- The Constellations
- Our Star The Sun
- The Comets
- The Earth
- The Contemplation Of The Heavens
- On Methods
- Life Universal And Eternal
- The Moon
- The Stars Suns Of The Infinite
- The Planets
- The Eclipses
- The Planets 2
Among all the celestial phenomena at which it may be our lot to assist during our contemplation of the universe, one of the most magnificent and imposing is undoubtedly that which we are now going to consider.
The hirsute comets, and shooting stars with their graceful flight, captivate us with a mysterious and sometimes fantastic attraction. We gladly allow our thoughts, mute questioners of the mysteries of the firmament, to rest upon the brilliant, golden trail they leave behind them. These unknown travelers bring a message from eternity; they tell us the tale of their distant journeys. Children of space, their ethereal beauty speaks of the immensity of the universe.
The eclipses, on the other hand, are phenomena that touch us more nearly, and take place in our vicinity.
In treating of them, we remain between the Earth and the Moon, in our little province, and witness the picturesque effects of the combined movements of our satellite around us.
Have you ever seen a total eclipse of the Sun?
The sky is absolutely clear: no fraction of cloud shadows the solar rays. The azure vault of the firmament crowns the Earth with a dome of dazzling light. The fires of the orb of day shed their beneficent influence generally upon the world.
Yet, see! The radiance diminishes. The luminous disk of the Sun is gradually corroded. Another disk, as black as ink, creeps in front of it, and little by little invades it entirely. The atmosphere takes on a wan, sepulchral hue; astonished nature is hushed in profound silence; an immense veil of sadness spreads over the world. Night comes on suddenly, and the stars shine out in the Heavens. It seems as though by some mysterious cataclysm the Sun had disappeared forever. But this tribulation is soon over. The divine orb is not extinct. A flaming jet emerges from the shadow, announcing his return, and when he reappears we see that he has lost nothing in splendor or beauty. He is still the radiant Apollo, King of Day, watching over the life of the planetary worlds.
This sudden night, darkening the Heavens in the midst of a fine day, can not fail to produce a vivid impression upon the spectators of the superb phenomenon.
The eclipse lasts only for a few moments, but long enough to make a deep impression upon our minds, and indeed to inspire anxious spirits with terror and agitation—even at this epoch, when we know that there is nothing supernatural or formidable about it.
In former days, Humanity would have trembled, in uneasy consternation. Was it a judgment from Heaven? Must it not be the work of some invisible hand throwing the somber veil of night over the celestial torch?
Had not the Earth strayed off her appointed path, and were we not all to be deprived eternally of the light of our good Sun? Was some monstrous dragon perhaps preparing to devour the orb of day?
The fable of the dragon devouring the Sun or Moon during the eclipses is universal in Asia as in Africa, and still finds acceptance under more than one latitude. But our readers already know that we may identify the terrible celestial dragon with our gentle friend the Moon, who would not be greatly flattered by the comparison.
We saw in the preceding lesson that the Moon revolves round us, describing an almost circular orbit that she travels over in about a month. In consequence of this motion, the nocturnal orb is sometimes between the Sun and the Earth, sometimes behind us, sometimes at a right angle in relation to the Sun and the Earth. Now, the eclipses of the Sun occur invariably at the time of New Moon, when our satellite passes between the Sun and ourselves, and the eclipses of the Moon, at the moment of Full Moon, when the latter is opposite to the Sun, and behind us.
This fact soon enabled the astronomers of antiquity to discover the causes to which eclipses are due.
The Moon, passing at the beginning of its revolution between the Sun and the Earth, may conceal a greater or lesser portion of the orb of day. In this case there is an eclipse of the Sun. On the other hand, when it is on the other side of the Earth in relation to the Sun, at the moment of Full Moon, our planet may intercept the solar rays, and prevent them from reaching our satellite. The Moon is plunged into the shadow of the Earth, and is then eclipsed. Such is the very simple explanation of the phenomenon. But why is there not an eclipse of the Sun at each New Moon, and an eclipse of the Moon at each Full Moon?
If the Moon revolved round us in the same plane as the Earth round the Sun, it would eclipse the Sun at each New Moon, and would be itself eclipsed in our shadow at each Full Moon. But the plane of the lunar orbit dips a little upon the plane of the terrestrial orbit, and the eclipses can only be produced when the New Moon or the Full Moon occur at the line of intersection of these two planes, i.e., when the Sun, the Moon, and the Earth are upon the same straight line. In the majority of cases, instead of interposing itself directly in front of the sovereign of our system, our satellite passes a little above or a little below him, just as its passage behind us is nearly always effected a little above or below the cone of shadow that accompanies our planet, opposite the Sun.
