Robert S. Ball

The Moon and the Tides—The Use of the Moon in Navigation—The Changes of the Moon—The Moon and the Poets—Whence the Light of the Moon?—Sizes of the Earth and the Moon—Weight of the Moon—Changes in Apparent Size—Variations in its Distance—Influence of the Earth on the Moon—The Path of the Moon—Explanation of the Moon's Phases—Lunar Eclipses—Eclipses of the Sun, how produced—Visibility of the Moon in a Total Eclipse—How Eclipses are Predicted—Uses of the Moon in finding Longitude—The Moon not connected with the Weather—Topography of the Moon—Nasmyth's Drawing of Triesnecker—Volcanoes on the Moon—Normal Lunar Crater—Plato—The Shadows of Lunar Mountains—The Micrometer—Lunar Heights—Former Activity on the Moon—Nasmyth's View of the Formation of Craters—Gravitation on the Moon—Varied Sizes of the Lunar Craters—Other Features of the Moon—Is there Life on the Moon?—Absence of Water and of Air—Dr. Stoney's Theory—Explanation of the Rugged Character of Lunar Scenery—Possibility of Life on Distant Bodies in Space.

If the moon were suddenly struck out of existence, we should be immediately apprised of the fact by a wail from every seaport in the kingdom. From London and from Liverpool we should hear the same story—the rise and fall of the tide had almost ceased. The ships in dock could not get out; the ships outside could not get in; and the maritime commerce of the world would be thrown into dire confusion.

The moon is the principal agent in causing the daily ebb and flow of the tide, and this is the most important work which our satellite has to do. The fleets of fishing boats around the coasts time their daily movements by the tide, and are largely indebted to the moon for bringing them in and out of harbour. Experienced sailors assure us that the tides are of the utmost service to navigation. The question as to how the moon causes the tides is postponed to a future chapter, in which we shall also sketch the marvellous part which the tides seem to have played in the early history of our earth.

Who is there that has not watched, with admiration, the beautiful series of changes through which the moon passes every month? We first see her as an exquisite crescent of pale light in the western sky after sunset. If the night is fine, the rest of the moon is visible inside the crescent, being faintly illumined by light reflected from our own earth. Night after night she moves further and further to the east, until she becomes full, and rises about the same time that the sun sets. From the time of the full the disc of light begins to diminish until the last quarter is reached. Then it is that the moon is seen high in the heavens in the morning. As the days pass by, the crescent shape is again assumed. The crescent wanes thinner and thinner as the satellite draws closer to the sun. Finally she becomes lost in the overpowering light of the sun, again to emerge as the new moon, and again to go through the same cycle of changes.

The brilliance of the moon arises solely from the light of the sun, which falls on the not self-luminous substance of the moon. Out of the vast flood of light which the sun pours forth with such prodigality into space the dark body of the moon intercepts a little, and of that little it reflects a small fraction to illuminate the earth. The moon sheds so much light, and seems so bright, that it is often difficult at night to remember that the moon has no light except what falls on it from the sun. Nevertheless, the actual surface of the brightest full moon is perhaps not much brighter than the streets of London on a clear sunshiny day. A very simple observation will suffice to show that the moon's light is only sunlight. Look some morning at the moon in daylight, and compare the moon with the clouds. The brightness of the moon and of the clouds are directly comparable, and then it can be readily comprehended how the sun which illuminates the clouds has also illumined the moon. An attempt has been made to form a comparative estimate of the brightness of the sun and the full moon. If 600,000 full moons were shining at once, their collective brilliancy would equal that of the sun.

The beautiful crescent moon has furnished a theme for many a poet. Indeed, if we may venture to say so, it would seem that some poets have forgotten that the moon is not to be seen every night. A poetical description of evening is almost certain to be associated with the appearance of the moon in some phase or other. We may cite one notable instance in which a poet, describing an historical event, has enshrined in exquisite verse a statement which cannot be correct. Every child who speaks our language has been taught that the burial of Sir John Moore took place

There is an appearance of detail in this statement which wears the garb of truth. We are not inclined to doubt that the night was misty, nor as to whether the moonbeams had to struggle into visibility; the question at issue is a much more fundamental one. We do not know who was the first to raise the point as to whether any moon shone on that memorable event at all or not; but the question having been raised, the Nautical Almanac immediately supplies an answer. From it we learn in language, whose truthfulness constitutes its only claim to be poetry, that the moon was new at one o'clock in the morning of the day of the battle of Corunna (16th January, 1809). The ballad evidently implies that the funeral took place on the night following the battle. We are therefore assured that the moon can hardly have been a day old when the hero was consigned to his grave. But the moon in such a case is practically invisible, and yields no appreciable moonbeams at all, misty or otherwise. Indeed, if the funeral took place at the "dead of night," as the poet asserts, then the moon must have been far below the horizon at the time.[6]

In alluding to this and similar instances, Mr. Nasmyth gives a word of advice to authors or to artists who desire to bring the moon on a scene without knowing as a matter of fact that our satellite was actually present. He recommends them to follow the example of Bottom in A Midsummer's Night's Dream, and consult "a calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanac; find out moonshine, find out moonshine!"

Among the countless host of celestial bodies—the sun, the moon, the planets, and the stars—our satellite enjoys one special claim on our attention. The moon is our nearest permanent neighbour. It is just possible that a comet may occasionally approach the earth more closely than the moon but with this exception the other celestial bodies are all many hundreds or thousands, or even many millions, of times further from us than the moon.

It is also to be observed that the moon is one of the smallest visible objects which the heavens contain. Every one of the thousands of stars that can be seen with the unaided eye is enormously larger than our satellite. The brilliance and apparent vast proportions of the moon arise from the fact that it is only 240,000 miles away, which is a distance almost immeasurably small when compared with the distances between the earth and the stars.

Fig. 23 exhibits the relative sizes of the earth and its attendant. The small globe shows the moon, while the larger globe represents the earth. When we measure the actual diameters of the two globes, we find that of the earth to be 7,918 miles and of the moon 2,160 miles, so that the diameter of the earth is nearly four times greater than the diameter of the moon. If the earth were cut into fifty pieces, all equally large, then one of these pieces rolled into a globe would equal the size of the moon. The superficial extent of the moon is equal to about one thirteenth part of the surface of the earth. The hemisphere our neighbour turns towards us exhibits an area equal to about one twenty-seventh part of the area of the earth. This, to speak approximately, is about double the actual extent of the continent of Europe. The average materials of the earth are, however, much heavier than those contained in the moon. It would take more than eighty globes, each as ponderous as the moon, to weigh down the earth.

