Part 27

The spots on Mars are by no means so sharply defined as lunar craters and _maria_; yet they are fundamentally permanent. Some can be recognized from drawings made over two hundred years ago; and these antique records have served modern astronomers to determine with minute accuracy the rotation-period of the planet. Continents are somewhat vaguely outlined. Great tracts of them are of an uncertain and variable hue, as if subject to inundations. This peculiarity, thoroughly certified during the favorable opposition of 1892, makes a strong distinction between Mars and the Earth. Terrestrial oceans keep within the limits assigned to them. On the neighboring planet—as M. Faye observed in 1892—“water seems to march about at its ease,” flooding from time to time regions as wide as France. The imperfect separation of the two elements recalls the conditions prevailing during the terrestrial carboniferous era.

The main part of the land of Mars is situated in the Northern Hemisphere. It covers two-thirds of the entire globular surface. Rather than land, indeed, it should be called a network of land and water. The great continental block—so its orange tint declares it to be—is cut up in all possible directions by an intricate system of what appear to be waterways, running in perfectly straight lines—that is, along great circles of the globe—for distances varying from 350 to upward of 4,000 miles. They are frequently seen in duplicate, strictly parallel companions developing thirty to three hundred miles apart from the original formations. This mysterious phenomenon is evanescent, or rather periodical.

The canals invariably connect two bodies of water; hence they need no locks or hydraulic machinery; their course is on a dead level. The broadest of them are comparable with the Adriatic; those at the limit of visibility, stretching like the finest spider-threads across the disk, have a width of eighteen miles. “The canals,” Schiaparelli says, “may intersect among themselves at all possible angles, but by preference they converge toward the small spots to which we have given the name of lakes. For example, seven are seen to converge in Lacus Phœnicis, eight in Trivium Charontis, six in Lunæ Lacus, and six in Ismenius Lacus.”

These “lakes” evidently form an integral part of the canal system. They resemble huge railway junctions; and the largest of them—the “Eye of Mars” (Schiaparelli’s Lacus Solis)—seems, in Mr. Lowell’s phrase, like the hub of a five-spoked wheel. Mr. W. H. Pickering in 1892, and Mr. Percival Lowell in 1894, were amazed at their extraordinary abundance.

“Scattered over the orange-ochre groundwork of the continental regions of the planet,” the latter wrote, “are any number of dark, round spots. How many there may be it is not possible to state, as the better the seeing, the more of them there seem to be. In spite, however, of their great number, there is no instance of one occurring unconnected with a canal. What is more, there is apparently none which does not lie at the junction of several canals. Reversely, all the junctions appear to be provided with spots.”

Most of these foci are about 120 miles in diameter, and appear most precisely circular when most clearly seen. “Plotted upon a globe,” Mr. Lowell continues, “they and their connecting canals make a most curious network over all the orange-ochre equatorial parts of the planet, a mass of lines and knots, the one marking being as omnipresent as the other. Indeed, the spots are as peculiar and distinctive a feature of Mars as the canals themselves.”

Like the canals, too, they emerge periodically, and in the same but a retarded succession. They “are, therefore, in the first place, seasonal phenomena, and, in the second place, phenomena that depend for their existence upon the prior existence of the canals.”

Mr. Lowell terms them “oases,” and does not shrink from the full implication of the term.

The most important result of the numerous observations of Mars, made during the oppositions of 1892 and 1894, was the recognition of a regular course of change dependent upon the succession of its seasons. Schiaparelli had long anticipated this result; he is commonly in advance of his time. These changes, moreover, when closely watched, are really self-explanatory. The alternate melting of the northern and southern snow-caps initiates and to some extent determines them. As summer advances in either hemisphere, the wasting of the corresponding white calotte can be followed in every minute

## particular. “The snowy regions are then seen to be successively

notched at their edges; black holes and huge fissures are formed in their interiors; great isolated fragments many miles in extent stand out from the principal mass, dissolve, and disappear a little later. In short, the same divisions and movements of these icy fields present themselves to us at a glance that occur during the summer of our own arctic regions.”

