my theories against your proofs, which you have often found a pretty even
bet, we have here something worth looking at. I was confident that if ever
we found beings in human shape it would be in this longitude, and that they
would be provided by their Creator with some extraordinary powers of
locomotion." ... We counted three parties of these creatures, of twelve, nine,

and fifteen in each, walking erect towards a small wood near the base of the
eastern precipices. Certainly they were like human beings, for their wings
had now disappeared, and their attitude in walking was both erect and
dignified.... They averaged four feet in height, were covered, except on the
face, with short and glossy copper-coloured hair, lying snugly upon their
backs, from the top of the shoulders to the calves of the legs. The face,
which was of a yellowish flesh colour, was a slight improvement upon that
of the large orang outang, being more open and intelligent in its expression,
and having a much greater expansion of forehead. The mouth, however,
was very prominent, though somewhat relieved by a thick beard upon the
lower jaw, and by lips far more human than those of any species of the
simia genus. In general symmetry of body and limbs they were infinitely
superior to the orang outang; so much so, that, but for their long wings,
Lieutenant Drummond said they would look as well on a parade ground as
some of the old Cockney militia.... These creatures were evidently engaged
in conversation; their gesticulation, more particularly the varied action of
their hands and arms, appeared impassioned and emphatic. We hence
inferred that they were rational beings, and, although not perhaps of so high
an order as others which we discovered the next month on the shores of the
Bay of Rainbows, that they were capable of producing works of art and
contrivance.... They possessed wings of great expansion, similar in
construction to those of the bat, being a semi-transparent membrane united
in curvilinear divisions by means of straight radii, united at the back by the
dorsal integuments. But what astonished us very much was the
circumstance of this membrane being continued from the shoulders to the
legs, united all the way down, though gradually decreasing in width' (very
much as Fuseli depicted the wings of his Satanic Majesty, though H.S.M.
would seem to have the advantage of the lunar Bat-men in not being
influenced by gravity[48]). 'The wings seemed completely under the
command of volition, for those of the creatures whom we saw bathing in
the water spread them instantly to their full width, waved them as ducks do
theirs to shake off the water, and then as instantly closed them again in a
compact form. Our further observation of the habits of these creatures, who

were of both sexes, led to results so very remarkable, that I prefer they
should be first laid before the public in Dr. Herschel's own work, where I
have reason to know they are fully and faithfully stated, however
incredulously they may be received.... We scientifically denominated them
the Vespertilio-homo or Bat-man; and they are doubtless innocent and
happy creatures, notwithstanding that some of their amusements would but
ill comport with our terrestrial notions of decorum.' The omitted passages
were suppressed in obedience to Dr. Grant's private injunction. 'These,
however, and other prohibited passages,' were to be presently 'published by
Dr. Herschel, with the certificates of the civil and military authorities of the
colony, and of several Episcopal, Wesleyan, and other ministers, who in the
month of March last were permitted, under stipulation of temporary
secrecy, to visit the observatory, and become eye-witnesses of the wonders
which they were requested to attest. We are confident that his forthcoming
volumes will be at once the most sublime in science, and the most intense in
general interest, that ever issued from the press.'

The actual climax of the narrative, however, is not yet reached. The
inhabitants of Langrenus, though rational, do not belong to the highest
orders of intelligent Lunarians. Herschel, ever ready with theories, had
pointed out that probably the most cultivated races would be found residing
on the slopes of some active volcano, and, in particular, that the proximity
of the flaming mountain Bullialdus (about twenty degrees south and ten east
of the vast crater Tycho, the centre whence extend those great radiations
which give to the moon something of the appearance of a peeled orange)
'must be so great a local convenience to dwellers in this valley during the
long periodical absence of solar light, as to render it a place of popular
resort for the inhabitants of all the adjacent regions, more especially as its
bulwark of hills afforded an infallible security against any volcanic eruption
that could occur.' Our observers therefore applied their full power to explore
it. 'Rich, indeed, was our reward. The very first object in this valley that
appeared upon our canvas was a magnificent work of art. It was a temple—
a fane of devotion or of science, which, when consecrated to the Creator, is

devotion of the loftiest order, for it exhibits His attributes purely, free from
the masquerade attire and blasphemous caricature of controversial creeds,
and has the seal and signature of His own hand to sanction its aspirations. It
was an equi-angular temple, built of polished sapphire, or of some
resplendent blue stone, which, like it, displayed a myriad point of golden
light twinkling and scintillating in the sunbeams.... The roof was composed
of yellow metal, and divided into three compartments, which were not
triangular planes inclining to the centre, but subdivided, curved, and
separated so as to present a mass of violently agitated flames rising from a
common source of conflagration, and terminating in wildly waving points.
This design was too manifest and too skilfully executed to be mistaken for a
single moment. Through a few openings in these metallic flames we
perceived a large sphere of a darker kind of metal nearly of a clouded
copper colour, which they enclosed and seemingly raged around, as if
hieroglyphically consuming it.... What did the ingenious builders mean by
the globe surrounded by flames? Did they, by this, record any past calamity
of their world, or predict any future one of ours?' (Why, by the way, should
the past theory be assigned to the moon and the future one to our earth?) 'I
by no means despair of ultimately solving not only these but a thousand
other questions which present themselves respecting the objects in this
planet; for not the millionth part of her surface has yet been explored, and
we have been more desirous of collecting the greatest possible number of
new facts than of indulging in speculative theories, however seductive to
the imagination.'

After this we have an account of the behaviour of the Vespertilio-homo
at meals. 'They seemed eminently happy, and even polite; for individuals
would select large and bright specimens of fruit, and throw them archwise
across to some friend who had extracted the nutriment from those scattered
around him.' However, the lunar men are not on the whole particularly
interesting beings according to this account. 'So far as we could judge, they
spent their happy hours in collecting various fruits in the woods, in eating,
flying, bathing, and loitering about the summits of precipices.' One may say

of them what Huxley is reported to have said of the spirits as described by
spiritualists, that no student of science would care to waste his time
inquiring about such a stupid set of people.