Amid the changes which the moon presents to us, one obvious fact stands prominently forth. Whether our satellite be new or full, at first quarter or at last, whether it be high in the heavens or low near the horizon, whether it be in process of eclipse by the sun, or whether the sun himself is being eclipsed by the moon, the apparent size of the latter is nearly constant. We can express the matter numerically. A globe one foot in diameter, at a distance of 111 feet from the observer, would under ordinary circumstances be just sufficient to hide the disc of the moon; occasionally, however, the globe would have to be brought in to a distance of only 103 feet, or occasionally it might have to be moved out to so much as 118 feet, if the moon is to be exactly hidden. It is unusual for the moon to approach either of its extreme limits of position, so that the distance from the eye at which the globe must be situated so as to exactly cover the moon is usually more than 105 feet, and less than 117 feet. These fluctuations in the apparent size of our satellite are contained within such narrow limits that in the first glance at the subject they may be overlooked. It will be easily seen that the apparent size of the moon must be connected with its real distance from the earth. Suppose, for the sake of illustration, that the moon were to recede into space, its size would seem to dwindle, and long ere it had reached the distance of even the very nearest of the other celestial bodies it would have shrunk into insignificance. On the other hand, if the moon were to come nearer to the earth, its apparent size would gradually increase until, when close to our globe, it would seem like a mighty continent stretching over the sky. We find that the apparent size of the moon is nearly constant, and hence we infer that the average distance of the same body is also nearly constant. The average value of that distance is 239,000 miles. In rare circumstances it may approach to a distance but little more than 221,000 miles, or recede to a distance hardly less than 253,000 miles, but the ordinary fluctuations do not exceed more than about 13,000 miles on either side of its mean value.

From the moon's incessant changes we perceive that she is in constant motion, and we now further see that whatever these movements may be, the earth and the moon must at present remain at nearly the same distance apart. If we further add that the path pursued by the moon around the heavens lies nearly in a plane, then we are forced to the conclusion that our satellite must be revolving in a nearly circular path around the earth at the centre. It can, indeed, be shown that the constant distance of the two bodies involves as a necessary condition the revolution of the moon around the earth. The attraction between the moon and the earth tends to bring the two bodies together. The only way by which such a catastrophe can be permanently avoided is by making the satellite move as we actually find it to do. The attraction between the earth and the moon still exists, but its effect is not then shown in bringing the moon in towards the earth. The attraction has now to exert its whole power in restraining the moon in its circular path; were the attraction to cease, the moon would start off in a straight line, and recede never to return.

The fact of the moon's revolution around the earth is easily demonstrated by observations of the stars. The rising and setting of our satellite is, of course, due to the rotation of the earth, and this apparent diurnal movement the moon possesses in common with the sun and with the stars. It will, however, be noticed that the moon is continually changing its place among the stars. Even in the course of a single night the displacement will be conspicuous to a careful observer without the aid of a telescope. The moon completes each revolution around the earth in a period of 27·3 days.

In Fig. 24 we have a view of the relative positions of the earth, the sun, and the moon, but it is to be observed that, for the convenience of illustration, we have been obliged to represent the orbit of the moon on a much larger scale than it ought to be in comparison with the distance of the sun. That half of the moon which is turned towards the sun is brilliantly illuminated, and, according as we see more or less of that brilliant half, we say that the moon is more or less full, the several "phases" being visible in the succession shown by the numbers in Fig. 25. A beginner sometimes finds considerable difficulty in understanding how the light on the full moon at night can have been derived from the sun. "Is not," he will say, "the earth in the way? and must it not intercept the sunlight from every object on the other side of the earth to the sun?" A study of Fig. 24 will explain the difficulty. The plane in which the moon revolves does not coincide with the plane in which the earth revolves around the sun. The line in which the plane of the earth's motion is intersected by that of the moon divides the moon's path into two semicircles. We must imagine the moon's path to be tilted a little, so that the upper semicircle is somewhat above the plane of the paper, and the other semicircle below. It thus follows that when the moon is in the position marked full, under the circumstances shown in the figure, the moon will be just above the line joining the earth and the sun; the sunlight will thus pass over the earth to the moon, and the moon will be illuminated. At new moon, the moon will be under the line joining the earth and the sun.

As the relative positions of the earth and the sun are changing, it happens twice in each revolution that the sun comes into the position of the line of intersection of the two planes. If this occurs at the time of full moon, the earth lies directly between the moon and the sun; the moon is thus plunged into the shadow of the earth, the light from the sun is intercepted, and we say that the moon is eclipsed. The moon sometimes only partially enters the earth's shadow, in which case the eclipse is a partial one. When, on the other hand, the sun is situated on the line of intersection at the time of new moon, the moon lies directly between the earth and the sun, and the dark body of the moon will then cut off the sunlight from the earth, producing a solar eclipse. Usually only a part of the sun is thus obscured, forming the well-known partial eclipse; if, however, the moon pass centrally over the sun, then we must have one or other of two very remarkable kinds of eclipse. Sometimes the moon entirely blots out the sun, and thus is produced the sublime spectacle of a total eclipse, which tells us so much as to the nature of the sun, and to which we have already referred in the last chapter. Even when the moon is placed centrally over the sun, a thin rim of sunlight is occasionally seen round the margin of the moon. We then have what is known as an annular eclipse.

It is remarkable that the moon is sometimes able to hide the sun completely, while on other occasions it fails to do so. It happens that the average apparent size of the moon is nearly equal to the average apparent size of the sun, but, owing to the fluctuations in their distances, the actual apparent sizes of both bodies undergo certain changes. On certain occasions the apparent size of the moon is greater than that of the sun. In this case a central passage produces a total eclipse; but it may also happen that the apparent size of the sun exceeds that of the moon, in which case a central passage can only produce an annular eclipse.

There are hardly any more interesting celestial phenomena than the different descriptions of eclipses. The almanac will always give timely notice of the occurrence, and the more striking features can be observed without a telescope. In an eclipse of the moon (Fig. 26) it is interesting to note the moment when the black shadow is first detected, to watch its gradual encroachment over the bright surface of the moon, to follow it, in case the eclipse is total, until there is only a thin crescent of moonlight left, and to watch the final extinction of that crescent when the whole moon is plunged into the shadow. But now a spectacle of great interest and beauty is often manifested; for though the moon is so hidden behind the earth that not a single direct ray of the sunlight could reach its surface, yet we often find that the moon remains visible, and, indeed, actually glows with a copper-coloured hue bright enough to permit several of the markings on the surface to be discerned.

This illumination of the moon even in the depth of a total eclipse is due to the sunbeams which have just grazed the edge of the earth. In doing so they have become bent by the refraction of the atmosphere, and have thus been turned inwards into the shadow. Such beams have passed through a prodigious thickness of the earth's atmosphere, and in this long journey through hundreds of miles of air they have become tinged with a ruddy or copper-like hue. Nor is this property of our atmosphere an unfamiliar one. The sun both at sunrise and at sunset glows with a light which is much more ruddy than the beams it dispenses at noonday. But at sunset or at sunrise the rays which reach our eyes have much more of our atmosphere to penetrate than they have at noon, and accordingly the atmosphere imparts to them that ruddy colour so characteristic and often so lovely. If the spectrum of the sun when close to the horizon is examined it is seen to be filled with numerous dark lines and bands situated chiefly towards the blue and violet end. These are caused by the increased absorption which the light suffers in the atmosphere, and give rise to the preponderating red light on the sun under such conditions. In the case of the eclipsed moon, the sunbeams have to take an atmospheric journey more than double as long as that at sunrise or sunset, and hence the ruddy glow of the eclipsed moon may be accounted for.