Indeed, glaciation on Mars is much less durable than on the earth. In 1894 the southern snow-cap vanished to the last speck 59 days after the solstice and the remnant usually left looks scarcely enough to make a comfortable cap for Ben Nevis. An immense quantity of water is thus set free. The polar seas overflow; gigantic inundations reinforced, doubtless, from other sources, spread to the tropics; Syrtis regions of marsh or bog deepen in hue, and become distinctly aqueous; canals dawn on the sight, and grow into undeniable realities. We seem driven to believe that they discharge the function of flood-emissaries.

Mr. Lowell does not hesitate to pronounce them of artificial formation, and, on that large assumption, the purpose of their connection with his “oases” becomes transparently clear. They bring to these Tadmors in the wilderness the water supply by which they are made to “blossom as the rose.” The junction-spots, we are told, do not enlarge when the vernal freshet reaches them; they only darken through the sudden development of vegetation. These circular “districts, artificially fertilized by the canal system,” are strewn broadcast over vast desert areas, the orange-ochreous sections of Mars, covering the greater part of its surface, but deep buried in the millennial dust of disintegrated red sandstone strata.

“Here, then,” Mr. Lowell remarks, “we have an end and reason for the existence of canals, and the most natural conceivable—namely, that the canals are constructed for the express purpose of fertilizing the oases. When we consider the amazing system of the canal lines, we are carried to this conclusion as forthright as is the water itself; what we see being not the canal itself, indeed, but the vegetation along its banks.”

The proportion of water to land is much smaller on Mars than on the earth. Only two-sevenths of the disk are covered by the dusky areas, and of late the aqueous nature of some, if not all, of these has been seriously called in question. Professor Pickering was convinced by his observations, in 1892 and 1894, “that the permanent water area upon Mars, if it exist at all, is extremely limited in its dimensions.” He estimated it at about half the size of the Mediterranean. Professor Schaeberle is similarly incredulous. If the dark markings are seas, he asks, how explain the irregular gradations of shade in them? How, above all, explain their apparent intersection by well-marked canals? Professor Barnard, observing with the Lick thirty-six inch in 1894, discerned on the Martian surface an astonishing wealth of detail, “so intricate, small, and abundant, that it baffled all attempts to properly delineate it.” It was embarrassing to find these minute features belonging more characteristically to the “seas” than to the “continents.” Under the best conditions, the dark regions lost all trace of uniformity. Their appearance resembled that of a mountainous country, broken by cañon, rift, and ridge, seen from a great elevation. These effects were especially marked in the “ocean” area of the Hour-Glass Sea.

Evidently the relations of solid and liquid in that remote orb are abnormal; they can not be completely explained by terrestrial analogies. Yet a series of well-attested phenomena are intelligible only on the supposition that Mars is, in some real sense, a terraqueous globe. Where snows melt there must be water; and the origin of the Rhone from a great glacier is scarcely more evident to our senses than the dissolution of Martian ice-caps into pools and streams.

The testimony of the spectroscope is to the same effect. Dr. Huggins found, in 1867, the spectrum of Mars impressed with the distinct traces of aqueous absorption, and the fact, although called in question by Professor Campbell of Lick, in 1894, has been reaffirmed both at Tulse Hill and at Potsdam. That clouds form and mists rise in the thin Martian air, admits of doubt. During the latter half of October, 1894, an area much larger than Europe remained densely obscured. Whether or no actual rain was at that time falling over the Maraldi Sea and the adjacent continent it would be useless to conjecture. We only know that with the low barometric pressure at the surface of Mars, the boiling point of water must be proportionately depressed (Flammarion puts it at 115° Fahrenheit), which implies that it evaporates rapidly, and can be transported easily.