Such are the more interesting and characteristic portions of a narrative,
running in the original to forty or fifty large octavo pages. In its day the
story attracted a good deal of notice, and, even when every one had learned
the trick, many were still interested in a brochure which was so cleverly
conceived and had deceived so many. To this day the lunar hoax is talked of
in America, where originally it had its chief—or, one may rather say, its
only real—success as a hoax. It reached England too late to deceive any but
those who were unacquainted with Herschel's real doings, and no editors of
public journals, I believe, gave countenance to it at all. In America, on the
contrary, many editors gave the narrative a distinguished place in their
columns. Some indeed expressed doubts, and others followed the safe
course of the 'Philadelphia Inquirer,' which informed its readers that 'after
an attentive perusal of the whole story they could decide for themselves;'
adding that, 'whether true or false, the narrative is written with consummate
ability and possesses intense interest.' But others were more credulous.
According to the 'Mercantile Advertiser' the story carried 'intrinsic evidence
of being an authentic document.' The 'Albany Daily Advertiser' had read the
article 'with unspeakable emotions of pleasure and astonishment.' The 'New
York Times' announced that 'the writer (Dr. Andrew Grant) displays the
most extensive and accurate knowledge of astronomy; and the description
of Sir John's recently improved instruments, the principle on which the
inestimable improvements were founded, the account of the wonderful
discoveries in the moon, etc., all are probable and plausible, and have an air
of intense verisimilitude.' The 'New Yorker' considered the discoveries 'of
astounding interest, creating a new era in astronomy and science
generally.'[49]

In our time a trick of the kind could hardly be expected to succeed so
well, even if as cleverly devised and as well executed. The facts of popular
astronomy and of general popular science have been more widely

disseminated. America, too, more than any other great nation, has advanced
in the interval. It was about two years after this pamphlet had appeared, that
J. Quincy Adams used the following significant language in advocating the
erection of an astronomical observatory at Washington: 'It is with no feeling
of pride as an American that the remark may be made, that on the
comparatively small territorial surface of Europe there are existing more
than 130 of these lighthouses of the skies; while throughout the whole
American hemisphere there is but one.' At present, some of the finest
observatories in the world belong to American cities, or are attached to
American colleges; and much of the most interesting astronomical work of
this country has been achieved by American observers.

Yet we still hear from time to time of the attempted publication of
hoaxes of greater or less ingenuity. It is singular (and I think significant)
how often these relate to the moon. There would seem to be some charm
about our satellite for the minds of paradoxists and hoaxers generally. Nor
are these tricks invariably detected at once by the general public, or even by
persons of some culture. I remember being gravely asked (in January 1874)
whether an account given in the 'New York World,' purporting to describe
how the moon's frame was gradually cracking, threatening eventually to fall
into several separate fragments, was in reality based on fact. In the far West,
at Lincoln, Nebraska, a lawyer asked me, not long since, why I had not
described the great discoveries recently made by means of a powerful
reflector erected near Paris. According to the 'Chicago Times,' this powerful
instrument had shown buildings in the moon, and bands of workers could
be seen with it who manifestly were undergoing some kind of penal
servitude, for they were chained together. It was clear, from the presence of
these and the absence of other inhabitants, that the side of the moon turned
earthwards is a dreary and unpleasant place of abode, the real 'happy
hunting grounds' of the moon lying on her remote and unseen hemisphere.

As gauges of general knowledge, scientific hoaxes have their uses, just
as paradoxical works have. No one, certainly no student of science, can
thoroughly understand how little some persons know about science, until he

has observed how much will be believed, if only published with the
apparent authority of a few known names, and announced with a sufficient
parade of technical verbiage; nor is it so easy as might be thought, even for
those who are acquainted with the facts, to disprove either a hoax or a
paradox. Nothing, indeed, can much more thoroughly perplex and confound
a student of science than to be asked to prove, for example, that the earth is
not flat, or the moon not inhabited by creatures like ourselves; for the
circumstance that such a question is asked implies ignorance so thorough of
the very facts on which the proof must be based, as to render argument all
but hopeless from the outset. I have had a somewhat wide experience of
paradoxists, and have noted the experience of De Morgan and others who,
like him, have tried to convince them of their folly. The conclusion at which
I have arrived is, that to make a rope of sand were an easy task compared
with the attempt to instil the simpler facts of science into paradoxical heads.

I would make some remarks, in conclusion, upon scientific or quasi-
scientific papers not intended to deceive, but yet presenting imaginary
scenes, events, and so forth, described more or less in accordance with
scientific facts. Imaginary journeys to the sun, moon, planets, and stars;
travels over regions on the earth as yet unexplored; voyages under the sea,
through the bowels of the earth, and other such narratives, may, perhaps, be
sometimes usefully written and read, so long as certain conditions are
fulfilled by the narrator. In the first place, while adopting, to preserve the
unities, the tone of one relating facts which actually occurred, he should not
suffer even the simplest among his readers to lie under the least
misapprehension as to the true nature of the narrative. Again, since of
necessity established facts must in such a narrative appear in company with
the results of more or less probable surmise, the reader should have some
means of distinguishing where fact ends and surmise begins. For example,
in a paper I once wrote, entitled 'A Journey to Saturn,' I was not sufficiently
careful to note that while the appearances described in the approach towards
the planet were in reality based on the observed appearances as higher and
higher telescopic powers are applied to the planet, others supposed to have

been seen by the visitors to Saturn when actually within his system, were
only such as might possibly or probably be seen, but for which we have no
real evidence. In consequence of this omission, I received several inquiries
about these matters. 'Is it true,' some wrote, 'that the small satellite
Hyperion' (scarce discernible in powerful telescopes, while Titan and
Japetus on either side are large) 'is only one of a ring of small satellites
travelling between the orbits of the larger moons?'—as the same planets
travel between the paths of Mars and Jupiter. Others asked on what grounds
it was said that the voyagers found small moons circling about Titan, the
giant moon of the Saturnian system, as the moons of Jupiter and Saturn
circle around those giant members of the solar system. In each case, I was
reduced to the abject necessity of explaining that there was no evidence for
the alleged state of things, which, however, might nevertheless exist.
Scientific fiction which has to be interpreted in that way is as bad as a joke
that has to be explained. In my 'Journey to the Sun' I was more successful
(it was the earlier essay, however); insomuch that Professor Young, of
Dartmouth College (Hanover, N.H.), one of the most skilful solar observers
living, assured me that, with scarcely a single exception, the various
phenomena described corresponded exactly with the ideas he had formed
respecting the probable condition of our luminary.[50]

But I must confess that my own experience has not been, on the whole,
favourable to that kind of popular science writing. It appears to me that the
more thoroughly the writer of such an essay has studied any particular
scientific subject, the less able must he be to write a fictitious narrative
respecting it. Just as those ignorant of any subject are often the readiest to
theorise about it, because least hampered by exact knowledge, so I think
that the careful avoidance of any exact study of the details of a scientific
subject must greatly facilitate the writing of a fictitious narrative respecting
it. But unfortunately a narrative written under such conditions, however
interesting to the general reader, can scarcely forward the propagation of
scientific knowledge, one of the qualities claimed for fables of the kind. As
an instance in point, I may cite Jules Verne's 'Voyage to the Moon,' where

