The Wrecking of the Moon

There are sympathetic moods under whose influence one gazes with a certain poignant tenderness at the worn face of the moon; that little “fossil world” (the child of our mother earth, too) bears such terrible scars of its brief convulsive life that a sense of pity is awakened by the sight. The moon is the wonder-land of the telescope. Those towering mountains, whose “proud aspiring peaks” cast silhouettes of shadow that seem drawn with india-ink; those vast plains, enchained with gentle winding hills and bordered with giant ranges; those oval “oceans,” where one looks expectant for the flash of wind-whipped waves; those enchanting “bays” and recesses at the seaward feet of the Alps; those broad straits passing between guardian heights incomparably mightier than Gibraltar; those locket-like valleys as secluded among their mountains as the Vale of Cashmere; those colossal craters that make us smile at the pretensions of Vesuvius, Etna, and Cotopaxi; those strange white ways which pass with the unconcern of Roman roads across mountain, gorge, and valley—all these give the beholder an irresistible impression that it is truly a world into which he is looking, a world akin to ours, and yet no more like our world than Pompeii is like Naples. Its air, its waters, its clouds, its life are gone, and only a skeleton remains—a mute but eloquent witness to a cosmical tragedy without parallel in the range of human knowledge.

One cannot but regret that the moon, if it ever was the seat of intelligent life, has not remained so until our time. Think what the consequences would have been if this other world at our very door had been found to be both habitable and inhabited! We talk rather airily of communicating with Mars by signals; but Mars never approaches nearer than 35,000,000 miles, while the moon when nearest is only a little more than 220,000 miles away. Given an effective magnifying power of five thousand diameters, which will perhaps be possible at the mountain observatories as telescopes improve, and we should be able to bring the moon within an apparent distance of about forty miles, while the corresponding distance for Mars would be more than seven thousand miles. But even with existing telescopic powers we can see details on the moon no larger than some artificial constructions on the earth. St Peter’s at Rome, with the Vatican palace and the great piazza, if existing on the moon, would unquestionably be recognizable as something else than a freak of nature. Large cities, with their radiating lines of communication, would at once betray their real character. Cultivated tracts, and the changes produced by the interference of intelligent beings, would be clearly recognizable. The electric illumination of a large town at night would probably be markedly visible. Gleams of reflected sunlight would come to us from the surfaces of the lakes and oceans, and a huge “liner” traversing a lunar sea could probably be followed by its trail of smoke. As to communications by “wireless” signals, which certain enthusiasts have thought of in connection with Mars, in the case of the moon they should be a relatively simple matter, and the feat might actually be accomplished. Think what a literature would grow up about the moon if it were a living world! Its very differences from the earth would only accentuate its interest for us. Night and day on the moon are each two weeks in length; how interesting it would be to watch the manner in which the lunarians dealt with such a situation as that. Lunar and terrestrial history would keep step with each other, and we should record them both. Truly one might well wish to have a neighbor world to study; one would feel so much the less alone in space.

It is not impossible that the moon did at one time have inhabitants of some kind. But, if so, they vanished with the disappearance of its atmosphere and seas, or with the advent of its cataclysmic age. At the best, its career as a living world must have been brief. If the water and air were gradually absorbed, as some have conjectured, by its cooling interior rocks, its surface might, nevertheless, have retained them for long ages; but if, as others think, their disappearance was due to the escape of their gaseous molecules in consequence of the inability of the relatively small lunar gravitation to retain them, then the final catastrophe must have been as swift as it was inevitable. Accepting Darwin’s hypothesis, that the moon was separated from the earth by tidal action while both were yet plastic or nebulous, we may reasonably conclude that it began its career with a good supply of both water and air, but did not possess sufficient mass to hold them permanently. Yet it may have retained them long enough for life to develop in many forms upon its surface; in fact, there are so many indications that air and water have not always been lacking to the lunar world that we are driven to invent theories to explain both their former presence and their present absence.

But whatever the former condition of the moon may have been, its existing appearance gives it a resistless fascination, and it bears so clearly the story of a vast catastrophe sculptured on its rocky face that the thoughtful observer cannot look upon it without a feeling of awe. The gigantic character of the lunar features impresses the beholder not less than the universality of the play of destructive forces which they attest. Let us make a few comparisons. Take the lunar crater called “Tycho”, which is a typical example of its kind. In the telescope Tycho appears as a perfect ring surrounding a circular depression, in the center of which rises a group of mountains. Its superficial resemblance to some terrestrial volcanic craters is very striking. Vesuvius, seen from a point vertically above, would no doubt look something like that (the resemblance would have been greater when the Monte del Cavallo formed a more complete circuit about the crater cone). But compare the dimensions. The remains of the outer crater ring of Vesuvius are perhaps half a mile in diameter, while the active crater itself is only two or three hundred feet across at the most; Tycho has a diameter of fifty-four miles! The group of relatively insignificant peaks in the center of the crater floor of Tycho is far more massive than the entire mountain that we call Vesuvius. The largest known volcanic crater on the earth, Aso San, in Japan, has a diameter of seven miles; it would take sixty craters like Aso San to equal Tycho in area! And Tycho, though one of the most perfect, is by no means the largest crater on the moon. Another, called “Theophilus,” has a diameter of sixty-four miles, and is eighteen thousand feet deep. There are hundreds from ten to forty miles in diameter, and thousands from one to ten miles. They are so numerous in many places that they break into one another, like the cells of a crushed honeycomb.