The almanacs give the full particulars of each eclipse that happens in the corresponding year. These predictions are reliable, because astronomers have been carefully observing the moon for ages, and have learned from these observations not only how the moon moves at present, but also how it will move for ages to come. The actual calculations are so complicated that we cannot here discuss them. There is, however, one leading principle about eclipses which is so simple that we must refer to it. The eclipses occurring this year have no very obvious relation to the eclipses that occurred last year, or to those that will occur next year. Yet, when we take a more extended view of the sequence of these phenomena, a very definite principle becomes manifest. If we observe all the eclipses in a period of eighteen years, or nineteen years, then we can predict, with at least an approximation to the truth, all the future eclipses for many years. It is only necessary to recollect that in 6,585-1/3 days after one eclipse a nearly similar eclipse follows. For instance, a beautiful eclipse of the moon occurred on the 5th of December, 1881. If we count back 6,585 days from that date, or, that is, eighteen years and eleven days, we come to November 24th, 1863, and a similar eclipse of the moon took place then. Again, there were four eclipses in the year 1881. If we add 6,585-1/3 days to the date of each eclipse, it will give the dates of all the four eclipses in the year 1899. It was this rule which enabled the ancient astronomers to predict the recurrence of eclipses, at a time when the motions of the moon were not understood nearly so well as they now are.

During a long voyage, and perhaps in critical circumstances, the moon will often render invaluable information to the sailor. To navigate a ship, suppose from Liverpool to China, the captain must frequently determine the precise position which his ship then occupies. If he could not do this, he would never find his way across the trackless ocean. Observations of the sun give him his latitude and tell him his local time, but the captain further requires to know the Greenwich time before he can place his finger at a point of the chart and say, "My ship is here." To ascertain the Greenwich time the ship carries a chronometer which has been carefully rated before starting, and, as a precaution, two or three chronometers are usually provided to guard against the risk of error. An unknown error of a minute in the chronometer might perhaps lead the vessel fifteen miles from its proper course.

It is important to have the means of testing the chronometers during the progress of the voyage; and it would be a great convenience if every captain, when he wished, could actually consult some infallible standard of Greenwich time. We want, in fact, a Greenwich clock which may be visible over the whole globe. There is such a clock; and, like any other clock, it has a face on which certain marks are made, and a hand which travels round that face. The great clock at Westminster shrinks into insignificance when compared with the mighty clock which the captain uses for setting his chronometer. The face of this stupendous dial is the face of the heavens. The numbers engraved on the face of a clock are replaced by the twinkling stars; while the hand which moves over the dial is the beautiful moon herself. When the captain desires to test his chronometer, he measures the distance of the moon from a neighbouring star. For example, he may see that the moon is three degrees from the star Regulus. In the Nautical Almanac he finds the Greenwich time at which the moon was three degrees from Regulus. Comparing this with the indications of the chronometer, he finds the required correction.

There is one widely-credited myth about the moon which must be regarded as devoid of foundation. The idea that our satellite and the weather bear some relation has no doubt been entertained by high authority, and appears to be an article in the belief of many an excellent mariner. Careful comparison between the state of the weather and the phases of the moon has, however, quite discredited the notion that any connection of the kind does really exist.

We often notice large blank spaces on maps of Africa and of Australia which indicate our ignorance of parts of the interior of those great continents. We can find no such blank spaces in the map of the moon. Astronomers know the surface of the moon better than geographers know the interior of Africa. Every spot on the face of the moon which is as large as an English parish has been mapped, and all the more important objects have been named.

A general map of the moon is shown in Plate VI. It has been based upon drawings made with small telescopes, and it gives an entire view of that side of our satellite which is presented towards us. The moon is shown as it appears in an astronomical telescope, which inverts everything, so that the south is at the top and the north at the bottom (to show objects upright a telescope requires an additional pair of lenses in the eye-piece, and as this diminishes the amount of light reaching the eye they are dispensed with in astronomical telescopes). We can see on the map some of the characteristic features of lunar scenery. Those dark regions so conspicuous in the ordinary full moon are easily recognised on the map. They were thought to be seas by astronomers before the days of telescopes, and indeed the name "Mare" is still retained, though it is obvious that they contain no water at present. The map also shows certain ridges or elevated portions, and when we apply measurement to these objects we learn that they must be mighty mountain ranges. But the most striking features on the moon are those ring-like objects which are scattered over the surface in profusion. These are known as the lunar craters.

To facilitate reference to the chief points of interest we have arranged an index map (Fig. 27) which will give a clue to the names of the several objects depicted upon the plate. The so-called seas are represented by capital letters; so that A is the Mare Crisium, and H the Oceanus Procellarum. The ranges of mountains are indicated by small letters; thus a on the index is the site of the so-called Caucasus mountains, and similarly the Apennines are denoted by c. The numerous craters are distinguished by numbers; for example, the feature on the map corresponding to 20 on the index is the crater designated Ptolemy.

In every geographical atlas there is a map showing the two hemispheres of the earth, the eastern and the western. In the case of the moon we can only give a map of one hemisphere, for the simple reason that the moon always turns the same side towards us, and accordingly we never get a view of the other side. This is caused by the interesting circumstance that the moon takes exactly the same time to turn once round its own axis as it takes to go once round the earth. The rotation is, however, performed with uniform speed, while the moon does not move in its orbit with a perfectly uniform velocity (see Chapter IV.). The consequence is that we now get a slight glimpse round the east limb, and now a similar glimpse round the west limb, as if the moon were shaking its head very gently at us. But it is only an insignificant margin of the far side of the moon which this libration permits us to examine.

Lunar objects are well suited for observation when the sunlight falls upon them in such a manner as to exhibit strongly contrasted lights and shadows. It is impossible to observe the moon satisfactorily when it is full, for then no conspicuous shadows are cast. The most opportune moment for seeing any particular lunar object is when it lies just at the illuminated side of the boundary between light and shade, for then the features are brought out with exquisite distinctness.

Plate VII.[7] gives an illustration of lunar scenery, the object represented being known to astronomers by the name of Triesnecker. The district included is only a very small fraction of the entire surface of the moon, yet the actual area is very considerable, embracing as it does many hundreds of square miles. We see in it various ranges of lunar mountains, while the central object in the picture is one of those remarkable lunar craters which we meet with so frequently in every lunar landscape. This crater is about twenty miles in diameter, and it has a lofty mountain in the centre, the peak of which is just illuminated by the rising sun in that phase of our satellite which is represented in the picture.