(apart, of course, from the inherent and intentional absurdity of the scheme
itself), the circumstances which are described are calculated to give entirely
erroneous ideas about the laws of motion. Nothing could be more amusing,
but at the same time nothing more scientifically absurd, than the story of the
dead dog Satellite, which, flung out of the travelling projectile, becomes a
veritable satellite, moving always beside the voyagers; for, with whatever
velocity the dog had been expelled by them, with that same velocity would
he have retreated continually from their projectile abode, whose own
attraction on the dog would have had no appreciable effect in checking his
departure. Again, the scene when the projectile reaches the neutral point
between the earth and moon, so that there is no longer any gravity to keep
the travellers on the floor of their travelling car, is well conceived (though,
in part, somewhat profane); but in reality the state of things described as
occurring there would have prevailed throughout the journey. The travellers
would no more be drawn earthwards (as compared with the projectile itself)
than we travellers on the earth are drawn sunwards with reference to the
earth. The earth's attracting force on the projectile and on the travellers
would be equal all through the journey, not solely when the projectile
reached the neutral point; and being equal on both, would not draw them
together. It may be argued that the attractions were equal before the
projectile set out on its journey, and therefore, if the reasoning just given
were correct, the travellers ought not to have had any weight keeping them
on the floor of the projectile before it started, 'which is absurd.' But the
pressure upon the floor of the projectile at rest is caused by the floor being
kept from moving; let it be free to obey gravity, and there will no longer be
any pressure: and throughout the journey to the moon, the projectile, like
the travellers it contains, is obeying the action of gravity. Unfortunately,
those who are able to follow the correct reasoning in such matters are not
those to whom Jules Verne's account would suggest wrong ideas about
matters dynamical; the young learner who is misled by such narratives is
neither able to reason out the matter for himself, nor to understand the true
reasoning respecting it. He is, therefore, apt to be set quite at sea by stories
of the kind, and especially by the specious reasoning introduced to explain

the events described. In fine, it would seem that such narratives must be
valued for their intrinsic interest, just like other novels or romances, not for
the quality sometimes claimed for them of combining instruction with
amusement.

X.
ON SOME ASTRONOMICAL PARADOXES.

For many years the late Professor De Morgan contributed to the columns of
the 'Athenæum' a series of papers in which he dealt with the strange
treatises in which the earth is flattened, the circle squared, the angle divided
into three, the cube doubled (the famous problem which the Delphic oracle
set astronomers), and the whole of modern astronomy shown to be a
delusion and a snare. He treated these works in a quaint fashion: not
unkindly, for his was a kindly nature; not even earnestly, though he was
thoroughly in earnest; yet in such sort as to rouse the indignation of the
unfortunate paradoxists. He was abused roundly for what he said, but much
more roundly when he declined further controversy. Paradoxists of the
ignorant sort (for it must be remembered that not all are ignorant) are,
indeed, well practised in abuse, and have long learned to call
mathematicians and astronomers cheats and charlatans. They freely used
their vocabulary for the benefit of De Morgan, whom they denounced as a
scurrilous scribbler, a defamatory, dishonest, abusive, ungentlemanly, and
libellous trickster.

He bore this shower of abuse with exceeding patience and good nature.
He had not been wholly unprepared for it, in fact; and, as he had a purpose
in dealing with the paradoxists, he was satisfied to continue that quiet
analysis of their work which so roused their indignation. He found in them
a curious subject of study; and he found an equally curious subject of study
in their disciples. The simpler—not to say more foolish—paradoxists,

whose wonderful discoveries are merely amazing misapprehensions, were
even more interesting to De Morgan than the craftier sort who make a
living, or try to make a living, out of their pretended theories. Indeed, these
last he treated, as they deserved, with a scathing satire quite different from
his humorous and not ungenial comments on the wonderful theories of the
honest paradoxists.

There is one special use to which the study of paradox-literature may be
applied, which—so far as I know—has not hitherto been much attended to.
It may be questioned whether half the strange notions into which
paradoxists fall must not be ascribed to the vagueness of too many of our
scientific treatises. A half-understood explanation, or a carelessly worded
account of some natural phenomenon, leads the paradoxist, whose nature is
compounded of conceit and simplicity, to originate a theory of his own on
the subject. Once such a theory has been devised, it takes complete
possession of the paradoxist's mind. All the facts of which he thenceforward
hears, which bear in the least on his favourite craze, appear to give evidence
in its favour, even though in reality they are most obviously opposed to it.
He learns to look upon himself as an unappreciated Newton, and to see the
bitterest malevolence in those who venture to question his preposterous
notions. He is fortunate if he do not suffer his theories to withdraw him
from his means of earning a livelihood, or if he do not waste his substance
in propounding and defending them.

One of the favourite subjects for paradox-forming is the accepted theory
of the solar system. Our books on astronomy too often present this theory in
such sort that it seems only a successor of Ptolemy's; and the impression is
conveyed that, like Ptolemy's, it may be one day superseded by some other
theory. This is quite enough for the paradoxist. If a new theory is to replace
the one now accepted, why should not he be the new Copernicus? He starts
upon the road without a tithe of the knowledge that old Ptolemy possessed,
unaware of the difficulties which Ptolemy met and dealt with—free,
therefore, because of his perfect ignorance, to form theories at which
Ptolemy would have smiled. He has probably heard of the

centrics and eccentrics scribbled o'er
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb,

which disfigured the theories of the ancients; but he is quite unconscious
that every one of those scribblings had a real meaning, each being intended
to account for some observed peculiarity of planetary motion, which must
be accounted for by any theory which is to claim acceptance. In this happy
unconsciousness that there are any peculiarities requiring explanation,
knowing nothing of the strange paths which the planets are seen to follow
on the heavenly vault,
Their wand'ring course now high, now low, then hid,
Progressive, retrograde, or standing still,

he placidly puts forward—and presently very vehemently urges—a
theory which accounts for none of these things.

It has often seemed to me that a large part of the mischief—for let it be
remembered that the published errors of the paradoxist are indicative of
much unpublished misapprehension—arises from the undeserved contempt
with which our books of astronomy too often treat the labours of Ptolemy,
Tycho Brahe, and others who advocated erroneous theories. If the simple
truth were told, that the theory of Ptolemy was a masterpiece of ingenuity
and that it was worked out by his followers in a way which merits the
highest possible praise, while the theory of Tycho Brahe was placed in
reality on a sounder basis than that of Copernicus, and accounted as well
and as simply for observed appearances, the student would begin to realise
the noble nature of the problem which those great astronomers dealt with.
And again, if stress were laid upon the fact that Tycho Brahe devoted years
upon years of his life to secure such observations of the planets as might
settle the questions at issue, the student would learn something of the spirit
in which the true lover of science proceeds.