When the Moon intervenes directly in front of the Sun, she arrests the light of the radiant orb, and conceals a greater or less portion of the solar disk. The eclipse is partial if the Moon covers only a portion of the Sun; total if she covers it entirely; annular, if the solar disk is visible all round the lunar disk, as appears when the Moon, in her elliptical orbit, is beyond medium distance, toward the apogee.
On the other hand, when the Moon arrives immediately within the cone of shadow that the Earth projects behind it, it is her turn to be eclipsed. She no longer receives the rays of the Sun, and this deprivation is the more marked in that she owes all her brilliancy to the light of the orb of day. The Moon's obscurity is complete if she is entirely plunged into the cone of shadow. In this case, the eclipse is total. But if a portion of her disk emerges from the cone, that part remains illuminated while the light of the other dies out. In that case there is a partial eclipse, and the rounded form of the Earth's shadow can be seen projected upon our satellite, a celestial witness to the spherical nature of our globe.
Under certain conditions, then, the Moon can deprive us of the luminous rays of the Sun, by concealing the orb of day, and in other cases is herself effaced in crossing our shadow. Despite the fables, fears, and anxieties it has engendered, this phenomenon is perfectly natural: the Moon is only playing hide-and-seek with us—a very harmless amusement, as regards the safety of our planet.
But as we said just now, these phenomena formerly had the power of terrifying ignorant mortals, either when the orb of light and life seemed on the verge of extinction, or when the beautiful Phœbus was covered with a veil of crape and woe, or took on a deep coppery hue.
It would take a volume to describe all the notable events which have been influenced by eclipses, sometimes for good, more often with disastrous consequences. The recital of these tragic stories would not be devoid of interest; it would illustrate the possibilities of ignorance and superstition, and the power man gains from intellectual culture and scientific study.
Herodotus records that the Scythians, having some grievance against Cyaxarus, King of the Medes, revenged themselves by serving up the limbs of one of his children, whom they had murdered, at a banquet as rare game. The scoundrels who committed this atrocious crime took refuge at the Court of the King of Lydia, who was ill judged enough to protect them. War was accordingly declared between the Medes and Lydians, but a total eclipse of the Sun occurring just when the battle was imminent, had the happy effect of disarming the combatants, who prudently retired each to their own country. This eclipse, which seems to have occurred on May 28, 584 B.C., had been predicted by Thales. The French painter Rochegrosse has painted a striking picture of the scene (Fig. 75).
In the year 413 B.C. the Athenian General Nicias prepared to return to Greece after an expedition to Sicily. But, terrified by an eclipse of the Moon, and fearing the malign influence of the phenomenon, he put off his departure, and lost the chance of retreat. This superstition cost him his life. The Greek army was destroyed, and this event marks the commencement of the decadence of Athens.
In 331 B.C. an eclipse of the Moon disorganized the troops of Alexander, near Arbela, and the great Macedonian Captain had need of all his address to reassure his panic-stricken soldiers.
Agathocles, King of Syracuse, blocked by the Carthaginians in the port of this city, had the good fortune to escape, but was disturbed on the second day of his flight by the arrival of a total eclipse of the Sun which alarmed his companions. "What are you afraid of?" said he, spreading his cloak in front of the Sun. "Are you alarmed at a shadow?" (This eclipse seems to be that of August 15, 309, rather than that of March 2, 310.)
Fig. 75.—Battle between the Medes and Lydians arrested by an Eclipse of the Sun.
On June 29, 1033, an epoch at which the approaching end of the world struck terror into all hearts, an annular eclipse of the Sun occurring about midday frustrated the designs of a band of conspirators who intended to strangle the Pope at the altar. This Pope was Benedict IX, a youth of less than twenty, whose conduct is said to have been anything but exemplary. The assassins, terrified at the darkening of the Sun, dared not touch the Pontiff, and he reigned till 1044.
On March 1, 1504, a lunar eclipse saved the life of Christopher Columbus. He was threatened with death by starvation in Jamaica, where the contumacious savages refused to give him provisions. Forewarned of the arrival of this eclipse by the astronomical almanacs, he threatened to deprive the Caribs of the light of the Moon—and kept his word. The eclipse had hardly begun when the terrified Indians flung themselves at his feet, and brought him all that he required.
