LIGHT SCIENCE FOR LEISURE HOURS.
The brilliant streamers of coloured light which wave at certain seasons over the heavens have long since been recognised as among the most singular and impressive of all the phenomena which the skies present to our view. There is something surpassingly beautiful in the appearance of the true ‘auroral curtain.’ Fringed with coloured streamers, it waves to and fro as though shaken by some unseen hand. Then from end to end there pass a succession of undulations, the folds of the curtain interwrapping and forming a series of graceful curves. Suddenly, and as by magic, there succeeds a perfect stillness, as though the unseen power which had been displaying the varied beauties of the auroral curtain were resting for a moment. But even while the motion of the curtain is stilled we see its light mysteriously waxing and waning. Then, as we gaze, fresh waves of disturbance traverse the magic canopy. Startling coruscations add splendour to the scene, while the noble span of the auroral arch, from which the waving curtain seems to depend, gives a grandeur to the spectacle which no words can adequately describe. Gradually, however, the celestial fires which have illuminated the gorgeous arch seem to die out. The luminous zone breaks up. The scene of the display becomes covered with scattered streaks and patches of ashen grey light, which hang like clouds over the northern heavens. Then these in turn disappear, and nothing remains of the brilliant spectacle but a dark smoke-like segment on the horizon.
Such is the aurora as seen in arctic or antarctic regions, where the phenomenon appears in its fullest beauty. Even in our own latitudes, however, strikingly beautiful auroral displays may sometimes be witnessed. Yet those who have seen the spectacle presented near the true home of the aurora, recognise in other auroras a want of the fulness and splendour of colour which form the most striking features of the arctic and antarctic auroral curtains.
Physicists long since recognised in the aurora a phenomenon of more than local, of more even than terrestrial, significance. They learned to associate it with relations which affect the whole planetary scheme. Let us inquire how this had come about.
So long as men merely studied the appearances presented by the aurora, so long, in fact, as they merely regarded the phenomenon as a local display, they could form no adequate conception of its importance. The circumstance which first revealed something of the true character of the aurora was one which seemed to promise little.
Arago was engaged in watching from day to day, and from year to year, the vibrations of the magnetic needle in the Paris Observatory. He traced the slow progress of the needle to its extreme westerly variation, and watched its course as it began to retrace its way towards the true north. He discovered the minute vibration which the needle makes each day across its mean position. He noticed that this vibration is variable in extent, and so he was led to watch it more closely. Thus he had occasion to observe more attentively than had yet been done the sudden irregularities which occasionally characterise the daily movements of the needle.
All this seems to have nothing to do with the auroral streamers; but we now reach the important discovery which rewarded Arago’s patient watchfulness.
In January 1819 he published a statement to the effect that the sudden changes of the magnetic needle are often associated with the occurrence of an aurora. I give the statement in his own words, as translated by General Sabine:—‘Auroras ought to be placed in the first rank among the causes which sometimes disturb the regular march of the diurnal changes of the magnetic needle. These do not, even in summer, exceed a quarter of a degree, but when an aurora appears, the magnetic needle is often seen to move in a few instants over several degrees.’ ‘During an aurora,‘ he adds, ‘one often sees in the northern region of the heavens luminous streamers of different colours shoot from all points of the horizon. The point in the sky to which these streamers converge is precisely the point to which a magnetised needle suspended by its centre of gravity directs itself.... It has, moreover, been shown that the concentric circular segments, almost similar in form to the rainbow, which are usually seen previous to the appearance of the luminous streamers, have their two extremities resting on two parts of the horizon which are equally distant from the direction towards which the needle turns; and the summit of each arc lies exactly in that direction. From all this, it appears, incontestably, that there is an intimate connection between the causes of auroras and those of terrestrial magnetism.’
This strange hypothesis was, at first, much opposed by scientific men. Amongst others, the late Sir David Brewster pointed out a variety of objections, some of which appeared at first sight of great force. Thus, he remarked that magnetic disturbances of the most remarkable character have often been observed when no aurora has been visible; and he noticed certain peculiarities in the auroras observed near the polar regions, which did not seem to accord with Arago’s view.
But gradually it was found that physicists had mistaken the character of the auroral display. It appeared that the magnetic needle not only swayed responsively to auroras observable in the immediate neighbourhood, but to auroras in progress hundreds or even thousands of miles away. Nay, as inquiry progressed, it was discovered that the needles in our northern observatories are swayed by influences associated even with the occurrence of auroras around the southern polar regions.