A typical view of a lunar crater is shown in Plate VIII. This is, no doubt, a somewhat imaginary sketch. The point of view from which the artist is supposed to have taken the picture is one quite unattainable by terrestrial astronomers, yet there can be little doubt that it is a fair representation of objects on the moon. We should, however, recollect the scale on which it is drawn. The vast crater must be many miles across, and the mountain at its centre must be thousands of feet high. The telescope will, even at its best, only show the moon as well as we could see it with the unaided eye if it were 250 miles away instead of being 240,000. We must not, therefore, expect to see any details on the moon even with the finest telescopes, unless they were coarse enough to be visible at a distance of 250 miles. England from such a point of view would only show London as a coloured spot, in contrast with the general surface of the country.

We return, however, from a somewhat fancy sketch to a more prosaic examination of what the telescope does actually reveal. Plate IX. represents the large crater Plato, so well known to everyone who uses a telescope. The floor of this remarkable object is nearly flat, and the central mountain, so often seen in other craters, is entirely wanting. We describe it more fully in the general list of lunar objects.

The mountain peaks on the moon throw long, well-defined shadows, characterised by a sharpness which we do not find in the shadows of terrestrial objects. The difference between the two cases arises from the absence of air from the moon. Our atmosphere diffuses a certain amount of light, which mitigates the blackness of terrestrial shadows and tends to soften their outline. No such influences are at work on the moon, and the sharpness of the shadows is taken advantage of in our attempts to measure the heights of the lunar mountains.

It is often easy to compute the altitude of a church steeple, a lofty chimney, or any similar object, from the length of its shadow. The simplest and the most accurate process is to measure at noon the number of feet from the base of the object to the end of the shadow. The elevation of the sun at noon on the day in question can be obtained from the almanac, and then the height of the object follows by a simple calculation. Indeed, if the observations can be made either on the 6th of April or the 6th of September, at or near the latitude of London, then calculations would be unnecessary. The noonday length of the shadow on either of the dates named is equal to the altitude of the object. In summer the length of the noontide shadow is less than the altitude; in winter the length of the shadow exceeds the altitude. At sunrise or sunset the shadows are, of course, much longer than at noon, and it is shadows of this kind that we observe on the moon. The necessary measurements are made by that indispensable adjunct to the equatorial telescope known as the micrometer.

This word denotes an instrument for measuring small distances. In one sense the term is not a happy one. The objects to which the astronomer applies the micrometer are usually anything but small. They are generally of the most transcendent dimensions, far exceeding the moon or the sun, or even our whole system. Still, the name is not altogether inappropriate, for, vast though the objects may be, they generally seem minute, even in the telescope, on account of their great distance.

We require for such measurements an instrument capable of the greatest nicety. Here, again, we invoke the aid of the spider, to whose assistance in another department we have already referred. In the filar micrometer two spider lines are parallel, and one intersects them at right angles. One or both of the parallel lines can be moved by means of screws, the threads of which have been shaped by consummate workmanship. The distance through which the line has been moved is accurately indicated by noting the number of revolutions and parts of a revolution of the screw. Suppose the two lines be first brought into coincidence, and then separated until the apparent length of the shadow of the mountain on the moon is equal to the distance between the lines: we then know the number of revolutions of the micrometer screw which is equivalent to the length of the shadow. The number of miles on the moon which correspond to one revolution of the screw has been previously ascertained by other observations, and hence the length of the shadow can be determined. The elevation of the sun, as it would have appeared to an observer at this point of the moon, at the moment when the measures were being made, is also obtainable, and hence the actual elevation of the mountain can be calculated. By measurements of this kind the altitudes of other lunar objects, such, for example, as the height of the rampart surrounding a circular-walled plane, can be determined.

The beauty and interest of the moon as a telescopic object induces us to give to the student a somewhat detailed account of the more remarkable features which it presents. Most of the objects we are to describe can be effectively exhibited with very moderate telescopic power. It is, however, to be remembered that all of them cannot be well seen at one time. The region most distinctly shown is the boundary between light and darkness. The student will, therefore, select for observation such objects as may happen to lie near that boundary at the time when he is observing.

1. Posidonius.—The diameter of this large crater is nearly 60 miles. Although its surrounding wall is comparatively slender, it is so distinctly marked as to make the object very conspicuous. As so frequently happens in lunar volcanoes, the bottom of the crater is below the level of the surrounding plain, in the present instance to the extent of nearly 2,500 feet.

2. LinnÉ.—This small crater lies in the Mare Serenitatis. About sixty years ago it was described as being about 6-1/2 miles in diameter, and seems to have been sufficiently conspicuous. In 1866 Schmidt, of Athens, announced that the crater had disappeared. Since then an exceedingly small shallow depression has been visible, but the whole object is now very inconsiderable. This seems to be the most clearly attested case of change in a lunar object. Apparently the walls of the crater have tumbled into the interior and partly filled it up, but many astronomers doubt that a change has really taken place, as SchrÖter, a Hanoverian observer at the end of the eighteenth century, appears not to have seen any conspicuous crater in the place, though it must be admitted that his observations are rather incomplete. To give some idea of Schmidt's amazing industry in lunar researches, it may be mentioned that in six years he made nearly 57,000 individual settings of his micrometer in the measurement of lunar altitudes. His great chart of the mountains in the moon is based on no less than 2,731 drawings and sketches, if those are counted twice that may have been used for two divisions of the map.

3. Aristotle.—This great philosopher's name has been attached to a grand crater 50 miles in diameter, the interior of which, although very hilly, shows no decidedly marked central cone. But the lofty wall of the crater, exceeding 10,500 feet in height, overshadows the floor so continuously that its features are never seen to advantage.

4. The Great Valley of the Alps.—A wonderfully straight valley, with a width ranging from 3-1/2 to 6 miles, runs right through the lunar Alps. It is, according to MÄdler, at least 11,500 feet deep, and over 80 miles in length. A few low ridges which are parallel to the sides of the valley may possibly be the result of landslips.

5. Aristillus.—Under favourable conditions Lord Rosse's great telescope has shown the exterior of this magnificent crater to be scored with deep gullies radiating from its centre. Aristillus is about 34 miles wide and 10,000 feet in depth.

6. Autolycus is somewhat smaller than the foregoing, to which it forms a companion in accordance with what MÄdler thought a well-defined relation amongst lunar craters, by which they frequently occurred in pairs, with the smaller one more usually to the south. Towards the edge this arrangement is generally rather apparent than real, and is merely a result of foreshortening.

7. Archimedes.—This large plain, about 50 miles in diameter, has its vast smooth interior divided by unequally bright streaks into seven distinct zones, running east and west. There is no central mountain or other obvious internal sign of former activity, but its irregular wall rises into abrupt towers, and is marked outside by decided terraces.