If the Martian atmosphere be of the same proportionate mass as that of our earth, it can possess no more than one-seventh its superficial density. That is to say, it is more than twice as tenuous as the air at the summits of the Himalayas. The corresponding height of a terrestrial barometer would be four and a half inches. Owing, however, to the reduced strength of gravity on Mars, this slender envelope is exceedingly extensive. In the pure sky scarcely veiled by it, the sun, diminished to less than half his size at our horizons, probably exhibits his coronal streamers and prominences as a regular part of his noontide glory; atmospheric circulation proceeds so tranquilly as not to trouble the repose of a land “in which it seemeth always afternoon”; no cyclones traverse its surface, only mild trade-winds flow toward the equator, to supply for the volumes of air gently lifted by the power of the sun, to carry reinforcements of water-vapor north and south. Aerial movements are, in fact, by a very strong presumption, of the terrestrial type, but executed with greatly abated vigor.

Brilliant projections above the terminator of Mars were first distinctly perceived at the Lick Observatory in 1890. They have been reobserved at Nice, Arequipa, and Flagstaff (Mr. Lowell’s observatory), coming into view, as a rule, when circumstances concur to favor their visibility. They strictly resemble lunar peaks and craters, catching the first rays of the sun, while the ground about them is still immersed in darkness; and Professor Campbell connects them with “mountain chains lying _across_ the terminator of the planet,” and in some cases possibly snow-covered. He calculates their height at about ten thousand feet. Their presence was unlooked for, since a flat expanse is a condition _sine quâ non_ for the minute intersection of land by water, which seems to prevail on Mars.

Although the sun is less than half as powerful on Mars as it is here, the Martian climate, to outward appearance, compares favorably with our own. Polar glaciation is less extensive and more evanescent, and little snow falls outside the arctic and antarctic regions. Yet the theoretical mean temperature is minus 4° C., or 61° of Fahrenheit below freezing. This means a tremendous ice-grip. The coldest spot on the earth’s surface is considerably warmer than this cruel average. Fortunately, it exists only on paper. Some compensatory store of warmth must then be possessed by Mars, and it can scarcely be provided by its attenuated air. Possibly, internal heat may still be effective, and we see exemplified in Mars the geological period when vines and magnolias flourished in Greenland, and date-palms ripened their fruit on the coast of Hampshire.

The climate of Mars, according to Schiaparelli, “must resemble that of a clear day upon a high mountain. By day a very strong solar radiation hardly at all mitigated by mist or vapor; by night a copious radiation from the soil toward celestial space, and hence a very marked refrigeration; consequently, a climate of extremes, and great changes of temperature from day to night, and from one season to another. And as on the earth, at altitudes of from 17,000 to 20,000 feet, the vapor of the atmosphere is condensed only into the solid form, producing those whitish masses of suspended crystals which we call cirrus-clouds, so in the atmosphere of Mars it would be rarely possible to find collections of cloud capable of producing rain of any consequence. The variation of temperature from one season to another would be notably increased by their long duration, and thus we can understand the great freezing and melting of the snow, renewed in turn at the poles at each complete revolution of the planet round the sun.”

The German astronomer Mädler searched in 1830 for a Martian satellite, and although his telescope was of less than four inches aperture, he satisfied himself that none with a diameter of as much as twenty-three miles could be in existence. As it happened, he was right. The pair of moons detected by Professor Asaph Hall with the Washington twenty-six refractor, August 11 and 17, 1877, are unquestionably below that limit of size. Neither of them can well be more than ten miles across. Their names, “Deimos” and “Phobos,” are taken from the _Iliad_, where Fear and Panic are introduced as attendants upon the God of War. Deimos revolves in 30 hours and 18 minutes at a distance of 14,600 miles from the centre of Mars. And since the planet rotates in 24 hours, 37 minutes, the diurnal motion of the sphere from east to west is so nearly neutralized by the orbital circulation of the satellite from west to east that nearly 132 hours elapse between its rising and its setting. During the interval, it changes four times from new to full, and _vice versâ_.