In fact, not only have the difficulties pointed out (very properly, it need hardly be remarked) by Sir David Brewster been wholly removed; but it has been found that a much closer bond of sympathy exists between the magnetised needle and the auroral streamers than even Arago had supposed. It is not merely the case that while an auroral display is in progress the needle is subject to unusual disturbance, but the movements of the needle are actually synchronous with the waving movements of the mysterious streamers. An aurora may be in progress in the north of Europe, or even in Asia or America, and as the coloured banners wave to and fro, the tiny needle, watched by patient observers at Greenwich or Paris, will respond to every phase of the display.
And I may notice in passing that two very interesting conclusions follow from this peculiarity. First, every magnetic needle over the whole earth must be simultaneously disturbed; and secondly, the auroral streamers which wave across the skies of one country must move synchronously with those which are visible in the skies of another country, even though thousands of miles may separate the two regions.
But I must pass on to consider further the circumstances which give interest and significance to the strange discovery which is the subject of this paper.
Could we only associate auroras with terrestrial magnetism, we should still have done much to enhance the interest which the beautiful phenomenon is calculated to excite. But when once this association has been established, others of even greater interest are brought into recognition. For terrestrial magnetism has been clearly shown to be influenced directly by the action of the sun. The needle in its daily vibration follows the sun, not indeed through a complete revolution, but as far as the influence of other forces will permit. This has been abundantly confirmed, and is a fact of extreme importance in the theory of terrestrial magnetism. Wherever the sun may be, either on the visible heavens or on that half of the celestial sphere which is at the moment beneath the horizon, the end of the needle nearest to the sun makes an effort (so to speak) to point more directly towards the great ruling centre of the planetary scheme. Seeing, then, that the daily vibration of the needle is thus caused, we recognise the fact that the disturbances of the daily vibration may be referred to some peculiarity of the solar action.
It was not, therefore, so surprising as many have supposed, that the increase and diminution of these disturbances, in a period of about eleven years, should be found to correspond with the increase and diminution of the number of solar spots in a period of equal length.
We already begin to see, then, that auroras are associated in some mysterious way with the action of the solar rays. The phenomenon which had been looked on for so many ages as a mere spectacle, caused perhaps by some process in the upper regions of the air, of a simply local character, has been brought into the range of planetary phenomena. As surely as the brilliant planets which deck the nocturnal skies are illuminated by the same orb which gives us our days and seasons, so they are subject to the same mysterious influence which causes the northern banners to wave resplendently over the star-lit depths of heaven. Nay, it is even probable that every flicker and coruscation of our auroral displays corresponds with similar manifestations upon every planet which travels round the sun. It becomes, then, a question of exceeding interest to inquire what is the nature of the mysterious apparition which from time to time illuminates our skies. We have learnt something of the laws according to which the aurora appears; but what is its true nature? What sort of light is that which illuminates the heavens? Is there some process of combustion going on in the upper regions of our atmosphere? Or are the auroral streamers electric or phosphorescent? Or, lastly, is the light simply solar light reflected from some substance which exists at an enormous elevation above the earth?
All these views have from time to time found supporters among scientific men. It need hardly be said that what we now know of the association between auroral action and some form of solar disturbance, would at once enable us to reject some of these hypotheses. But we need not discuss the subject from this point of view, because a mode of research has recently been rendered available which at once answers our inquiries as to the general character of any kind of light. I proceed to consider the application of this method to the light from the auroral streamers.
The spectroscope, or, as we may term the instrument, the ‘light-sifter,’ tells us of what nature an object which is a source of light may be. If the object is a luminous solid or liquid, the instrument converts its light into a rainbow-coloured streak. If the object is a luminous vapour, its light is converted into a few bright lines. And lastly, if the object is a luminous solid or liquid shining through any vapours, the rainbow-coloured streak again makes its appearance, but it is now crossed by dark lines, corresponding to the vapours which surround the object and absorb a portion of its light.
But I must not omit to notice two circumstances which render the interpretation of a spectrum somewhat less simple than it would otherwise be.