8. Plato.—We have already referred to this extensive circular plain, which is noticeable with the smallest telescope. The average height of the rampart is about 3,800 feet on the eastern side; the western side is somewhat lower, but there is one peak rising to the height of nearly 7,300 feet. The plain girdled by this vast rampart is of ample proportions. It is a somewhat irregular circle, about 60 miles in diameter, and containing an area of 2,700 square miles. On its floor the shadows of the western wall are shown in Plate IX., as are also three of the small craters, of which a large number have been detected by persevering observers. The narrow sharp line leading from the crater to the left is one of those remarkable "clefts" which traverse the moon in so many directions. Another may be seen further to the left. Above Plato are several detached mountains, the loftiest of which is Pico, about 8,000 feet in height. Its long and pointed shadow would at first sight lead one to suppose that it must be very steep; but Schmidt, who specially studied the inclinations of the lunar slopes, is of opinion that it cannot be nearly so steep as many of the Swiss mountains that are frequently ascended. As many as thirty minute craters have been carefully observed on the floor of Plato, and variations have been thought by Mr. W.H. Pickering to be perceptible.

9. Eratosthenes.—This profound crater, upwards of 37 miles in diameter, lies at the end of the gigantic range of the Apennines. Not improbably, Eratosthenes once formed the volcanic vent for the stupendous forces that elevated the comparatively craterless peaks of these great mountains.

10. Copernicus.—Of all the lunar craters this is one of the grandest and best known. The region to the west is dotted over with innumerable minute craterlets. It has a central many-peaked mountain about 2,400 feet in height. There is good reason to believe that the terracing shown in its interior is mainly due to the repeated alternate rise, partial congelation, and subsequent retreat of a vast sea of lava. At full moon the crater of Copernicus is seen to be surrounded by radiating streaks.

11. Kepler.—Although the internal depth of this crater is scarcely less than 10,000 feet, it has but a very low surrounding wall, which is remarkable for being covered with the same glistening substance that also forms a system of bright rays not unlike those surrounding the last object.

12. Aristarchus is the most brilliant of the lunar craters, being specially vivid with a low power in a large telescope. So bright is it, indeed, that it has often been seen on the dark side just after new moon, and has thus given rise to marvellous stories of active lunar volcanoes. To the south-east lies another smaller crater, Herodotus, north of which is a narrow, deep valley, nowhere more than 2-1/2 miles broad, which makes a remarkable zigzag. It is one of the largest of the lunar "clefts."

13. Grimaldi calls for notice as the darkest object of its size in the moon. Under very exceptional circumstances it has been seen with the naked eye, and as its area has been estimated at nearly 14,000 square miles, it gives an idea of how little unaided vision can discern in the moon; it must, however, be added that we always see Grimaldi considerably foreshortened.

14. The great crater Gassendi has been very frequently mapped on account of its elaborate system of "clefts." At its northern end it communicates with a smaller but much deeper crater, that is often filled with black shadow after the whole floor of Gassendi has been illuminated.

15. Schickard is one of the largest walled plains on the moon, about 134 miles in breadth. Within its vast expanse MÄdler detected 23 minor craters. With regard to this object Chacornac pointed out that, owing to the curvature of the surface of the moon, a spectator at the centre of the floor "would think himself in a boundless desert," because the surrounding wall, although in one place nearly 10,000 feet high, would lie entirely beneath his horizon.

16. Close to the foregoing is Wargentin. There can be little doubt that this is really a huge crater almost filled with congealed lava, as there is scarcely any fall towards the interior.

17. Clavius.—Near the 60th parallel of lunar south latitude lies this enormous enclosure, the area of which is not less than 16,500 square miles. Both in its interior and on its walls are many peaks and secondary craters. The telescopic view of a sunrise upon the surface of Clavius is truly said by MÄdler to be indescribably magnificent. One of the peaks rises to a height of 24,000 feet above the bottom of one of the included craters. MÄdler even expressed the opinion that in this wild neighbourhood there are craters so profound that no ray of sunlight ever penetrated their lowest depths, while, as if in compensation, there are peaks whose summits enjoy a mean day almost twice as long as their night.

18. If the full moon be viewed through an opera-glass or any small hand-telescope, one crater is immediately seen to be conspicuous beyond all others, by reason of the brilliant rays or streaks that radiate from it. This is the majestic Tycho, 17,000 feet in depth and 50 miles in diameter (Plate X.). A peak 6,000 feet in height rises in the centre of its floor, while a series of terraces diversity its interior slopes; but it is the mysterious bright rays that chiefly surprise us. When the sun rises on Tycho, these streaks are utterly invisible; indeed, the whole object is then so obscure that it requires a practised eye to recognise Tycho amidst its mountainous surroundings. But as soon as the sun has attained a height of about 30° above its horizon, the rays emerge from their obscurity and gradually increase in brightness until the moon becomes full, when they are the most conspicuous objects on her surface. They vary in length, from a few hundred miles to two or, in one instance, nearly three thousand miles. They extend indifferently across vast plains, into the deepest craters, or over the loftiest elevations. We know of nothing on our earth to which they can be compared. As these rays are only seen about the time of full moon, their visibility obviously depends on the light falling more or less closely in the line of sight, quite regardless of the inclination of the surfaces, mountains or valleys, on which they appear. Each small portion of the surface of the streak must therefore be of a form which is symmetrical to the spectator from whatever point it is seen. The sphere alone appears to fulfil this condition, and Professor Copeland therefore suggests that the material constituting the surface of the streak must be made up of a large number of more or less completely spherical globules. The streaks must represent parts of the lunar surface either pitted with minute cavities of spherical figure, or strewn over with minute transparent spheres.[8]

Near the centre of the moon's disc is a fine range of ring plains fully open to our view under all illuminations. Of these, two may be mentioned—Alphonsus (19), the floor of which is strangely characterised by two bright and several dark markings which cannot be explained by irregularities in the surface.—Ptolemy (20). Besides several small enclosed craters, its floor is crossed by numerous low ridges, visible when the sun is rising or setting.

21, 22, 23.—When the moon is five or six days old this beautiful group of three craters will be favourably placed for observation. They are named Catharina, Cyrillus, and Theophilus. Catharina, the most southerly of the group, is more than 16,000 feet deep, and connected with Cyrillus by a wide valley; but between Cyrillus and Theophilus there is no such connection. Indeed, Cyrillus looks as if its huge surrounding ramparts, as high as Mont Blanc, had been completely finished before the volcanic forces commenced the formation of Theophilus, the rampart of which encroaches considerably on its older neighbour. Theophilus stands as a well-defined circular crater about 64 miles in diameter, with an internal depth of 14,000 to 18,000 feet, and a beautiful central group of mountains, one-third of that height, on its floor. Although Theophilus is the deepest crater we can see in the moon, it has suffered little or no deformation from secondary eruptions, while the floor and wall of Catharina show complete sequences of lesser craters of various sizes that have broken in upon and partly destroyed each other. In the spring of the year, when the moon is somewhat before the first quarter, this instructive group of extinct volcanoes can be seen to great advantage at a convenient hour in the evening.