It seems to me, also, that far too little is said about the kind of work by
which Kepler and Newton finally established the accepted theories. There is
a strange charm in the history of those twenty years of Kepler's life during

which he was analysing the observations made by Tycho Brahe. Surrounded
with domestic trials and anxieties, which might well have claimed his
whole attention, tried grievously by ill-health and bodily anguish, he
laboured all those years upon erroneous theories. The very worst of these
had infinitely more evidence in its favour than the best which the
paradoxists have brought forth. There was not one of those theories which
nine out of ten of his scientific contemporaries would not have accepted
ungrudgingly. Yet he wrought these theories one after another to their own
disproof. Nineteen of them he tried and rejected—the twentieth was the true
theory of the solar system. Perhaps nothing in the whole history of
astronomy affords a nobler lesson to the student of science—unless, indeed,
it be the calm philosophy with which Newton for eighteen years suffered
the theory of the universe to remain in abeyance, because faulty
measurements of the earth prevented his calculations from agreeing with
observed facts. But, as Professor Tyndall has well remarked—and the
paradoxist should lay the lesson well to heart—'Newton's action in this
matter was the normal action of the scientific mind. If it were otherwise—if
scientific men were not accustomed to demand verification, if they were
satisfied with the imperfect while the perfect is attainable—their science,
instead of being, as it is, a fortress of adamant, would be a house of clay, ill
fitted to bear the buffetings of the theologic storms to which it has been
from time to time, and is at present, exposed.'

The fame of Newton has proved to many paradoxists an irresistible
attraction; it has been to these unfortunates as the candle to the fluttering
moth. Circle-squaring, as we shall presently see, has had its attractions, nor
have earth-fixing and earth-flattening been neglected; but attacking the law
of gravitation has been the favourite work of paradoxists. Newton has been
praised as surpassing the whole human race in genius; mathematicians and
astronomers have agreed to laud him as unequalled; why should not
Paradoxus displace him and be praised in like manner? It would be unfair,
perhaps, to say that the paradoxist consciously argues thus. He doubtless in
most instances convinces himself that he has really detected some flaw in

the theory of gravitation. Yet it is impossible not to recognise, as the real
motive of every paradox-monger, the desire to have that said of him which
has been said of Newton: 'Genus humanum ingenio superavit.'

I remember a curious instance of this which occurred soon after the
appearance of the comet of 1858. It chanced that, while that object was
under discussion, reference was made to the action of a repulsive force
exerted by the sun upon the matter of the comet's tail. On this, some one
addressed a long letter to a Glasgow newspaper, announcing that he had
long ago proved that the sun's attraction alone is insufficient to account for
the planetary motions. His reasoning was amazingly simple. If the sun's
attraction is powerful enough to keep the outer planets in their course, it
must be too powerful for Venus and Mercury close by the sun; if it only just
suffices to keep these in their course, it cannot possibly be powerful enough
to restrain the outer planets. The writer of this letter said that he had been
very badly treated by scientific bodies. He had announced his discovery to
the Royal Astronomical Society, the Royal Society, the Imperial Academy
at Paris, and other scientific bodies; but they had one and all refused to
listen to him. He had forsaken or neglected his trade for several years in
order to give attention to the new and (as he thought) the true theory of the
universe. He complained in a specially bitter manner of the unfavourable
comments which men of science had made upon his views in private letters
addressed to him in reply to his communications.

There is something melancholy even in what is most ridiculous in cases
of this sort. The simplicity which supposes that considerations so obvious as
those adduced could escape the scrutiny, not of Newton only, but of all who
have followed in the same track during two centuries, is certainly
stupendous; nor can one fail to smile at seeing a difficulty, such as might
naturally suggest itself to a beginner, and such as half-a-dozen words from
an expert would clear up, regarded gravely as a discovery calculated to
make its author famous for all time. Yet, when one considers the probable
consequences of the blunder to the unhappy enthusiast, and perchance to his
family, it is difficult not to feel a sense of pity, quite apart from that pity

allied to contempt which is excited by his mistake. A few words added to
the account of Newton's theory, which the paradoxist had probably read in
some astronomical treatise, would have prevented all this mischief. Indeed,
this difficulty, which, as we have said, is a natural one, should be dealt with
and removed in any account of the planetary system intended for beginners.
The simple statement that the outer planets move more slowly than the
inner, and so require a smaller force to keep them in their course, would
have sufficed, not, perhaps, altogether to remove the difficulty, but to show
the beginner where the explanation was to be looked for.

It was in connection with this subject of gravitation that one of the most
well-meaning of the paradoxists—the late Mr. James Reddie—came under
Professor De Morgan's criticism. Mr. Reddie was something more than
well-meaning. He was earnestly desirous of advancing the interests of
science, as well as of defending religion from what he mistakenly supposed
to be the dangerous teachings of the Newtonians. He founded for these
purposes the Victoria Institute, of which society he was the secretary from
the time of its institution until his decease, some years since; and, probably,
many who declined to join that society because of the Anti-Newtonian
proclivities of its secretary, were unaware that to that secretary the institute
owed its existence.

It so chanced that I had myself a good deal of correspondence with Mr.
Reddie (who was, however, personally unknown to me). This
correspondence served to throw quite a new light on the mental habitudes
and ways of thinking of the honest paradoxist. I believe that Professor De
Morgan hardly gave Mr. Reddie credit for the perfect honesty which he
really possessed. It may have been that a clear reasoner like De Morgan
could hardly (despite his wide experience) appreciate the confusion of mind
which is the normal characteristic of the paradoxist. But certainly the very
candid way in which Mr. Reddie admitted, in the correspondence above
named, that he had not known some facts and had misunderstood others,
afforded to my mind the most satisfactory proofs of his straightforwardness.

It may be instructive to consider a few of those paradoxes of Mr.
Reddie's which Professor De Morgan found chief occasion to pulverise.

In a letter to the Astronomer-Royal Mr. Reddie announced that he was
about to write 'a paper intended to be hereafter published, elaborating more
minutely and discussing more rigidly than before the glaring fallacies,
dating from the time of Newton, relating to the motion of the moon.' He
proceeded to 'indicate the nature of the issues he intended to raise.' He had
discovered that the moon does not, as a matter of fact, go round the earth at
the rate of 2288 miles an hour, as astronomers say, but follows an
undulatory path round the sun at a rate varying between 65,000 and 70,000
miles an hour; because, while the moon seems to go round the earth, the
latter is travelling onwards at the rate of 67,500 miles an hour round the
sun. Of course he was quite right in his facts, and quite wrong in his
inferences; as the Astronomer-Royal pointed out in a brief letter, closing
with the remark that, 'as a very closely occupied man,' Mr. Airy could 'not
enter further into the matter.' But further Mr. Reddie persisted in going,
though he received no more letters from Greenwich. His reply to Sir G.
Airy contained, in fact, matter enough for a small pamphlet.