In all times and among all people we find traces of popular superstitions connected with eclipses. Here, the abnormal absence of the Moon's light is regarded as a sign of divine anger: the humble penitents betake themselves to prayer to ward off the divine anger. There, the cruelty of the dread dragon is to be averted: he must be chased away by cries and threats, and the sky is bombarded with shots to deliver the victim from his monstrous oppressor.
In France the announcement of a solar eclipse for August 21, 1560, so greatly disturbed our ancestors' peace of mind as to make them idiotic. Preparations were made for assisting at an alarming phenomenon that threatened Humanity with deadly consequences! The unhappy eclipse had been preceded by a multitude of ill omens! Some expected a great revolution in the provinces and in Rome, others predicted a new universal deluge, or, on the other hand, the conflagration of the world; the most optimistic thought the air would be contaminated. To preserve themselves from so many dangers, and in accordance with the physicians' orders, numbers of frightened people shut themselves up in tightly closed and perfumed cellars, where they awaited the decrees of Fate. The approach of the phenomenon increased the panic, and it is said that one village curé, being unable to hear the confessions of all his flock, who wanted to discharge their souls of sin before taking flight for a better world, was fain to tell them "there was no hurry, because the eclipse had been put off a fortnight on account of the number of penitents"!
Fig. 76.—Eclipse of the Moon at Laos (February 27, 1877).
These fears and terrors are still extant among ignorant peoples. In the night of February 27, 1877, an eclipse of the Moon produced an indescribable panic among the inhabitants of Laos (Indo-China). In order to frighten off the Black Dragon, the natives fired shots at the half-devoured orb, accompanying their volley with the most appalling yells. Dr. Harmand has memorialized the scene in the lively sketch given on p. 269.
During the solar eclipse of March 15, 1877, an analogous scene occurred among the Turks, who for the moment forgot their preparations for war with Russia, in order to shoot at the Sun, and deliver him from the toils of the Dragon.
The lunar eclipse of December 16, 1880, was not unnoticed at Tackhent (Russian Turkestan), where it was received with a terrific din of saucepans, samovars and various implements struck together again and again by willing hands that sought to deliver the Moon from the demon Tchaitan who was devouring her.
In China, eclipses are the object of imposing ceremonies, whose object is to reestablish the regularity of the celestial motions. Since the Emperor is regarded as the Son of Heaven, his government must in some sort be a reflection of the immutable order of the sidereal harmonies. As eclipses were regarded by astrologers as disturbances of the divine order, their appearance indicates some irregularity in the government of the Celestial Empire. Accordingly, they are received with all kinds of expiatory ceremonies prescribed thousands of years ago, and still in force to-day.
In the twentieth century, as in the nineteenth, the eighteenth, or in ancient epochs, the same awe and terror operates upon the ignorant populations who abound upon the surface of our planet.
To return to astronomical realities.
We said above that these phenomena were produced when the Full Moon and the New Moon reached the line of intersection, known as the line of nodes, when the plane of the lunar orbit cuts the plane of the ecliptic. As this line turns and comes back in the same direction relatively to the Sun at the end of eighteen years, eleven days, we have only to register the eclipses observed during this period in order to know all that will occur in the future, and to find such as happened in the past. This period was known to the Greeks under the name of the Metonic Cycle, and the Chaldeans employed it three thousand years ago under the name of Saros.
On examining this cycle, composed of 223 lunations, we see that there can not be more than seven eclipses in one year, nor less than two. When there are only two, they are eclipses of the Sun.
The totality of a solar eclipse can not last more than seven minutes, fifty-eight seconds at the equator, and six minutes, ten seconds in the latitude of Paris. The Moon, on the contrary, may be entirely eclipsed for nearly two hours.
Eclipses of the Sun are very rare for a definite spot. Thus not one occurred for Paris during the whole of the nineteenth century, the last which happened exactly above the capital of France having been on May 22, 1724. I have calculated all those for the twentieth century, and find that two will take place close to Paris, on April 17, 1912, at eighteen minutes past noon (total for Choisy-le-Roi, Longjumeau, and Dourdan, but very brief: seven seconds), and August 11, 1999, at 10.28 A.M. (total for Beauvais, Compiègne, Amiens, St. Quentin, fairly long: two minutes, seventeen seconds). Paris itself will not be favored before August 12, 2026. In order to witness the phenomenon, one must go and look for it. This the author did on May 28, 1900, in Spain.