24. Petavius is remarkable not only for its great size, but also for the rare feature of having a double rampart. It is a beautiful object soon after new moon, or just after full moon, but disappears absolutely when the sun is more than 45° above its horizon. The crater floor is remarkably convex, culminating in a central group of hills intersected by a deep cleft.

25. Hyginus is a small crater near the centre of the moon's disc. One of the largest of the lunar chasms passes right through it, making an abrupt turn as it does so.

26. Triesnecker.—This fine crater has been already described, but is again alluded to in order to draw attention to the elaborate system of chasms so conspicuously shown in Plate VII. That these chasms are depressions is abundantly evident by the shadows inside. Very often their margins are appreciably raised. They seem to be fractures in the moon's surface.

Of the various mountains that are occasionally seen as projections on the actual edge of the moon, those called after Leibnitz (i) seem to be the highest. Schmidt found the highest peak to be upwards of 41,900 feet above a neighbouring valley. In comparing these altitudes with those of mountains on our earth, we must for the latter add the depth of the sea to the height of the land. Reckoned in this way, our highest mountains are still higher than any we know of in the moon.

We must now discuss the important question as to the origin of these remarkable features on the surface of the moon. We shall admit at the outset that our evidence on this subject is only indirect. To establish by unimpeachable evidence the volcanic origin of the remarkable lunar craters, it would seem almost necessary that volcanic outbursts should have been witnessed on the moon, and that such outbursts should have been seen to result in the formation of the well-known ring, with or without the mountain rising from the centre. To say that nothing of the kind has ever been witnessed would be rather too emphatic a statement. On certain occasions careful observers have reported the occurrence of minute local changes on the moon. As we have already remarked, a crater named LinnÉ, of dimensions respectable, no doubt, to a lunar inhabitant, but forming a very inconsiderable telescopic object, was thought to have undergone some change. On another occasion a minute crater was thought to have arisen near the well-known object named Hyginus. The mere enumeration of such instances gives real emphasis to the statement that there is at the present time no appreciable source of disturbance of the moon's surface. Even were these trifling cases of suspected change really established—and this is perhaps rather farther than many astronomers would be willing to go—they are still insignificant when compared with the mighty phenomena that gave rise to the host of great craters which cover so large a portion of the moon's surface.

We are led inevitably to the conclusion that our satellite must have once possessed much greater activity than it now displays. We can also give a reasonable, or, at all events, a plausible, explanation of the cessation of that activity in recent times. Let us glance at two other bodies of our system, the earth and the sun, and compare them with the moon. Of the three bodies, the sun is enormously the largest, while the moon is much less than the earth. We have also seen that though the sun must have a very high temperature, there can be no doubt that it is gradually parting with its heat. The surface of the earth, formed as it is of solid rocks and clay, or covered in great part by the vast expanse of ocean, bears but few obvious traces of a high temperature. Nevertheless, it is highly probable from ordinary volcanic phenomena that the interior of the earth still possesses a temperature of incandescence.

A large body when heated takes a longer time to cool than does a small body raised to the same temperature. A large iron casting will take days to cool; a small casting will become cold in a few hours. Whatever may have been the original source of heat in our system—a question which we are not now discussing—it seems demonstrable that the different bodies were all originally heated, and have now for ages been gradually cooling. The sun is so vast that he has not yet had time to cool; the earth, of intermediate bulk, has become cold on the outside, while still retaining vast stores of internal heat; while the moon, the smallest body of all, has lost its heat to such an extent that changes of importance on its surface can no longer be originated by internal fires.

We are thus led to refer the origin of the lunar craters to some ancient epoch in the moon's history. We have no moans of knowing the remoteness of that epoch, but it is reasonable to surmise that the antiquity of the lunar volcanoes must be extremely great. At the time when the moon was sufficiently heated to originate those convulsions, of which the mighty craters are the survivals, the earth must also have been much hotter than it is at present. When the moon possessed sufficient heat for its volcanoes to be active, the earth was probably so hot that life was impossible on its surface. This supposition would point to an antiquity for the lunar craters far too great to be estimated by the centuries and the thousands of years which are adequate for such periods as those with which the history of human events is concerned. It seems not unlikely that millions of years may have elapsed since the mighty craters of Plato or of Copernicus consolidated into their present form.

We shall now attempt to account for the formation of the lunar craters. The most probable views on the subject seem to be those which have been set forth by Mr. Nasmyth, though it must be admitted that his doctrines are by no means free from difficulty. According to his theory we can explain how the rampart around the lunar crater has been formed, and how the great mountain arose which so often adorns the centre of the plain. The view in Fig. 28 contains an imaginary sketch of a volcanic vent on the moon in the days when the craters were active. The eruption is here shown in the fulness of its energy, when the internal forces are hurling forth ashes or stones which fall at a considerable distance from the vent. The materials thus accumulated constitute the rampart surrounding the crater.

The second picture (Fig. 29) depicts the crater in a later stage of its history. The prodigious explosive power has now been exhausted, and has perhaps been intermitted for some time. Again, the volcano bursts into activity, but this time with only a small part of its original energy. A comparatively feeble eruption now issues from the same vent, deposits materials close around the orifice, and raises a mountain in the centre. Finally, when the activity has subsided, and the volcano is silent and still, we find the evidence of the early energy testified to by the rampart which surrounds the ancient crater, and by the mountain which adorns the interior. The flat floor which is found in some of the craters may not improbably have arisen from an outflow of lava which has afterwards consolidated. Subsequent outbreaks have also occurred in many cases.

One of the principal difficulties attending this method of accounting for the structure of a crater arises from the great size which some of these objects attain. There are ancient volcanoes on the moon forty or fifty miles in diameter; indeed, there is one well-formed ring, with a mountain rising in the centre, the diameter of which is no less than seventy-eight miles (Petavius). It seems difficult to conceive how a blowing cone at the centre could convey the materials to such a distance as the thirty-nine miles between the centre of Petavius and the rampart. The explanation is, however, facilitated when it is borne in mind that the force of gravitation is much less on the moon than on the earth.

Have we not already seen that our satellite is so much smaller than the earth that eighty moons rolled into one would not weigh as much as the earth? On the earth an ounce weighs an ounce and a pound weighs a pound; but a weight of six ounces here would only weigh one ounce on the moon, and a weight of six pounds here would only weigh one pound on the moon. A labourer who can carry one sack of corn on the earth could, with the same exertion, carry six sacks of corn on the moon. A cricketer who can throw a ball 100 yards on the earth could with precisely the same exertion throw the same ball 600 yards on the moon. Hiawatha could shoot ten arrows into the air one after the other before the first reached the ground; on the moon he might have emptied his whole quiver. The volcano, which on the moon drove projectiles to the distance of thirty-nine miles, need only possess the same explosive power as would have been sufficient to drive the missiles six or seven miles on the earth. A modern cannon properly elevated would easily achieve this feat.