In the first place, if an object is shining by reflected light its spectrum is precisely similar to that of the object whose light illuminates it. Thus we cannot pronounce positively as to the nature of an object merely from the appearance of its spectrum, unless we are quite certain that the object is self-luminous. For example, we observe the solar spectrum to be a rainbow-coloured streak crossed by a multitude of dark lines, and we conclude accordingly that the sun is an incandescent globe shining through a complex vaporous atmosphere. We feel no doubt on this point, because we are absolutely certain that the sun is self-luminous. Again, we observe the spectrum of the moon to be exactly similar to the solar spectrum, only, of course, much less brilliant. And here also we feel no doubt in interpreting the result. We know, certainly, that the moon is not self-luminous, and therefore we conclude with the utmost certainty that the light we receive from her is simply reflected solar light. So far all is clear. But now take the case of an object like a comet, which may or may not be self-luminous. If we find that a comet’s spectrum resembles the sun’s—and this is not altogether a hypothetical case, for a portion of the light of every comet yet examined does in reality give a rainbow-coloured streak resembling the solar spectrum—we cannot form, in that case, any such positive conclusion. The comet may be a self-luminous body; but, on the other hand, its light may be due merely to the reflection of the solar beams. Accordingly, the spectroscopist always accompanies the record of such an observation with an expression of doubt as to the real nature of the object which is the source of light.
Secondly, when an electric spark flashes through any vapour, its light gives a spectrum which indicates the nature, not only of the vapour through which the spark has passed, but of the substances between which the spark has travelled. Thus, if we cause an electric flash to pass between iron points through common air, we see in the spectrum the numerous bright lines which form the spectrum of iron, and in addition we see the bright lines belonging to the gases which form our atmosphere.
Both the considerations above discussed are of the utmost importance in studying the subject of the auroral light as analysed by the spectroscope, because there are many difficulties in forming a general opinion as to the nature of the auroral light, while there are circumstances which would lead us to anticipate that the light is electric.
I notice also in passing that we owe to the Swedish physicist Ångström a large share of the researches on which the above results respecting the spectrum of the electric spark are founded. The reader will presently see why I have brought Ångström’s name prominently forward in connection with the interesting branch of spectroscopic analysis just referred to. If the discovery we are approaching had been effected by a tyro in the use of the spectroscope, doubts might very reasonably have been entertained respecting the exactness of the observations on which the discovery rests.
It was suggested many years ago, long indeed before the true powers of spectroscopic analysis had been revealed, that perhaps if the light of the aurora were analysed by the prism, evidence could be obtained of its electric nature. The eminent meteorologist Dové remarked, for instance, that ‘the peculiarities presented by the electric light are so marked that it appears easy to decide definitely by prismatic analysis whether the light of the aurora is or is not electric.’ Singularly enough, however, the first proof that the auroral light is of an electric nature was derived from a very different mode of inquiry. Dr. Robinson, of Armagh, discovered in 1858 (a year before Kirchhoff’s recognition of the powers of spectroscopic analysis) that the light of the aurora possesses in a peculiar degree a property termed fluorescence, which is a recognised and characteristic property of the light produced by electrical discharges. ‘These effects,’ he remarks of the appearances presented by the auroral light under the tests he applied, ‘were so strong in relation to the actual intensity of the light, that they appear to afford an additional evidence of the electric origin of the phenomenon.’
Passing over this ingenious application of one of the most singular and interesting properties of light, we find that the earliest determination of the real nature of the auroral light—or rather of its spectrum—was that effected by Ångström. This observer took advantage of the occurrence of a brilliant aurora in the winter of 1867-68 to analyse the spectrum of the coloured streamers. A single bright line only was seen! Otto Struve, an eminent Russian astronomer, shortly afterwards made confirmatory observations. At the meeting of the Royal Astronomical Society in June, 1868, Mr. Huggins thus described Struve’s results:—‘In a letter, M. Otto Struve has informed me that he has had two good opportunities of observing the spectrum of the aurora borealis. The spectrum consists of one line, and the light is therefore monochromatic. The line falls near the margin of the yellow and green portions of the spectrum.... This shows that the monochromatic light is greenish, which surprised me; but General Sabine tells me that in his polar expeditions he has frequently seen the aurora tinged with green, and this appearance corresponds with the position of the line seen by M. Struve.’
The general import of this observation there is no mistaking. It teaches us that the light of the aurora is due to luminous vapour, and we may conclude, with every appearance of probability, that the luminosity of the vapour is due to the passage of electric discharges through it. It is, however, possible that the position of the bright line may be due to the character of the particles between which the discharges take place.