The progress of the lunar shadow upon the surface of the Earth is traced beforehand on maps that serve to show the favored countries for which our satellite will dispense her ephemeral night. The above figure shows the trajectory of the total phase of the 1900 eclipse in Portugal, Spain, Algeria, and Tunis.
Fig. 77.—The path of the Eclipse of May 28, 1900.
The immutable splendor of the celestial motions had never struck the author so impressively as during the observation of this grandiose phenomenon. With the absolute precision of astronomical calculations, our satellite, gravitating round the Earth, arrived upon the theoretical line drawn from the orb of day to our planet, and interposed itself gradually, slowly, and exactly, in front of it. The eclipse was total, and occurred at the moment predicted by calculation. Then the obscure globe of the Moon pursued its regular course, discovered the radiant orb behind, and gradually and slowly completed its transit in front of him. Here, to all observers, was a double philosophical lesson, a twofold impression: that of the greatness, the omnipotence of the inexorable forces that govern the universe, and that of the inexorable valor of man, of this thinking atom straying upon another atom, who by the travail of his feeble intelligence has arrived at the knowledge of the laws by which he, like the rest of the world, is borne away through space, through time, and through eternity.
The line of centrality passed through Elche, a picturesque city of 30,000 inhabitants, not far from Alicante, and we had chosen this for our station on account of the probability of fine weather.
From the terrace of the country house of the hospitable Mayor, a farm transformed into an observatory by our learned friend, Count de la Baume Pluvinel, there were no obstacles between ourselves and any part of the sky or landscape. The whole horizon lay before us. In front was a town of Arab aspect framed in a lovely oasis of palm-trees; a little farther off, the blue sea beyond the shores of Alicante and Murcia: on the other side a belt of low mountains, and near us fields and gardens. A Company of the Civic Guard kept order, and prevented the entrance of too many curious visitors, of whom over ten thousand had arrived.
At the moment when the first contact of the lunar disk with the solar disk was observed in the telescope, we fired a gun, in order to announce the precise commencement of the occultation to the 40,000 persons who were awaiting the phenomenon, and to discover what difference would exist between this telescopic observation and those made with the unaided eyes (protected simply by a bit of smoked glass) of so many improvised spectators. This had already been done by Arago at Perpignan in 1842. The verification was almost immediate for the majority of eyes, and may be estimated at eight or ten seconds. So that the commencement of the eclipse was confirmed almost as promptly for the eye as with the astronomical instruments.
The sky was splendidly clear; no cloud, no mist, deep blue; blazing Sun. The first period of the eclipse showed nothing particular. It is only from the moment when more than half the solar disk is covered by the lunar disk that the phenomenon is imposing in its grandeur. At this phase, I called the attention of the people standing in the court to the visibility of the stars, and indicating the place of Venus in the sky asked if any with long sight could perceive her. Eight at once responded in the affirmative. It should be said that the planet was at that time at its period of maximum brilliancy, when for observers blessed with good sight, it is always visible to the unaided eye.
When some three-quarters of the Sun were eclipsed, the pigeons which had flown back to the farm huddled into a corner, and made no further movement. They told me that evening that the fowls had done the same a little later, returning to the hen-house as though it had been night, and that the small children (who were very numerous at Elche, where the population is certainly not diminishing) left off their games, and came back to their mothers' skirts. The birds flew anxiously to their nests. The ants in one garden were excessively agitated, no doubt disconcerted in their strategics. The bats came out.
A few days before the eclipse I had prepared the inhabitants of this part of Spain for the observation of the phenomenon by the following description, which sums up the previous accounts of the astronomers:
"The spectacle of a total eclipse of the Sun is one of the most magnificent and imposing that it is possible to see in nature. At the exact moment indicated by calculation, the Moon arrives in front of the Sun, eats into it gradually, and at last entirely covers it. The light of the day lessens and is transformed. A sense of oppression is felt by all nature, the birds are hushed, the dog takes refuge with his master, the chickens hide beneath their mother's wing, the wind drops, the temperature falls, an appalling stillness is everywhere perceptible, as though the universe were on the verge of some imminent catastrophe. Men's faces assume a cadaverous hue similar to that given at night by the flame of spirits of wine and salt, a livid funereal light, the sinister illumination of the world's last hour.
"At the moment when the last line of the solar crescent disappears, we see, instead of the Sun, a black disk surrounded with a splendid luminous aureole shooting immense jets into space, with roseate flames burning at the base.