The lunar craters differ from those of the earth more fundamentally than in the matter of mere size; they are not situated on the tops of mountains. If they were, and if all the proportions were the same, a crater like Tycho might crown a conical peak fifty or one hundred miles high! Instead of being cavities in the summits of mountains, the lunar craters are rather gigantic sink-holes whose bottoms in many cases lie two or three miles below the general surface of the lunar world. Around their rims the rocks are piled up to a height of from a few hundred to two or three thousand feet, with a comparatively gentle inclination, but on the inner side they fall away in gigantic broken precipices which make the dizzy cliffs of the Matterhorn seem but “lover’s leaps.” Down they drop, ridge below ridge, crag under crag, tottering wall beneath wall, until, in a crater named “Newton,” near the south lunar pole, they attain a depth where the rays of the sun never reach. Nothing more frightful than the spectacle which many of these terrible chasms present can be pictured by the imagination. As the lazy lunar day slowly advances, the sunshine, unmitigated by clouds or atmospheric veil of any kind, creeps across their rims and begins to descend the opposite walls. Presently it strikes the ragged crest of a ridge which had lain hidden in such darkness as we never know on the earth, and runs along it like a line of kindling fire. Rocky pinnacles and needles shoot up into the sunlight out of the black depths. Down sinks the line of light, mile after mile, and continually new precipices and cliffs are brought into view, until at last the vast floor is attained and begins to be illuminated. In the meanwhile the sun’s rays, darting across the gulf, have touched the summits of the central peaks, twenty or thirty miles from the crater’s inmost edge, and they immediately kindle and blaze like huge stars amid the darkness. So profound are some of these awful craters that days pass before the sun has risen high enough above them to chase the last shadows from their depths.

Although several long ranges of mountains resembling those of the earth exist on the moon, the great majority of its elevations assume the crateriform aspect. Sometimes, instead of a crater, we find an immense mountain ring whose form and aspect hardly suggest volcanic action. But everywhere the true craters are in evidence, even on the sea-beds, although they attain their greatest number and size on those parts of the moon—covering sixty per cent of its visible surface—which are distinctly mountainous in character and which constitute its most brilliant portions. Broadly speaking, the southwestern half of the moon is the most mountainous and broken, and the northeastern half the least so. Right down through the center, from pole to pole, runs a wonderful line of craters and crateriform valleys of a magnitude stupendous even for the moon. Another similar line follows the western edge. Three or four “seas” are thrust between these mountainous belts. By the effects of “libration” parts of the opposite hemisphere of the moon which is turned away from the earth are from time to time brought into view, and their aspect indicates that that hemisphere resembles in its surface features the one which faces the earth. There are many things about the craters which seem to give some warrant for the hypothesis which has been particularly urged by Mr G. K. Gilbert, that they were formed by the impact of meteors; but there are also many things which militate against that idea, and, upon the whole, the volcanic theory of their origin is to be preferred.

The enormous size of the lunar volcanoes is not so difficult to account for when we remember how slight is the force of lunar gravity as compared with that of the earth. With equal size and density, bodies on the moon weigh only one-sixth as much as on the earth. Impelled by the same force, a projectile that would go ten miles on the earth would go sixty miles on the moon. A lunar giant thirty-five feet tall would weigh no more than an ordinary son of Adam weighs on his greater planet. To shoot a body from the earth so that it would not drop back again, we should have to start it with a velocity of seven miles per second; a mile and a half per second would serve on the moon. It is by no means difficult to believe, then, that a lunar volcano might form a crater ring eight or ten times broader than the greatest to be found on the earth, especially when we reflect that in addition to the relatively slight force of gravity, the materials of the lunar crust are probably lighter than those of our terrestrial rocks.