But the view we are to take must depend upon the position of the line. Here a difficulty presents itself. There is no known terrestrial element whose spectrum has a bright line precisely in the position of the line in the auroral spectrum. And mere proximity has no significance whatever in spectroscopic analysis. Two elements differing as much from each other in character as iron and hydrogen may have lines so closely approximating in position that only the most powerful spectroscope can indicate the difference. So that when Ångström remarks that the bright line he has seen lies slightly to the left of a well-known group of lines belonging to the metal calcium (the principal ingredient of common chalk), we are by no means to infer that he supposes the substance which causes the presence of the bright line has any resemblance to that element. Until we can find an element which has a bright line in its spectrum absolutely coincident with the bright line detected by Ångström in the spectrum of the aurora,[1] all speculation as to the real nature of the vapour in which the auroral electric discharge takes place, or of the substances between which the spark travels, is altogether precluded.
It was supposed after the total solar eclipse of 1869 that the spectrum of the sun’s corona exhibited the same bright lines as the aurora. But recent observations show that the coincidence is not so close as had been supposed, and, in fact, there is no evidence to show that the lines are the same.
(From Fraser’s Magazine, February 1870.)
There is a very prevalent but erroneous opinion that the magnetic needle points to the north. I remember well how I discovered in my boyhood that the needle does not point to the north, for the discovery was impressed upon me in a very unpleasant manner. I had purchased a pocket-compass, and was very anxious—not, indeed, to test the instrument, since I placed implicit reliance upon its indications—but to make use of it as a guide across unknown regions. Not many miles from where I lived lay Cobham Wood, no very extensive forest certainly, but large enough to lose oneself in. Thither, accordingly, I proceeded with three schoolfellows. When we had lost ourselves, we gleefully called the compass into action, and made from the wood in a direction which we supposed would lead us home. We travelled on with full confidence in our pocket guide; at each turning we consulted it in an artistic manner, carefully poising it and waiting till its vibrations ceased. But when we had travelled some two or three miles without seeing any house or road that we recognised, matters assumed a less cheerful aspect. We were unwilling to compromise our dignity as ‘explorers’ by asking the way—a proceeding which no precedent in the history of our favourite travellers allowed us to think of. But evening came on, and with it a summer thunder-storm. We were getting thoroughly tired out, and the hæc olim meminisse juvabit with which we had been comforting ourselves began to lose its force. When at length we yielded, we learned that we had gone many miles out of our road, and we did not reach home till several hours after dark. Also the offending compass was confiscated by justly indignant parents, so that for a long while the cause of our troubles was a mystery to us. In reality, instead of pointing due north, the compass pointed more than 20° towards the west, or nearly to the quarter called by sailors north-north-west. No wonder, therefore, that we went astray when we followed a guide so untrustworthy.
The peculiarity that the magnet needle does not, in general, point to the north, is the first of a series of peculiarities which I now propose briefly to describe. The irregularity is called by sailors the needle’s variation, but the term more commonly used by scientific men is the declination of the needle. It was probably discovered a long time ago, for 800 years before our era the Chinese applied the magnet’s directive force to guide them in journeying over the great Asiatic plains, and they must soon have detected so marked a peculiarity. Instead of a ship’s compass, they made use of a magnetic car, on the front of which a floating needle carried a small figure, whose outstretched arm pointed southwards. We have no record, however, of their discovery of the declination, and know only that they were acquainted with it in the twelfth century. The declination was discovered, independently, by European observers in the thirteenth century.
As we travel from place to place, the declination of the needle is found to vary. Christopher Columbus was the first to detect this. He discovered it on the 13th of September, 1492, during his first voyage, and when he was six hundred miles from Ferro, the most westerly of the Canary Islands. He found that the declination, which was towards the east in Europe, passed to the west, and increased continually as he travelled westwards.
But here we see the first trace of a yet more singular peculiarity. I have said that at present the declination is towards the west in Europe. In Columbus’s time it was towards the east. Thus we learn that the declination varies with the progress of time, as well as with change of place.
The genius of modern science is a weighing and a measuring one. Men are not satisfied nowadays with knowing that a peculiarity exists; they seek to determine its extent, how far it is variable—whether from time to time or from place to place, and so on. Now the results of such inquiries applied to the magnetic declination have proved exceedingly interesting.