Now here was certainly an amazing fact. A well-known astronomical
relation, which astronomers have over and over again described and
explained, is treated as though it were something which had throughout all
ages escaped attention. It is not here the failure to comprehend the rationale
of a simple explanation which is startling, but the notion that an obvious
fact had been wholly overlooked.

Of like nature was the mistake which brought Mr. Reddie more
especially under Professor De Morgan's notice. It is known that the sun,
carrying with him his family of planets, is speeding swiftly through space—
his velocity being estimated as probably not falling short of 20,000 miles
per hour. It follows, of course, that the real paths of the planets in space are
not closed curves, but spirals of different orders. How, then, can the theory
of Copernicus be right, according to which the planets circle in closed orbits

round the sun? Here was Mr. Reddie's difficulty; and like the other, it
appeared to his mind as a great discovery. He was no whit concerned by the
thought that astronomers ought surely to have noticed the difficulty before.
It did not seem in the least wonderful that he, lightly reading a book or two
of popular astronomy, should discover that which Laplace, the Herschels,
Leverrier, Airy, Adams, and a host of others, who have given their whole
lives to astronomy, had failed to notice. Accordingly, Mr. Reddie forwarded
to the British Association (in session at Newcastle) a paper controverting
the theory of the sun's motion. The paper was declined with thanks by that
bigoted body 'as opposed to Newtonian astronomy.' 'That paper I published,'
says Mr. Reddie, 'in September 1863, with an appendix, in both thoroughly
exhibiting the illogical reasoning and absurdities involved in the theory; and
with what result? The members of Section A of the British Association, and
Fellows of the Royal Society and of the Royal Astronomical Society, to
whom I sent copies of my paper, were, without exception, dumb.' Professor
De Morgan, however, having occasion to examine Mr. Reddie's
publications some time after, was in no sort dumb, but in very plain and
definite terms exhibited their absurdity. After all, however, the real
absurdity consisted, not in the statements which Mr. Reddie made, nor even
in the conclusions which he drew from them, but in the astounding
simplicity which could suppose that astronomers were unaware of the facts
which their own labours had revealed.

In my correspondence with Mr. Reddie I recognised the real source of
the amazing self-complacency displayed by the true paradoxist. The very
insufficiency of the knowledge which a paradoxist possesses of his subject,
affords the measure of his estimate of the care with which other men have
studied that subject. Because the paradoxist is ready to pronounce an
opinion about matters he has not studied, it does not seem strange to him
that Newton and his followers should be equally ready to discuss subjects
they had not inquired into.

Another very remarkable instance was afforded by Mr. Reddie's
treatment of the subject of comets. And here, by the way, I shall quote a

remark made by Sir John Herschel soon after the appearance of the comet
of 1861. 'I have received letters,' he said, 'about the comets of the last few
years, enough to make one's hair stand on end at the absurdity of the
theories they propose, and at the ignorance of the commonest laws of
optics, of motion, of heat, and of general physics, they betray in their
writers.' In the present instance, the correspondence showed that the
paradoxist supposed the parabolic paths of some comets to be regarded by
astronomers as analogous to the parabolic paths traversed by projectiles. He
expressed considerable astonishment when I informed him that, in the first
place, projectiles do not travel on truly parabolic paths; and secondly, that
in all respects their motion differs essentially from that which astronomers
ascribe to comets. These last move more and more quickly until they reach
what is called the vertex of the parabola (the point of such a path which lies
nearest to the sun): projectiles, on the contrary, move more and more slowly
as they approach the corresponding point of their path; and further, the
comet first approaches and then recedes from the centre of attraction—the
projectile first recedes from and then approaches the attracting centre.

The earth-flatteners form a considerable section of the paradoxical
family. They experienced a practical rebuff, a few years since, which should
to some degree have shaken their faith in the present chief of their order. To
do this chief justice, he is probably far less confident about the flatness of
the earth than any of his disciples. Under the assumed name of Parallax he
visited most of the chief towns of England, propounding what he calls his
system of zetetic astronomy. Why he should call himself Parallax it would
be hard to say; unless it be that the verb from which the word is derived
signifies primarily to shift about or dodge, and secondarily to alter a little,
especially for the worse. His employment of the word zetetic is less
doubtful, as he claims for his system that it alone is founded on the true
seeking out of Nature's secrets.

The experimental basis of the theory of Parallax is mainly this: Having
betaken himself to a part of the Bedford Canal, where there is an

uninterrupted water-line of about six miles, he tested the water surface for
signs of curvature, and (as he said) found none.

It chanced, unfortunately, that a disciple—Mr. John Hampden, of
Swindon—accepted the narrative of this observation in an unquestioning
spirit; and was so confident that the Bedford Canal has a truly plane
surface, that he wagered five hundred pounds on his opinion, challenging
the believers in the earth's rotundity to repeat the experiment. The challenge
was accepted by Mr. Wallace, the eminent naturalist; and the result may be
anticipated. Three boats were to be moored in a line, three miles or so
between each. Each carried a mast of given length. If, when the summits of
the first and last masts were seen in a line through a telescope, the summit
of the middle mast was not found to be above the line, then Mr. Hampden
was to receive five hundred pounds from Mr. Wallace. If, on the contrary,
the top of the middle mast was found, as the accepted theory said it should
be, to be several feet above the line joining the tops of the two outer masts,
then Mr. Hampden was to lose the five hundred pounds he had so rashly
ventured. Everything was conducted in accordance with the arrangements
agreed upon. The editor of a well-known sporting paper acted as
stakeholder, and unprejudiced umpires were to decide as to what actually
was seen through the telescope. It need scarcely be said that the accepted
theory held its own, and that Mr. Hampden lost his money. He scarcely bore
the loss with so good a grace as was to have been expected from a
philosopher merely desirous of ascertaining the truth. His wrath was not
expended on Parallax, whom he might have suspected of having led him
astray; nor does he seem to have been angry with himself, as would have
seemed natural. All his anger was reserved for those who still continued to
believe in the earth's rotundity. Whether he believed that the Bedford water
had risen under the middle boat to oblige Mr. Wallace, or how it came to
pass that his own chosen experiment had failed him, does not appear.

The subsequent history of this matter has been unpleasant. It illustrates,
unfortunately but too well, the mischief which may ensue from the tricks of
those who make a trade of paradox—tricks which would be scarce possible,

however, if text-books of science were more carefully written, and by those
only who are really acquainted with the subject of which they treat.