It must also be borne in mind that there are innumerable craters on the moon of the same general type but of the most varied dimensions; from a tiny telescopic object two or three miles in diameter, we can point out gradually ascending stages until we reach the mighty Petavius just considered. With regard to the smaller craters, there is obviously little or no difficulty in attributing to them a volcanic origin, and as the continuity from the smallest to the largest craters is unbroken, it seems quite reasonable to suppose that even the greatest has arisen in the same way.

It should, however, be remarked that some lunar features might be explained by actions from without rather than from within. Mr. G.K. Gilbert has marshalled the evidence in support of the belief that lunar sculptures arise from the impact of bodies falling on the moon. The Mare Imbrium, according to this view, has been the seat of a collision to which the surrounding lunar scenery is due. Mr. Gilbert explains the furrows as hewn out by mighty projectiles moving with such velocities as meteors possess.

The lunar landscapes are excessively weird and rugged. They always remind us of sterile deserts, and we cannot fail to notice the absence of grassy plains or green forests such as we are familiar with on our globe. In some respects the moon is not very differently circumstanced from the earth. Like it, the moon has the pleasing alternations of day and night, though the day in the moon is as long as twenty-nine of our days, and the night of the moon is as long as twenty-nine of our nights. We are warmed by the rays of the sun; so, too, is the moon; but, whatever may be the temperature during the long day on the moon, it seems certain that the cold of the lunar night would transcend that known in the bleakest regions of our earth. The amount of heat radiated to us by the moon has been investigated by Lord Rosse, and more recently by Professor Langley. Though every point on the moon's surface is exposed to the sunlight for a fortnight without any interruption, the actual temperature to which the soil is raised cannot be a high one. The moon does not, like the earth, possess a warm blanket, in the shape of an atmosphere, which can keep in and accumulate the heat received.

Even our largest telescopes can tell nothing directly as to whether life can exist on the moon. The mammoth trees of California might be growing on the lunar mountains, and elephants might be walking about on the plains, but our telescopes could not show them. The smallest object that we can see on the moon must be about as large as a good-sized cathedral, so that organised beings resembling in size any that we are familiar with, if they existed, could not make themselves visible as telescopic objects.

We are therefore compelled to resort to indirect evidence as to whether life would be possible on the moon. We may say at once that astronomers believe that life, as we know it, could not exist. Among the necessary conditions of life, water is one of the first. Take every form of vegetable life, from the lichen which grows on the rock to the giant tree of the forest, and we find the substance of every plant contains water, and could not exist without it. Nor is water less necessary to the existence of animal life. Deprived of this element, all organic life, the life of man himself, would be inconceivable.

Unless, therefore, water be present in the moon, we shall be bound to conclude that life, as we know it, is impossible. If anyone stationed on the moon were to look at the earth through a telescope, would he be able to see any water here? Most undoubtedly he would. He would see the clouds and he would notice their incessant changes, and the clouds alone would be almost conclusive evidence of the existence of water. An astronomer on the moon would also see our oceans as coloured surfaces, remarkably contrasted with the land, and he would perhaps frequently see an image of the sun, like a brilliant star, reflected from some smooth portion of the sea. In fact, considering that much more than half of our globe is covered with oceans, and that most of the remainder is liable to be obscured by clouds, the lunar astronomer in looking at our earth would often see hardly anything but water in one form or other. Very likely he would come to the conclusion that our globe was only fitted to be a residence for amphibious animals.

But when we look at the moon with our telescopes we see no direct evidence of water. Close inspection shows that the so-called lunar seas are deserts, often marked with small craters and rocks. The telescope reveals no seas and no oceans, no lakes and no rivers. Nor is the grandeur of the moon's scenery ever impaired by clouds over her surface. Whenever the moon is above our horizon, and terrestrial clouds are out of the way, we can see the features of our satellite's surface with distinctness. There are no clouds in the moon; there are not even the mists or the vapours which invariably arise wherever water is present, and therefore astronomers have been led to the conclusion that the surface of the globe which attends the earth is a sterile and a waterless desert.

Another essential element of organic life is also absent from the moon. Our globe is surrounded with a deep clothing of air resting on the surface, and extending above our heads to the height of about 200 or 300 miles. We need hardly say how necessary air is to life, and therefore we turn with interest to the question as to whether the moon can be surrounded with an atmosphere. Let us clearly understand the problem we are about to consider. Imagine that a traveller started from the earth on a journey to the moon; as he proceeded, the air would gradually become more and more rarefied, until at length, when he was a few hundred miles above the earth's surface, he would have left the last perceptible traces of the earth's envelope behind him. By the time he had passed completely through the atmosphere he would have advanced only a very small fraction of the whole journey of 240,000 miles, and there would still remain a vast void to be traversed before the moon would be reached. If the moon were enveloped in the same way as the earth, then, as the traveller approached the end of his journey, and came within a few hundred miles of the moon's surface, he would meet again with traces of an atmosphere, which would gradually increase in density until he arrived at the moon's surface. The traveller would thus have passed through one stratum of air at the beginning of his journey, and through another at the end, while the main portion of the voyage would have been through space more void than that to be found in the exhausted receiver of an air-pump.

Such would be the case if the moon were coated with an atmosphere like that surrounding our earth. But what are the facts? The traveller as he drew near the moon would seek in vain for air to breathe at all resembling ours. It is possible that close to the surface there are faint traces of some gaseous material surrounding the moon, but it can only be equal to a very small fractional part of the ample clothing which the earth now enjoys. For all purposes of respiration, as we understand the term, we may say that there is no air on the moon, and an inhabitant of our earth transferred thereto would be as certainly suffocated as he would be in the middle of space.

It may, however, be asked how we learn this. Is not air transparent, and how, therefore, could our telescopes be expected to show whether the moon really possessed such an envelope? It is by indirect, but thoroughly reliable, methods of observation that we learn the destitute condition of our satellite. There are various arguments to be adduced; but the most conclusive is that obtained on the occurrence of what is called an "occultation." It sometimes happens that the moon comes directly between the earth and a star, and the temporary extinction of the latter is an "occultation." We can observe the moment when the phenomenon takes place, and the suddenness of the disappearance of the star is generally remarked. If the moon were enveloped in a copious atmosphere, the interposition of this gaseous mass by the movement of the moon would produce a gradual evanescence of the star wholly wanting the abruptness which marks the obscuration.[9]

Let us consider how we can account for the absence of an atmosphere from the moon. What we call a gas has been found by modern research to be a collection of an immense number of molecules, each of which is in exceedingly rapid motion. This motion is only pursued for a short distance in one direction before a molecule comes into collision with some other molecule, whereby the directions and velocities of the individual molecules are continually changed. There is a certain average speed for each gas which is peculiar to the molecules of that gas at a certain temperature. When several gases are mixed, as oxygen and nitrogen are in our atmosphere, the molecules of each gas continue to move with their own characteristic velocities. So far as we can estimate the temperature at the boundary of the earth's atmosphere, we may assume that the average of the velocities of the oxygen molecules there found is about a quarter of a mile per second. The velocities for nitrogen are much the same, while the average speed of a molecule of hydrogen is about one mile per second, being, in fact, by far the greatest molecular velocity possessed by any gas.