We find, first, that the world may be divided into two unequal portions, over one of which the needle has a westerly, and over the other an easterly, declination. Along the boundary line, of course, the needle points due north. England is situated in the region of westerly magnets. This region includes all Europe, except the north-eastern parts of Russia; Turkey, Arabia, and the whole of Africa; the greater part of the Indian Ocean, and the western parts of Australia; nearly the whole of the Atlantic Ocean; Greenland, the eastern parts of Canada, and a small slice from the north-eastern part of Brazil. All these form one region of westerly declination; but, singularly enough, there lies in the very heart of the remaining and larger region of easterly magnets an oval space of a contrary character. This space includes the Japanese Islands, Manchouria, and the eastern parts of China. It is very noteworthy also, that in the westerly region the declination is much greater than in the easterly. Over the whole of Asia, for instance, the needle points almost due north. On the contrary, in the north of Greenland and of Baffin’s Bay, the magnetic needle points due west; while still further to the north (a little westerly), we find the needle pointing with its north end directly towards the south.
In the presence of these peculiarities, it would be pleasant to speculate. We might imagine the existence of powerfully magnetic veins in the earth’s solid mass, coercing the magnetic needle from a full obedience to the true polar summons. Or the comparative effects of oceans and of continents might be called into play. But unfortunately for all this, we have to reconcile views founded on fixed relations presented by the earth with the process of change indicated above. Let us consider the declination in England alone.
In the fifteenth century there was an easterly declination. This gradually diminished, so that in about the year 1657 the needle pointed due north. After this the needle pointed towards the west, and continually more and more, so that scientific men, having had experience only of a continual shifting of the needle in one direction, began to form the opinion that this change would continue, so that the needle would pass, through north-west and west, to the south. In fact, it was imagined that the motion of the needle would resemble that of the hands of a watch, only in a reversed direction. But before long observant men detected a gradual diminution in the needle’s westerly motion. Arago, the distinguished French astronomer and physicist, was the first (I believe) to point out that ‘the progressive movement of the magnetic needle towards the west appeared to have become continually slower of late years’ (he wrote in 1814), ‘which seemed to indicate that after some little time longer it might become retrograde.’ Three years later, namely, on the 10th of February, 1817, Arago asserted definitively that the retrograde movement of the magnetic needle had commenced to be perceptible. Colonel Beaufoy at first oppugned Arago’s conclusion, for he found from observations made in London, during the years 1817-1819, that the westerly motion still continued. But he had omitted to take notice of the circumstance, that London and Paris are two different places. A few years later the retrograde motion became perceptible at London also, and it has now been established by the observations of forty years. It appears, from a careful comparison of Beaufoy’s observations, that the needle reached the limit of its western digression (at Greenwich) in March 1819, at which time the declination was very nearly 25°. In Paris, on the contrary, the needle had reached its greatest western digression (about 22½°) in 1814. It is rather singular that although at Paris the retrograde motion thus presented itself five years earlier than in London, the needle pointed due north at Paris six years later than in London, viz., in 1663. Perhaps the greater amplitude of the needle’s London digression may explain this peculiarity.
‘It was already sufficiently difficult,’ says Arago, ‘to imagine what could be the kind of change in the constitution of the globe which could act during one hundred and fifty-three years in gradually transferring the direction of the magnetic needle from due north to 23° west of north. We see that it is now necessary to explain, moreover, how it has happened that this gradual change has ceased, and has given place to a return towards the preceding state of the globe.‘ ‘How is it,’ he pertinently asks, ‘that the directive action of the globe, which clearly must result from the action of molecules of which the globe is composed, can be thus variable, while the number, position, and temperature of these molecules, and, as far as we know, all their other physical properties, remain constant?’
But we have considered only a single region of the earth’s surface. Arago’s opinion will seem still juster when we examine the change which has taken place in what we may term the ‘magnetic aspect’ of the whole globe. The line which separates the region of westerly magnets from the region of easterly magnets now runs, as we have said, across Canada and eastern Brazil in one hemisphere, and across Russia, Asiatic Turkey, the Indian Ocean, and West Australia in the other, besides having an outlying oval to the east of the Asiatic continent. These lines have swept round a part of the globe’s circuit in a most singular manner since 1600. They have varied alike in direction and complexity. The Siberian oval, now distinct, was in 1787 merely a loop of the eastern line of no declination. The oval appears now to be continually diminishing, and will one day probably disappear.
We find here presented to us a phenomenon as mysterious, as astonishing, and as worthy of careful study as any embraced in the wide domains of science. But other peculiarities await our notice.
If a magnetic needle of suitable length be carefully poised on a fine point,—or better, be suspended from a silk thread without torsion,—it will be found to exhibit each day two small but clearly perceptible oscillations. M. Arago, from a careful series of observations, deduced the following results:—
At about eleven at night, the north end of the needle begins to move from west to east, and having reached its greatest easterly excursion at about a quarter-past eight in the morning, returns towards the west to attain its greatest westerly excursion at a quarter-past one. It then moves again to the east, and having reached its greatest easterly excursion at half-past eight in the evening, returns to the west, and attains its greatest westerly excursion at eleven, as at starting.