Phobos is more effective in illumination, both because it is larger and because it is less distant. At the Martian equator, its brightness is equal to 1/60th that of our moon, but beyond 69° of latitude it is permanently shut out from view by the curvature of the globe.

THE PLANETOIDS.—CAMILLE FLAMMARION

On the first day of the last century (January 1, 1801), Piazzi, an astronomer devoted to the sky, was observing at Palermo the small stars of the constellation Taurus, and noting their exact positions, when he remarked one which he had never seen before. The following evening (January 2) he directed his telescope again toward the same region of the sky, and remarked that the star was no longer at the point where he had seen it the day before, and that it had retrograded by 4′. It continued to retrograde up to the 12th, stopped, and then moved in the direct way—that is to say, from west to east. What was this moving star? The idea that it might be a planet did not immediately occur to the mind of the observer, and he took it for a comet, as William Herschel had done in 1781, when he discovered Uranus.

However, the skilful Sicilian observer was a member of an association which had for its special object the search for an unknown planet between Mars and Jupiter. From the earliest times of modern astronomy Kepler had described the disproportion, the void which exists between the orbit of Mars and that of Jupiter. If we omit, in fact, the orbit of the small planets or asteroids, we notice that the four planets, Mercury, Venus, the earth, and Mars, are in some measure crowded quite close to the sun, while Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune extend far into immensity. The law of Titius indicates a number, the number 28, as not being represented by any planet. It was in 1772 that this _savant_ published this relation in a German translation which he had made of the _Contemplation de la Nature_ of Charles Bonnet. Bode, Director of the Berlin Observatory, was so astonished at the coincidence that he announced this arithmetical relation as being a real law of nature, and spoke of it in such a way that it is generally known only by his name. He even organized an association of twenty-four astronomers to explore each hour of the Zodiac and search for the unknown. This systematic exploration had not yet produced any result when, by the merest chance, Piazzi saw his moving star, and at first believed it to be a comet. But on receipt of the news, Bode was convinced that this was the looked-for planet.

The new planet was found to be at the distance 2.77, and to revolve within a few days of the predicted period. Piazzi gave to the new body the name of _Ceres_, the protecting divinity of Sicily in the “good old times” of mythology.

The gap being thus filled up at the distance 28 by the discovery of Ceres, no one thought that other planets might exist there; and if Piazzi had supposed so, he might have at once discovered a dozen of the small bodies which revolve in this region. An astronomer of Bremen, Olbers, observed this planet on the evening of March 28, 1802, when he perceived in the constellation of the Virgin a star of the seventh magnitude which was not marked on Bode’s chart, which he used. The following day he found it had changed its place, and recognized by this fact that it was a second planet. But it was much more difficult to give citizenship to it than to its elder sister, because, the gap being filled up, it was not required, and it was more inconvenient than agreeable. They looked upon it, then, as a comet until its motion proved that it revolved in the same region as Ceres at the distance 2.77, and in 1,685 days (the period of Ceres is 1,681 days). They gave it the name of _Pallas_.

The unexpected discoveries of Ceres and Pallas led astronomers to revise the catalogues of stars and celestial charts. Harding was of the number of the zealous revisers. He was soon rewarded for his trouble. On September 1, 1804, at ten o’clock in the evening, he saw in the constellation of Pisces a star of the eighth magnitude which was not noted in the _Histoire Céleste_ of Lalande. On September 4, he found it had perceptibly changed its place: it was a new planet. It received the name of _Juno_. Its distance from the sun is expressed by the number 2.67, and its revolution is performed in 1,592 days.

After these three discoveries, Olbers, noticing that the orbits of these planets crossed each other in the constellation of the Virgin, advanced the hypothesis that they might be nothing else but fragments of a large shattered planet. Mechanics show that, in this case, the fragments would again pass every year—that is to say, at each of their revolutions—through the spot where the catastrophe took place. Olbers then set himself to explore the constellation Virgo carefully, and found on March 29, 1807, a fourth small planet, to which he gave the name of _Vesta_. Its distance is but 2.36, and its revolution only 1.326 days. This is the brightest of the small planets, and it is sometimes seen with the naked eye (when we know where it is), like a star of the sixth magnitude.