"A sudden night has fallen on us, a weird, wan night in which the brightest of the stars are visible in the Heavens. The spectacle is splendid, grandiose, solemn, and sublime."
This impression was actually felt by us all, as may be seen from the following notes, written in my schedule of observation during the event, or immediately after:
"3.50 P.M. Light very weak, sky leaden gray, mountains standing out with remarkable clearness from the horizon, and seeming to approach us.
"3.55 P.M. Fall of temperature very apparent. Cold wind blowing through the atmosphere.
"3.56 P.M. Profound silence through nature, which seems to participate in the celestial phenomenon. Silence in all the groups.
"3.57 P.M. Light considerably diminished, becoming wan, strange, and sinister. Landscape leaden gray, sea looks black. This diminution of light is not that of every day after the sunset. There is, as it were, a tint of sadness spread over the whole of nature. One becomes accustomed to it, and yet while we know that the occultation of the Sun by the Moon is a natural phenomenon, we can not escape a certain sense of uneasiness. The approach of some extraordinary spectacle is imminent."
At this point we examined the effects of the solar light upon the seven colors of the spectrum. In order to determine as accurately as possible the tonality of the light of the eclipse, I had prepared seven great sheets, each painted boldly in the colors of the spectrum, violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red; and a similar series in pieces of silk. These colors were laid at our feet upon the terrace where my wife, as well as Countess de la Baume, were watching with me. We then saw the first four disappear successively and entirely and turn black in a few seconds, in the following order: violet, indigo, blue, green. The three other colors were considerably attenuated by the darkness, but remained visible.
It should be noted that in the normal order of things—that is, every evening—the contrary appears; violet remains visible after the red.
This experiment shows that the last light emitted by the eclipsed Sun belongs to the least refrangible rays, to the greatest wave-lengths, to the slowest vibrations, to the yellow and red rays. Such therefore is the predominating color of the solar atmosphere.
This experiment completed, we turn back to the Sun. Magical and splendid spectacle! Totality has commenced, the Sun has disappeared, the black disk of the Moon covers it entirely, leaving all round it a magnificent corona of dazzling light. One would suppose it to be an annular eclipse, with the difference that this can be observed with the naked eye, without fatigue to the retina, and drawn quietly.
This luminous coronal atmosphere entirely surrounds the solar disk, at a pretty equal depth, equivalent to about the third of half the solar diameter. It may be regarded as the Sun's atmosphere.
Beyond this corona is an aureole, of vaster glory but less luminous, which sends out long plumes, principally in the direction of the equatorial zone of the Sun, and of the belt of activity of the spots and prominences.
At the summit of the disk it is conical in shape. Below it is double, and its right-hand portion ends in a point, not far from Mercury, which shines like a dazzling star of first magnitude, and seems placed there expressly to give us the extent and direction of the solar aureole.
I draw these various aspects (which, moreover, change with the movement of the Moon), and what strikes me most is the distinction in light between this aureole and the coronal atmosphere; the latter appears to be a brilliant silvery white, the former is grayer and certainly less dense.
My impression is that there are two solar envelopes of entirely different nature, the corona belonging to the globe of the Sun, and forming its atmosphere properly so-called, very luminous; the aureole formed of particles that circulate independently round it, probably arising from eruptions, their form as a whole being possibly due to electric or magnetic forces, counterbalanced by resistances of various natures. In our own atmosphere the volcanic eruptions are distinct from the aerial envelope.
The general configuration of this external halo, spreading more particularly in the equatorial zone, is sufficiently like that of the eclipse of 1889, published in my Popular Astronomy, which also corresponded with a minimum of solar energy. The year 1900 is in fact close upon the minimum of the eleven-year period. This equatorial form is, moreover, what all the astronomers were expecting.
Fig. 78.—Total eclipse of the Sun, May 28, 1900, as observed from Elche (Spain).
There can no longer be the slightest doubt that the solar envelope varies with the activity of the Sun....
"But the total eclipse lasted a much shorter time than I have taken to write these lines. The seventy-nine seconds of totality are over. A dazzling light bursts from the Sun, and tells that the Moon pursuing its orbit has left it. The splendid sight is over. It has gone like a shadow.
"Already over! It is almost a disillusion. Nothing beautiful lasts in this world. Too sad! If only the celestial spectacle could have lasted two, three, or four minutes! It was too short....