Of course, these excursions take place on either side of the mean position of the needle, and as the excursions are small, never exceeding the fifth part of a degree, while the mean position of the needle lies some 20° to the west of north, it is clear that the excursions are only nominally eastern and western, the needle pointing throughout, far to the west.
Now, if we remember that the north end of the needle is that farthest from the sun, it will be easy to trace in M. Arago’s results a sort of effort on the part of the needle to turn towards the sun—not merely when that luminary is above the horizon, but during his nocturnal path also.
We are prepared, therefore, to expect that a variation having an annual period, shall appear, on a close observation of our suspended needle. Such a variation has been long since recognised. It is found that in the summer of both hemispheres, the daily variation is exaggerated, while in winter it is diminished.
But besides the divergence of a magnetised needle from the north pole, there is a divergence from the horizontal position which must now claim our attention. If a non-magnetic needle be carefully suspended so as to rest horizontally, and be then magnetised, it will be found no longer to preserve that position. The northern end dips very sensibly. This happens in our hemisphere. In the southern, it is the southern end which dips. It is clear, therefore, that if we travel from one hemisphere to the other we must find the northern dip of the needle gradually diminishing, till at some point near the equator the needle is horizontal; and as we pass thence to southern regions, a gradually increasing southern inclination is presented. This has been found to be the case, and the position of the line along which there is no inclination (called the magnetic equator) has been traced around the globe. It is not coincident with the earth’s equator, but crosses that circle at an angle of twelve degrees, passing from north to south of the equator in long. 3° west of Greenwich, and from south to north in long. 187° east of Greenwich. The form of the line is not exactly that of a great circle, but presents here and there (and especially where it crosses the Atlantic) perceptible excursions from such a figure.
At two points on the earth’s globe the needle will rest in a vertical position. These are the magnetic poles of the earth. The northern magnetic pole was reached by Sir J. G. Ross, and lies in 70° N. lat. and 263° E. long., that is, to the north of the American continent, and not very far from Boothia Gulf. One of the objects with which Ross set out on his celebrated expedition to the Antarctic Seas was the discovery, if possible, of the southern magnetic pole. In this he was not successful. Twice he was in hopes of attaining his object, but each time he was stopped by a barrier of land. He approached so near, however, to the pole, that the needle was inclined at an angle of nearly ninety degrees to the horizon, and he was able to assign to the southern pole a position in 75° S. lat., 154° E. long. It is not probable, we should imagine, that either pole is fixed, since we shall now see that the inclination, like the declination of the magnetic needle, is variable from time to time, as well as from place to place; and in particular, the magnetic equator is apparently subjected to a slow but uniform process of change.
Arago tells us that the inclination of the needle at Paris has been observed to diminish year by year since 1671. At that time the inclination was no less than 75°; in other words, the needle was inclined only 15° to the vertical. In 1791 the inclination was less than 71°. In 1831 it was less than 68°. In like manner, the inclination at London has been observed to diminish, from 72° in 1786 to 70° in 1804, and thence to 68° at the present time.
It might be anticipated from such changes as these that the magnetic equator would be found to be changing in position. Nay, we can even guess in which way it must be changing. For since the inclination is diminishing at London and Paris, the magnetic equator must be approaching these places, and this (in the present position of the curve) can only happen by a gradual shifting of the magnetic equator from east to west along the true equator. This motion has been found to be really taking place. It is supposed that the movement is accompanied by a change of form, but more observations are necessary to establish this interesting point.
Can it be doubted that while these changes are taking place, the magnetic poles also are slowly shifting round the true pole? Must not the northern pole, for instance, be further from Paris now that the needle is inclined more than 23° from the vertical, than in 1671, when the inclination was only 15°? It appears obvious that this must be so, and we deduce the interesting conclusion that each of the magnetic poles is rotating around the earth’s axis.
But there is another peculiarity of the needle which is as noteworthy as any of those I have mentioned. I refer to the intensity of the magnetic action—the energy with which the needle seeks its position of rest. This is not only variable from place to place, but from time to time, and is further subject to sudden changes of a very singular character.