A stone thrown into the air soon regains the earth. A rifle bullet fired vertically upwards will ascend higher and higher, until at length its motion ceases, it begins to return, and falls to the ground. Let us for the moment suppose that we had a rifle of infinite strength and gunpowder of unlimited power. As we increase the charge we find that the bullet will ascend higher and higher, and each time it will take a longer period before it returns to the ground. The descent of the bullet is due to the attraction of the earth. Gravitation must necessarily act on the projectile throughout its career, and it gradually lessens the velocity, overcomes the upward motion, and brings the bullet back. It must be remembered that the efficiency of the attraction decreases when the height is increased. Consequently when the body has a prodigiously great initial velocity, in consequence of which it ascends to an enormous height, its return is retarded by a twofold cause. In the first place, the distance through which it has to be recalled is greatly increased, and in the second place the efficiency of gravitation in effecting its recall has decreased. The greater the velocity, the feebler must be the capacity of gravitation for bringing back the body. We can conceive the speed to be increased to that point at which the gravitation, constantly declining as the body ascends, is never quite able to neutralise the velocity, and hence we have the remarkable case of a body projected away never to return.

It is possible to exhibit this reasoning in a numerical form, and to show that a velocity of six or seven miles a second directed upwards would suffice to convey a body entirely away from the gravitation of the earth. This speed is far beyond the utmost limits of our artillery. It is, indeed, at least a dozen times as swift as a cannon shot; and even if we could produce it, the resistance of the air would present an insuperable difficulty. Such reflections, however, do not affect the conclusion that there is for each planet a certain specific velocity appropriate to that body, and depending solely upon its size and mass, with which we should have to discharge a projectile, in order to prevent the attraction of that body from pulling the projectile back again.

It is a simple matter of calculation to determine this "critical velocity" for any celestial body. The greater the body the greater in general must be the initial speed which will enable the projectile to forsake for ever the globe from which it has been discharged. As we have already indicated, this speed is about seven miles per second on the earth. It would be three on the planet Mercury, three and a half on Mars, twenty-two on Saturn, and thirty-seven on Jupiter; while for a missile to depart from the sun without prospect of return, it must leave the brilliant surface at a speed not less than 391 miles per second.

Supposing that a quantity of free hydrogen was present in our atmosphere, its molecules would move with an average velocity of about one mile per second. It would occasionally happen by a combination of circumstances that a molecule would attain a speed which exceeded seven miles a second. If this happened on the confines of the atmosphere where it escaped collision with other molecules, the latter object would fly off into space, and would not be recaptured by the earth. By incessant repetitions of this process, in the course of countless ages, all the molecules of hydrogen gas would escape from the earth, and in this manner we may explain the fact that there is no free hydrogen present in the earth's atmosphere.[10]

The velocities which can be attained by the molecules of gases other than hydrogen are far too small to permit of their escape from the attraction of the earth. We therefore find oxygen, nitrogen, water vapour, and carbon dioxide remaining as permanent components of our air. On the other hand, the enormous mass of the sun makes the "critical velocity" at the surface of that body to be so great (391 miles per second) that not even the molecules of hydrogen can possibly emulate it. Consequently, as we have seen, hydrogen is a most important component of the sun's atmospheric envelope.

If we now apply this reasoning to the moon, the critical velocity is found by calculation to be only a mile and a half per second. This seems to be well within the maximum velocities attainable by the molecules of oxygen, nitrogen, and other gases. It therefore follows that none of these gases could remain permanently to form an atmosphere at the surface of so small a body as the moon. This seems to be the reason why there are no present traces of any distinct gaseous surroundings to our satellite.

The absence of air and of water from the moon explains the sublime ruggedness of the lunar scenery. We know that on the earth the action of wind and of rain, of frost and of snow, is constantly tending to wear down our mountains and reduce their asperities. No such agents are at work on the moon. Volcanoes sculptured the surface into its present condition, and, though they have ceased to operate for ages, the traces of their handiwork seem nearly as fresh to-day as they were when the mighty fires were extinguished.

"The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples" have but a brief career on earth. It is chiefly the incessant action of water and of air that makes them vanish like the "baseless fabric of a vision." On the moon these causes of disintegration and of decay are all absent, though perhaps the changes of temperature in the transition from lunar day to lunar night would be attended with expansions and contractions that might compensate in some slight degree for the absence of more potent agents of dissolution.

It seems probable that a building on the moon would remain for century after century just as it was left by the builders. There need be no glass in the windows, for there is no wind and no rain to keep out. There need not be fireplaces in the rooms, for fuel cannot burn without air. Dwellers in a lunar city would find that no dust could rise, no odours be perceived, no sounds be heard.

Man is a creature adapted for life under circumstances which are very narrowly limited. A few degrees of temperature more or less, a slight variation in the composition of air, the precise suitability of food, make all the difference between health and sickness, between life and death. Looking beyond the moon, into the length and breadth of the universe, we find countless celestial globes with every conceivable variety of temperature and of constitution. Amid this vast number of worlds with which space is tenanted, are there any inhabited by living beings? To this great question science can make no response: we cannot tell. Yet it is impossible to resist a conjecture. We find our earth teeming with life in every part. We find life under the most varied conditions that can be conceived. It is met with under the burning heat of the tropics and in the everlasting frost at the poles. We find life in caves where not a ray of light ever penetrates. Nor is it wanting in the depths of the ocean, at the pressure of tons on the square inch. Whatever may be the external circumstances, Nature generally provides some form of life to which those circumstances are congenial.

It is not at all probable that among the million spheres of the universe there is a single one exactly like our earth—like it in the possession of air and of water, like it in size and in composition. It does not seem probable that a man could live for one hour on any body in the universe except the earth, or that an oak-tree could live in any other sphere for a single season. Men can dwell on the earth, and oak-trees can thrive therein, because the constitutions of the man and of the oak are specially adapted to the particular circumstances of the earth.

Could we obtain a closer view of some of the celestial bodies, we should probably find that they, too, teem with life, but with life specially adapted to the environment—life in forms strange and weird; life far stranger to us than Columbus found it to be in the New World when he first landed there. Life, it may be, stranger than ever Dante described or DorÉ sketched. Intelligence may also have a home among those spheres no less than on the earth. There are globes greater and globes less—atmospheres greater and atmospheres less. The truest philosophy on this subject is crystallised in the language of Tennyson:—