"Alas! we are forced to take things as they are.
"The surprise, the oppression, the terror of some, the universal silence are over. The Sun reappears in his splendor, and the life of nature resumes its momentarily suspended course.
"While I was making my drawing, M. l'Abbé Moreux, my colleague from the Astronomical Society of France, who accompanied me to Spain for this observation, was taking one of his own, without any reciprocal communication. These two sketches are alike, and confirmatory.
"The differential thermometers that I exposed to the Sun, hanging freely, and protected from reflection from the ground, were read every five minutes. The black thermometer went down from 33.1° to 20.7°, that is 12.4°; the white from 29° to 20.2°—that is, 8.8°. The temperature in the shade only varied three degrees.
"The light received during totality was due: first, to the luminous envelope of the Sun; second, to that of the terrestrial atmosphere, illuminated at forty kilometers (twenty-five miles) on the one side and the other of the line of centrality. It appeared to be inferior to that of the Full Moon, on account of the almost sudden transition. But, in reality, it was more intense, for only first-magnitude stars were visible in the sky, whereas on a night of full moon, stars of second, and even of third magnitude are visible. We recognized, among others, Venus, Mercury, Sirius, Procyon, Capella, Rigel, Betelgeuse."
From these notes, taken on the spot, it is evident that the contemplation of a total eclipse of the Sun is one of the most marvelous spectacles that can be admired upon our planet.
Some persons assured me that they saw the shadow of the Moon flying rapidly over the landscape. My attention was otherwise occupied, and I was unable to verify this interesting observation. The shadow of the Moon in effect took only eleven minutes (3.47 P.M. to 3.58 P.M.) to traverse the Iberian Peninsula from Porto to Alicante, i.e., a distance of 766 kilometers (475 miles). It must therefore have passed over the ground at a velocity of sixty-nine kilometers per minute, or 1,150 meters per second, a speed higher than that of a bullet. It can easily be watched from afar, on the mountains.
Some weeks previous to this fine eclipse, when I informed the Spaniards of the belt along which it could be observed, I had invited them to note all the interesting phenomena they might witness, including the effects produced by the eclipse upon animals. Birds returned hurriedly to their nests, swallows lost themselves, sheep huddled into compact packs, partridges were hypnotized, frogs croaked as if it were night, fowls took refuge in the hen-house, and cocks crowed, bats came out, and were surprised by the sun, chicks gathered under their mothers' wing, cage-birds ceased their songs, some dogs howled, others crept shivering to their masters' feet, ants returned to the antheap, grasshoppers chirped as at sunset, pigeons sank to the ground, a swarm of bees went silently back to their hive, and so on.
These creatures behaved as though the night had come, but there were also signs of fear, surprise, even of terror, differing only "in degree" from those manifested during the grandiose phenomenon of a total eclipse by human beings unenlightened by a scientific education.
At Madrid the eclipse was only partial. The young King of Spain, Alfonso XIII, took care to photograph it, and I offer the photograph to my readers (Fig. 79), as this amiable sovereign did me the honor to give it me a few days after the eclipse.
Fig. 79.—The Eclipse of May 28, 1900, as photographed by King Alfonso XIII, at Madrid.
The technical results of these observations of solar eclipses relate more especially to the elucidation of the grand problem of the physical constitution of the Sun. We alluded to them in the chapter devoted to this orb. The last great total eclipses have been of immense value to science.
The eclipses of the Moon are less important, less interesting, than the eclipses of the Sun. Yet their aspect must not be neglected on this account, and it may be said to vary for each eclipse.
Generally speaking, our satellite does not disappear entirely in the Earth's cone of shadow; the solar rays are refracted round our globe by our atmosphere, and curving inward, illumine the lunar globe with a rosy tint that reminds one of the sunset. Sometimes, indeed, this refraction does not occur, owing doubtless to lack of transparency in the atmosphere, and the Moon becomes invisible. This happened recently, on April 11, 1903.
For any spot, eclipses of the Moon are incomparably more frequent than eclipses of the Sun, because the cone of lunar shadow that produces the solar eclipses is not very broad at its contact with the surface of the globe (10, 20, 30, 50, 100 kilometers, according to the distance of the Moon), whereas all the countries of the Earth for which the Moon is above the horizon at the hour of the lunar eclipse are able to see it. It is at all times a remarkable spectacle that uplifts our thoughts to the Heavens, and I strongly advise my readers on no account to forego it.
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