It might be expected that where the dip is greater, the directive energy of the magnet would be proportionately great. And this is found to be approximately the case. Accordingly, the magnetic equator is very nearly coincident with the ‘equator of least intensity,’ but not exactly. As we approach the magnetic poles we find a more considerable divergence, so that instead of there being a northern pole of greatest intensity nearly coincident with the northern magnetic pole, which we have seen lies to the north of the American continent, there are two northern poles, one in Siberia nearly at the point where the river Lena crosses the Arctic circle, the other not so far to the north—only a few degrees north, in fact, of Lake Superior. In the south, in like manner, there are also two poles, one on the Antarctic circle, about 130° E. long., in Adélie Land, the other not yet precisely determined, but supposed to lie on about the 240th degree of longitude, and south of the Antarctic circle. Singularly enough, there is a line of lower intensity running right round the earth along the valleys of the two great oceans, ‘passing through Behring’s Straits and bisecting the Pacific, on one side of the globe, and passing out of the Arctic Sea by Spitsbergen and down the Atlantic, on the other.’
Colonel Sabine discovered that the intensity of the magnetic action varies during the course of the year. It is greatest in December and January in both hemispheres. If the intensity had been greatest in winter, one would have been disposed to have assigned seasonal variation of temperature as the cause of the change. But as the epoch is the same for both hemispheres, we must seek another cause. Is there any astronomical element which seems to correspond with the law discovered by Sabine? There is one very important element. The position of the perihelion of the earth’s orbit is such that the earth is nearest to the sun on about the 31st of December or the 1st of January. There seems nothing rashly speculative, then, in concluding that the sun exercises a magnetic influence on the earth, varying according to the distance of the earth from the sun. Nay, Sabine’s results seem to point very distinctly to the law of variation. For, although the number of observations is not as yet very great and the extreme delicacy of the variation renders the determination of its amount very difficult, enough has been done to show that in all probability the sun’s influence varies according to the same law as gravity—that is, inversely as the square of the distance.
That the sun, the source of light and heat, and the great gravitating centre of the solar system, should exercise a magnetic influence upon the earth, and that this influence should vary according to the same law as gravity, or as the distribution of light and heat, will not appear perhaps very surprising. But the discovery by Sabine that the moon exercises a distinctly traceable effect upon the magnetic needle seems to me a very remarkable one. We receive very little light from the moon, much less (in comparison with the sun’s light) than most persons would suppose, and we get absolutely no perceptible heat from her. Therefore it would seem rather to the influence of mass and proximity that the magnetic disturbances caused by the moon must be ascribed. But if the moon exercises an influence in this way, why should not the planets? We shall see that there is evidence of some such influence being exerted by these bodies.
More mysterious, if possible, than any of the facts I have discussed is the phenomenon of magnetic storms. The needle has been exhibiting for several weeks the most perfect uniformity of oscillation. Day after day, the careful microscopic observation of the needle’s progress has revealed a steady swaying to and fro, such as may be seen in the masts of a stately ship at anchor on the scarce-heaving breast of ocean. Suddenly a change is noted; irregular jerking movements are perceptible, totally distinct from the regular periodic oscillations. A magnetic storm is in progress. But where is the centre of disturbance, and what are the limits of the storm? The answer is remarkable. If the jerking movements observed in places spread over very large regions of the earth—and in some well-authenticated cases over the whole earth—be compared with the local time, it is found that (allowance being made for difference of longitude) they occur precisely at the same instant. The magnetic vibrations thrill in one moment through the whole frame of our earth!
But a very singular circumstance is observed to characterise these magnetic storms. They are nearly always observed to be accompanied by the exhibition of the aurora in high latitudes, northern and southern. Probably they never happen without such a display, but numbers of auroras escape our notice. The converse proposition, however, has been established as an universal one. No great display of the aurora ever occurs without a strongly marked magnetic storm.
Magnetic storms sometimes last for several hours or even days.
Remembering the influence which the sun has been found to exercise upon the magnetic needle, the question will naturally arise, Has the sun anything to do with magnetic storms? We have clear evidence that he has.
On the 1st of September, 1859, Messrs. Carrington and Hodgson were observing the sun, one at Oxford and the other in London. Their scrutiny was directed to certain large spots which, at that time, marked the sun’s face. Suddenly a bright light was seen by each observer to break out on the sun’s surface, and to travel, slowly in appearance, but in reality at the rate of about 7,000 miles in a minute, across a part of the solar disc. Now it was found afterwards that the self-registering magnetic instruments at Kew had made at that very instant a strongly marked jerk. We learned, also, that at that moment a magnetic storm prevailed at the West Indies, in South America, and in Australia. The signalmen in the telegraph stations at Washington and Philadelphia received strong electric shocks; the pen of Bain’s telegraph was followed by a flame of fire; and in Norway the telegraphic machinery was set on fire. At night great auroras were seen in both hemispheres. It is impossible not to connect these startling magnetic indications with the remarkable appearance observed upon the sun’s disc.