The book which originally led to Mr. Hampden's misfortunes, and has
misled not a few, ought to have deceived none. I have already mentioned
the statement on which Parallax (whose true name is Rowbotham) rested
his theory. Of course, if that statement had been true—if he had, with his
eye a few inches from the surface of the water of the Bedford Canal, seen
an object close to the surface six miles from him—there manifestly would
have been something wrong in the accepted theory about the earth's
rotundity. So, also, if a writer were to announce a new theory of gravity,
stating as the basis of his theory that a heavy missile which he had thrown
into the air had gone upwards on a serpentine course to the moon, any one
who accepted the statement would be logically bound to admit at least that
the fact described was inconsistent with the accepted theory. But no one
would accept such a statement; and no one should have accepted Mr.
Rowbotham's statement.

His statement was believed, however, and perhaps is still believed by
many. Twenty years ago De Morgan wrote that 'the founder of the zetetic
astronomy gained great praise from provincial newspapers for his ingenuity
in proving that the earth is a flat, surrounded by ice,' with the north polar ice
in the middle. 'Some of the journals rather incline to this view; but the
"Leicester Advertiser" thinks that the statement "would seem to invalidate
some of the most important conclusions of modern astronomy;" while the
"Norfolk Herald" is clear that "there must be great error on one side or the
other." ... The fact is worth noting that from 1849–1857 arguments on the
roundness or flatness of the earth did itinerate. I have no doubt they did
much good, for very few persons have any distinct idea of the evidence for
the rotundity of the earth. The "Blackburn Standard" and "Preston
Guardian" (December 12 and 16, 1849) unite in stating that the lecturer ran
away from his second lecture at Burnley, having been rather too hard
pressed, at the end of his first lecture, to explain why the large hull of a ship
disappeared before the masts. The persons present and waiting for the

second lecture assuaged their disappointment by concluding that the
lecturer had slipped off the ice edge of his flat disc, and that he would not
be seen again till he peeped up on the opposite side.' ... 'The zetetic system,'
proceeds De Morgan, 'still lives in lectures and books; as it ought to do, for
there is no way of teaching a truth comparable to opposition. The last I
heard of it was in lectures at Plymouth, in October 1864. Since this time a
prospectus has been issued of a work entitled "The Earth not a Globe;" but
whether it has been published I do not know.'

The book was published soon after the above was written, and De
Morgan gives the following quaint account of it: 'August 28, 1865. The
zetetic astronomy has come into my hands. When in 1851 I went to see the
Great Exhibition I heard an organ played by a performer who seemed very
desirous of exhibiting one particular stop. "What do you think of that stop?"
I was asked. "That depends on the name of it," said I "Oh! what can the
name of it have to do with the sound? 'that which we call a rose,' etc." "The
name has everything to do with it: if it be a flute stop I think it very harsh;
but if it be a railway-whistle stop, I think it very sweet." So as to this book:
if it be childish, it is clever; if it be mannish, it is unusually foolish. The flat
earth floating tremulously on the sea; the sun moving always over the flat,
giving day when near enough, and night when too far off; the self-luminous
moon, with a semi-transparent invisible moon created to give her an eclipse
now and then; the new law of perspective, by which the vanishing of the
hull before the masts, usually thought to prove the earth globular, really
proves it flat;—all these and other things are well fitted to form exercises
for a person who is learning the elements of astronomy. The manner in
which the sun dips into the sea, especially in tropical climates, upsets the
whole. Mungo Park, I think, gives an African hypothesis which explains
phenomena better than this. The sun dips into the Western ocean, and the
people there cut him in pieces, fry him in a pan, and then join him together
again; take him round the under way, and set him up in the East. I hope this
book will be read, and that many will be puzzled by it; for there are many
whose notions of astronomy deserve no better fate. There is no subject on

which there is so little accurate conception as on that of the motions of the
heavenly bodies.[51] The author, though confident in the extreme, neither
impeaches the honesty of those whose opinion he assails, nor allots them
any future inconvenience: in these points he is worthy to live on a globe and
to rotate in twenty-four hours.'

I chanced to reside near Plymouth when Mr. Rowbotham lectured there
in October 1864. It will readily be understood that, in a town where there
are so many naval men, his lectures were not altogether so successful as
they have sometimes been in small inland towns. Numbers of naval
officers, however, who were thoroughly well assured of the fact that the
earth is a globe, were not able to demolish the crafty arguments of Parallax
publicly, during the discussions which he challenged at the close of each
lecture. He was too skilled in that sort of evasion which his assumed name
(as interpreted by Liddell and Scott) suggests, to be readily cornered. When
an argument was used which he could not easily meet, or seem to meet, he
would say simply: 'Well, sir, you have now had your fair share of the
discussion; let some one else have his turn.' It was stated in the newspapers
that one of his audience was so wrathful with the lecturer on account of
these evasions, that he endeavoured to strike Parallax with a knobbed stick
at the close of the second lecture; but probably there was no real foundation
for the story.

Mr. Rowbotham did a very bold thing, however, at Plymouth. He
undertook to prove, by observations made with a telescope upon the
Eddystone Lighthouse from the Hoe and from the beach, that the surface of
the water is flat. From the beach usually only the lantern can be seen. From
the Hoe the whole of the lighthouse is visible under favourable conditions.
Duly on the morning appointed, Mr. Rowbotham appeared. From the Hoe a
telescope was directed towards the lighthouse, which was well seen, the
morning being calm and still, and tolerably clear. On descending to the
beach it was found that, instead of the whole lantern being visible as usual,
only half could be seen—a circumstance doubtless due to the fact that the
air's refractive power, which usually diminishes the dip due to the earth's

curvature by about one-sixth part, was less efficient that morning than
usual. The effect of the peculiarity was manifestly unfavourable to Mr.
Rowbotham's theory. The curvature of the earth produced a greater
difference than usual between the appearance of a distant object as seen
from a certain high station and from a certain low station (though still the
difference fell short of that which would be shown if there were no air). But
Parallax claimed the peculiarity observable that morning as an argument in
favour of his flat earth. It is manifest, he said, that there is something wrong
about the accepted theory; for it tells us that so much less of the lighthouse
should be seen from the beach than from the Hoe, whereas less still was
seen. And many of the Plymouth folk went away from the Hoe that
morning, and from the second lecture, in which Parallax triumphantly
quoted the results of the observation, with the feeling which had been
expressed seven years before in the 'Leicester Advertiser,' that 'some of the
most important conclusions of modern astronomy had been seriously
invalidated.' If our books of astronomy, in referring to the effects of the
earth's curvature, had only been careful to point out how surveyors and
sailors and those who build lighthouses take into account the modifying
effects of atmospheric refraction, and how these effects have long been
known to vary with the temperature and pressure of the air, this mischief
would have been avoided. It would not be fair to say of the persons misled
on that occasion by Parallax that they deserved no better; since the fault is
not theirs as readers, but that of careless or ill-informed writers.