It seems surprising that after these brilliant beginnings thirty-eight years should then have passed without the discovery of a single planet, for it was only in 1845 that the fifth, _Astræa_, was discovered by Hencke (who should not be confused with the astronomer Encke), a simple amateur astronomer, postmaster at Berlin, who amused himself by constructing charts of the stars. The principal reason for this must be attributed to the want of good star-charts, for to find these little moving points the first thing necessary is to have a very precise chart of the region of the Zodiac which we observe, in order to see whether one of the stars observed is in motion. The earliest good Zodiacal charts are those which the Academy of Berlin commenced to publish in 1830, taking as a basis the zones of Bessel continued by Argelander. Those of the Paris Observatory, which are more perfect, were only begun in 1854.

These small planets are all telescopic, invisible to the naked eye, with the exception of Vesta, and sometimes Ceres, which good sight can occasionally succeed in distinguishing; they are of the seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh magnitudes, and even still smaller, and it was for this reason also that so long an interval of time elapsed between the fourth and fifth discoveries. It is probable that all the small planets of any importance are now known, but that a great number—several hundreds, perhaps—still remain to be discovered of which the average brightness does not exceed that of stars of the twelfth magnitude, and of which the diameter is but a few miles. The diameter of the largest, Vesta, may be estimated at 400 kilometres (248 miles).

Hencke found successively the 5th and the 6th in 1845 and 1847; Hind, the English astronomer, the 7th and 8th in 1847; Graham, an English observer, the 9th in 1848; Gasparis, an Italian astronomer, the 10th and 11th in 1849 and 1850, and afterward seven others. Hind has further discovered eight others; Goldschmidt, a German painter (a naturalized Frenchman), discovered fourteen between 1852 and 1861.[27] They are now discovered by swarms; Paliser alone has found sixty-eight since 1874.

The names given to these small bodies commenced with the mythological army of divinities of the earth and ancient heaven; but even before the list had been exhausted certain scientific, or even national or political, circumstances caused the preference to be given to more modern names. It was thus that the 11th, discovered at Naples, received the name of Parthenope; the 12th, discovered in England, that of Victoria; the 20th, that of Massilia; the 21st, that of Lutetia; the 25th, that of Phocæa, before even Urania had been restored to the skies; the 45th was named in honor of the Empress of the French; the 54th, in honor of the illustrious Alexander von Humboldt; etc. The 87th, 107th, 141st, 154th, and 169th have been named in honor of a young astronomer who has devoted his best years to the culture of astronomy.

A rather curious fact is that they have put Wisdom (_Sapientia_) in the sky only at the 275th, discovered in 1888; Bellona has been placed there since the 28th (1854).

Of all this number of planets, the nearest to the sun is No. 149, Medusa, of which the distance is 2.17—that is to say, about twice as far from the sun as the earth; and the most distant is No. 279, Thule, of which the distance is 4.26, about 4¼ times our distance.

A large number of these small bodies are remarkable for their great eccentricity and for their high inclination to the ecliptic, an inclination so great that some of them leave the Zodiac; thus, Pallas (2) goes 34 degrees from the ecliptic; Euphrosyne (31) and Anna (265) and Istria (183), to 26 degrees. They are sometimes northern circumpolar stars, always above the horizon, sometimes southern stars, not arising above the horizon of Paris. All these orbits are so interlaced with each other that, if they were material hoops, we could by means of one or two taken by chance raise all the others.

Are they globes? Yes, doubtless, for the most part. But several among the smaller ones may be polyhedral, and may have proceeded from subsequent explosions; the variations of brightness which have been sometimes observed seem to imply surfaces irregularly broken.