But there is other evidence. Magnetic storms prevail more commonly in some years than in others. In those years in which they occur most frequently, it is found that the ordinary oscillations of the magnetic needle are more extensive than usual. Now when these peculiarities had been noticed for many years, it was found that there was an alternate and systematic increase and diminution in the intensity of magnetic action, and that the period of the variation was about eleven years. But at the same time, a diligent observer had been recording the appearance of the sun’s face from day to day and from year to year. He had found that the solar spots are in some years more freely displayed than in others. And he had determined the period in which the spots are successively presented with maximum frequency to be about eleven years. On a comparison of the two sets of observations, it was found (and has now been placed beyond a doubt by many years of continued observation) that magnetic perturbations are most energetic when the sun is most spotted, and vice versâ.
For so remarkable a phenomenon as this, none but a cosmical cause can suffice. We can neither say that the spots cause the magnetic storms nor that the magnetic storms cause the spots. We must seek for a cause producing at once both sets of phenomena. There is as yet no certainty in this matter, but it seems as if philosophers would soon be able to trace in the disturbing action of the planets upon the solar atmosphere the cause as well of the marked period of eleven years as of other less distinctly marked periods which a diligent observation of solar phenomena is beginning to educe.
(From the Cornhill Magazine, June 1868.)
A distinguished French astronomer, author of one of the most fascinating works on popular astronomy that has hitherto appeared, remarks that a man would be looked upon as a maniac who should speak of the influence of Jupiter’s moons upon the cotton trade. Yet, as he proceeds to show, there is an easily traced connection between the ideas which appear at first sight so incongruous. The link is found in the determination of celestial longitude.
Similarly, we should be disposed to wonder at an astronomer who, regarding thoughtfully the stately motion of the sidereal system, as exhibited on a magnified, and, therefore, appreciable scale by a powerful telescope, should speak of the connection between this movement and the intrinsic worth of a sovereign. The natural thought with most men would be that ‘too much learning’ had made the astronomer mad. Yet, when we come to inquire closely into the question of a sovereign’s intrinsic value, we find ourselves led to the diurnal motion of the stars, and that by no very intricate path. For, What is a sovereign? A coin containing so many grains of gold mixed with so many grains of alloy. A grain, we know, is the weight of such and such a volume of a certain standard substance—that is, so many cubic inches, or parts of a cubic inch, of that substance. But what is an inch? It is determined, we find, as a certain fraction of the length of a pendulum vibrating seconds in the latitude of London. A second, we know, is a certain portion of a mean solar day, and is practically determined by a reference to what is called a sidereal day—the interval, namely, between the successive passages by the same star of the celestial meridian of any fixed place. This interval is assumed to be constant, and it has, indeed, been described as the ‘one constant element’ known to astronomers.
We find, then, that there is a connection, and a very important connection, between the motion of the stars and our measures, not merely of value, but of weight, length, volume, and time. In fact, our whole system of weights and measures is founded on the apparent diurnal motion of the sidereal system, that is, on the real diurnal rotation of the earth. We may look on the meridian-plane in which the great transit-telescope of the Greenwich Observatory is made to swing, as the gigantic hand of a mighty dial, a hand which, extending outwards among the stars, traces out for us, by its motion among them, the exact progress of time, and so gives us the means of weighing, measuring, and valuing terrestrial objects with an exactitude which is at present beyond our wants.
The earth, then, is our ‘chief time-piece,’ and it is of the correctness of this giant clock that I am now to speak.
But how can we test a time-piece whose motions we select to regulate every other time-piece? If a man sets his watch every morning by the clock at Westminster, it is clearly impossible for him to test the accuracy of that clock by the motions of his watch. It would, indeed, be possible to detect any gross change of rate; but for the purpose of illustration I assume, what is indeed the case, that the clock is very accurate, and therefore that minute errors only are to be looked for even in long intervals of time. And just as the watch set by a clock cannot be made use of to test the clock for small errors, so our best time-pieces cannot be employed to detect slow variations, if any such exist, in the earth’s rotation-period.
not