Another experiment conducted by Parallax the same morning was
creditable to his ingenuity. Nothing better, perhaps, was ever devised to
deceive people, apparently by ocular evidence, into the belief that the earth
is flat—nor is there any clearer evidence of the largeness of the earth's
globe compared with our ordinary measures. On the Hoe, some ninety or a
hundred feet above the sea-level, he had a mirror suspended in a vertical
position facing the sea, and invited the bystanders to look in that mirror at
the sea-horizon. To all appearance the line of the horizon corresponded
exactly with the level of the eye-pupils of the observer. Now, of course,

when we look into a mirror whose surface is exactly vertical, the line of
sight to the eye-pupils of our image in the mirror is exactly horizontal;
whereas the line of sight from the eyes to the image of the sea-horizon is
depressed exactly as much as the line from the eyes to the real sea-horizon.
Here, then, seemed to be proof positive that there is no depression of the
sea-horizon; for the horizontal line to the image of the eye-pupil seemed to
coincide exactly with the line to the image of the sea-horizon. It is not
necessary to suppose here that the mirror was wrongly adjusted, though the
slightest error of adjustment would affect the result either favourably or
unfavourably for Parallax's flat-earth theory. It is a matter of fact that, if the
mirror were perfectly vertical, only very acute vision could detect the
depression of the image of the sea-horizon below the image of the eye-
pupil. The depression can easily be calculated for any given circumstances.
Parallax encouraged observers to note very closely the position of the eye-
pupil in the image, so that most of them approached the image within about
ten inches, or the glass within about five. Now, in such a case, for a height
of one hundred feet above the sea-level the image of the sea-horizon would
be depressed below the image of the eye-pupil by less than three hundredths
of an inch—an amount which could not be detected by one eye in a
hundred. The average diameter of the pupil itself is one-fifth of an inch, or
about seven times as great as the depression of the sea-horizon in the case
supposed. It would require very close observation and a good eye to
determine whether a horizontal line seen on either side of the head were on
the level of the centres of the eye-pupils, or lower by about one-seventh of
the breadth of either pupil.

The experiment is a pretty one, however, and well worth trying by any
one who lives near to the sea-shore and sea-cliffs. But there is a much more
effective experiment which can be much more easily tried—only it is open
to the disadvantage that it at once demolishes the argument of our friend
Parallax. It occurred to me while I was writing the above paragraph. Let a
very small mirror (it need not be larger than a sixpence) be so suspended to
a small support and so weighted that when left to itself it hangs with its face

perfectly vertical—an arrangement which any competent optician will
easily secure—and let a fine horizontal line or several horizontal lines be
marked on the mirror; which, by the way, should be a metallic one, as its
indications will then be altogether more trustworthy. This mirror can be put
into the waistcoat pocket and conveniently carried to much greater height
than the mirror used by Parallax. Now, at some considerable height—say
five or six hundred feet above the sea-level, but a hundred or even fifty will
suffice—look into this small mirror while facing the sea. The true horizon
will then be seen to be visibly below the centre of the eye-pupil—visibly in
this case because the horizontal line traced on the mirror can be made to
coincide with the sea-horizon exactly, and will then be found not to
coincide with the centre of the eye-pupil. Such an instrument could be
readily made to show the distance of the sea-horizon, which at once
determines the height of the observer above the sea-level. For this purpose
all that would be necessary would be a means of placing the eye at some
definite distance from the small mirror, and a fine vertical scale on the
mirror to show the exact depression of the sea-horizon. For balloonists such
an instrument would sometimes be useful, as showing the elevation
independently of the barometer, whenever any portion of the sea-horizon
was in view.

The mention of balloon experiences leads me to another delusive
argument of the earth-flatteners.[52] It has been the experience of all
aeronauts that, as the balloon rises, the appearance of the earth is by no
means what would be expected from the familiar teachings in our books of
astronomy. There is a picture in most of these books representing the effect
of ascent above the sea-level in depressing the line of sight to the horizon,
and bringing more and more into view the convexity of the earth's globe.
One would suppose, from the picture, that when an observer is at a great
height the earth would appear to rise under him, like some great round and
well-curved shield whose convexity was towards him. Instead of this, the
aeronaut finds the earth presenting the appearance of a great hollow basin,
or of the concave side of a well-curved shield. The horizon seems to rise as

he rises, while the earth beneath him sinks lower and lower. A somewhat
similar phenomenon may be noted when, after ascending the landward side
of a high cliff, we come suddenly upon a view of the sea—invariably the
sea-horizon is higher than we expected to find it. Only, in this case, the
surface of the sea seems to rise from the beach below towards the distant
horizon convexly not concavely; the reason of which I take to be this, that
the waves, and especially long rollers or uniform large ripples, teach the eye
to form true conceptions of the shape of the sea-surface even when the eye
is deceived as to the position of the sea-horizon. Indeed, I should much like
to know what would be the appearance of the sea from a balloon when no
land was in sight (though I do not particularly wish to make the observation
myself): the convexity discernible, for the reason just named, would
contend strangely with the concavity imagined, for the reason now to be
indicated.

The deception arises from the circumstance that the scene displayed
below and around the balloon is judged by the eye from the experience of
more familiar scenes. The horizon is depressed, but so little that the eye
cannot detect the depression, especially where the boundary of the horizon
is irregular. It is here that the text-book pictures mislead; for they show the
depression as far too great to be overlooked, setting the observer sometimes
about two thousand miles above the sea-level. The eye, then, judges the
horizon to be where it usually is—on the same level as the observer; but
looking downwards, the eye perceives, and at once appreciates if it does not
even exaggerate, the great depth at which the earth lies below the balloon.
The appearance, then, as judged by the eye, is that of a mighty basin whose
edge rises up all round to the level of the balloon, while its bottom lies two
or three miles or more below the balloon.

The zetetic faithful reason about this matter as though the impressions of
the senses were trustworthy under all conditions, familiar or otherwise;
whereas, in point of fact, we know that the senses often deceive, even under
familiar conditions, and almost always deceive under conditions, which are
not familiar. A person, for example, accustomed to the mist and haze of our

British air, is told by the sense of sight, when he is travelling where a
clearer atmosphere prevails, that a mountain forty miles from him is a hill a
few miles away. On the other hand, an Italian travelling through the
Highlands is impressed with the belief that all the features of the scenery
are much larger (because he supposes them much more remote) than they
really are. A hundred such instances of deception might easily be cited. The
conditions under which the aeronaut observes the earth are certainly less
familiar than those under which the Briton views the Alps and Apennines,
or the Italian views Ben Lomond or Ben Lawers. It would be rash,
therefore, even if no other evidence were available, to reject the faith that
the earth is a globe because, as seen from a balloon, it looks like a basin.
Indeed, to be strictly logical, the followers of Parallax ought on this account
to adopt the faith that the earth is not flat, but basin-shaped, which hitherto
they have not been ready to do.

We have seen that Parallax describes a certain experiment on the
Bedford Level, which, if made as he states, would have shown certainly that
something was wrong in the accepted system—for a six-mile straight-edge
along water would be as severe a blow to the belief in a round earth, as a
straight line on the sea-surface from Queenstown to New York. Another
curious experiment adorns his little book, which, if it could be repeated
successfully before a dozen trustworthy witnesses, would rather astonish
men of science. Having, he says, by certain reasoning—altogether
erroneous, but that is a detail—convinced himself that, on the accepted
theory, a bullet fired vertically upwards ought to fall far to the west of the
place whence it was fired, he carefully fixed an air-gun in a vertical
position, and fired forty bullets vertically upwards. All these fell close to the
gun—which is not surprising, though it must have made such an experiment
rather dangerous; but two fell back into the barrel itself—which certainly
was very surprising indeed. One might fairly challenge the most
experienced gunner in the world to achieve one such vertical shot in a
thousand trials; two in forty bordered on the miraculous.

The earth-flatteners I have been speaking of claim, as one of their
objects, the defence of Scripture. But some of the earth-flatteners of the last
generation (or a little farther back) took quite another view of the matter.
For instance, Sir Richard Phillips, a more vehement earth-flattener than
Parallax, was so little interested in defending the Scriptures, that in 1793 he
was sentenced to a year's imprisonment for selling a book regarded as
atheistic. In 1836 he attempted the conversion of Professor De Morgan,
opening the correspondence with the remark that he had 'an inveterate
abhorrence of all the pretended wisdom of philosophy derived from the
monks and doctors of the Middle Ages, and not less those of higher name
who merely sought to make the monkish philosophy more plausible, or so
to disguise it as to mystify the mob of small thinkers.' He seems himself to
have succeeded in mystifying many of those whom he intended to convert.
Admiral Smyth gives the following account of an interview he had with
Phillips: 'This pseudo-mathematical knight once called upon me at Bedford,
without any previous acquaintance, to discuss "those errors of Newton,
which he almost blushed to name," and which were inserted in the
"Principia" to "puzzle the vulgar." He sneered with sovereign contempt at
the "Trinity of Gravitating Force, Projectile Force, and Void Space," and
proved that all change of place is accounted for by motion.' [Startling
hypothesis!] 'He then exemplified the conditions by placing some pieces of
paper on a table, and slapping his hand down close to them, thus making
them fly off, which he termed applying the momentum. All motion, he said,
is in the direction of the forces; and atoms seek the centre by "terrestrial
centripetation"—a property which causes universal pressure; but in what
these attributes of pushing and pulling differ from gravitation and attraction
was not expounded. Many of his "truths" were as mystified as the
conundrums of Rabelais; so nothing was made of the motion.'

A favourite subject of paradoxical ideas has been the moon's motion of
rotation. Strangely enough, De Morgan, who knew more about past
paradoxists than any man of his time, seems not to have heard of the dispute
between Keill and Bentley over this matter in 1690. He says, 'there was a

dispute on the subject, in 1748, between James Ferguson and an anonymous
opponent; and I think there have been others;' but the older and more
interesting dispute he does not mention. Bentley, who was no
mathematician, pointed out in a lecture certain reasons for believing that the
moon does not turn on her axis, or has no axis on which she turns. Keill,
then only nineteen years old, pointed out that the arguments used by
Bentley proved that the moon does rotate instead of showing that she does
not. (Twenty years later Keill was appointed Savilian Professor of
Astronomy at Oxford. He was the first holder of that office to teach the
Newtonian astronomy.)

In recent times, as most of my readers know, the paradox that the moon
does not rotate has been revived more than once. In 1855 it was sustained
by Mr. Jellinger Symons, one of whose staunchest supporters, Mr. H.
Perigal, had commenced the attack a few years earlier. Of course, the gist of
the argument against the moon's rotation lies in the fact that the moon
always keeps the same face turned towards the earth, or very nearly so. If
she did so exactly, and if her distance from the earth were constantly the
same, then her motion would be exactly the same as though she were
rigidly connected with the earth, and turned round an axis at the earth. The
case may be thus illustrated: Through the middle of a large orange thrust
one short rod vertically, and another long rod horizontally; thrust the further
end of the latter through a small apple, and now turn the whole affair round
the short vertical rod as an axis. Then the apple will move with respect to
the orange as the moon would move with respect to the earth on the
suppositions just made. No one in this case would say that the apple was
turning round on its axis, since its motion would be one of rotation round
the upright axis through the orange. Therefore, say the opponents of the
moon's rotation, no one should say that the moon turns round on her axis.

Of course, the answer would be obvious even if the moon's motions
were as supposed. The moon is not connected with the earth as the apple is
with the orange in the illustrative case. If the apple, without rigid
connection with the orange, were carried round the orange so as to move

precisely as if it were so connected, it would unquestionably have to rotate
on its axis, as any one will find who may try the experiment. Thus for the
straight rod thrust through the apple substitute a straight horizontal bar
carrying a small basin of water in which the apple floats. Sway the bar
steadily and slowly round, and it will be found (if a mark is placed on the
apple) that the apple no longer keeps the same face towards the centre of
motion; but that, to cause it to do so, a slow motion of rotation must be
communicated to the apple in the same direction and at the same rate
(neglecting the effects of the friction of the water against the sides of the
basin) as the bar is rotating. In my 'Treatise on the Moon' I have described
and pictured a simple apparatus by which this experiment may easily be
made.

But, of course, such experiments are not essential to the argument by
which the paradox is overthrown. This argument simply is, that the moon as
she travels on her orbit round the sun—the real centre of her motion—turns
every part of her equator in succession towards him once in a lunar month.
At the time of new moon the sun illuminates the face of the moon turned
from us; at the time of full moon he illuminates the face which has been
gradually brought round to him as the moon has passed through her first
two quarters. As she passes onwards to new moon again, the face we see is
gradually turned from him until he shines full upon the other face. And so
on during successive lunations. This could not happen unless the moon
rotated. Again, if we lived on the moon we should find the heaven of the
fixed stars turning round from east to west once in rather more than twenty-
seven days; and unless we supposed, as we should probably do for a long
time, that our small world was the centre of the universe, and that the stars
turned round it, we should be compelled to admit that it was turning on its
own axis from west to east once in the time just named. There would be no
escape. The mere fact that all the time the stars thus seemed to be turning
round the moon, the earth would not so seem to move, but would lie always
in the same direction, would in no sort help to remove the difficulty.
Lunarian paradoxists would probably argue that she was in some way