For similar reasons it seems not impossible that the theory mentioned in a former chapter—that some of the meteorites that have fallen upon the earth originated from the lunar volcanoes—is well founded. This would apply especially to the stony meteorites, for it is hardly to be supposed that the moon, at least in its superficial parts, contains much iron. It is surely a scene most strange that is thus presented to the mind’s eye—that little attendant of the earth’s (the moon has only one-fiftieth of the volume, and only one-eightieth of the mass of the earth) firing great stones back at its parent planet! And what can have been the cause of this furious outbreak of volcanic forces on the moon? Evidently it was but a passing stage in its history; it had enjoyed more quiet times before. As it cooled down from the plastic state in which it parted from the earth, it became incrusted after the normal manner of a planet, and then oceans were formed, its atmosphere being sufficiently dense to prevent the water from evaporating and the would-be oceans from disappearing continually in mist. This, if any, must have been the period of life in the lunar world. As we look upon the vestiges of that ancient world buried in the wreck that now covers so much of its surface, it is difficult to restrain the imagination from picturing the scenes which were once presented there; and, in such a case, should the imagination be fettered? We give it free rein in terrestrial life, and it rewards us with some of our greatest intellectual pleasures. The wonderful landscapes of the moon offer it an ideal field with just enough half-hidden suggestions of facts to stimulate its powers.

The great plains of the Mare Imbrium and the Mare Serenitatis (the “Sea of Showers” and the “Sea of Serenity”), bordered in part by lofty mountain ranges precisely like terrestrial mountains, scalloped along their shores with beautiful bays curving back into the adjoining highlands, and united by a great strait passing between the nearly abutting ends of the “Lunar Apennines” and the “Lunar Caucasus,” offer the elements of a scene of world beauty such as it would be difficult to match upon our planet. Look at the finely modulated bottom of the ancient sea in Mr Ritchey’s exquisite photograph of the western part of the Mare Serenitatis, where one seems to see the play of the watery currents heaping the ocean sands in waving lines, making shallows, bars, and deeps for the mariner to avoid or seek, and affording a playground for the creatures of the main. What geologist would not wish to try his hammer on those rocks with their stony pages of fossilized history? There is in us an instinct which forbids us to think that there was never any life there. If we could visit the moon, there is not among us a person so prosaic and unimaginative that he would not, the very first thing, begin to search for traces of its inhabitants. We would look for them in the deposits on the sea bottoms; we would examine the shores wherever the configuration seemed favorable for harbors and the sites of maritime cities—forgetting that it may be a little ridiculous to ascribe to the ancient lunarians the same ideas that have governed the development of our race; we would search through the valleys and along the seeming courses of vanished streams; we would explore the mountains, not the terrible craters, but the pinnacled chains that recall our own Alps and Rockies; seeking everywhere some vestige of the transforming presence of intelligent life. Perhaps we should find such traces, and perhaps, with all our searching, we should find nothing to suggest that life had ever existed amid that universal ruin.

Look again at the border of the “Sea of Serenity”—what a name for such a scene!—and observe how it has been rent with almost inconceivable violence, the wall of the colossal crater Posidonius dropping vertically upon the ancient shore and obliterating it, while its giant neighbor, Le Monnier, opens a yawning mouth as if to swallow the sea itself. A scene like this makes one question whether, after all, those may not be right who have imagined that the so-called sea bottoms are really vast plains of frozen lava which gushed up in floods so extensive that even the mighty volcanoes were half drowned in the fiery sea. This suggestion becomes even stronger when we turn to another of the photographs of Mr Ritchey’s wonderful series, showing a part of the Mare Tranquilitatis (“Sea of Tranquility”!). Notice how near the center of the picture the outline of a huge ring with radiating ridges shows through the sea bottom; a fossil volcano submerged in a petrified ocean! This is by no means the only instance in which a buried world shows itself under the great lunar plains. Yet, as the newer craters in the sea itself prove, the volcanic activity survived this other catastrophe, or broke out again subsequently, bringing more ruin to pile upon ruin.

Yet notwithstanding the evidence which we have just been considering in support of the hypothesis that the “seas” are lava floods, Messrs. Loewy and Puiseux, the selenographers of the Paris Observatory, are convinced that these great plains bear characteristic marks of the former presence of immense bodies of water. In that case we should be forced to conclude that the later oceans of the moon lay upon vast sheets of solidified lava; and thus the catastrophe of the lunar world assumes a double aspect, the earliest oceans being swallowed up in molten floods issuing from the interior, while the lands were reduced to chaos by a universal eruption of tremendous volcanoes; and then a period of comparative quiet followed, during which new seas were formed, and new life perhaps began to flourish in the lunar world, only to end in another cataclysm, which finally put a term to the existence of the moon as a life-supporting world.

Suppose we examine two more of Mr Ritchey’s illuminating photographs, and, first, the one showing the crater Theophilus and its surroundings. We have spoken of Theophilus before, citing the facts that it is sixty-four miles in diameter and eighteen thousand feet deep. It will be noticed that it has two brother giants—Cyrillus the nearer, and Catharina the more distant; but Theophilus is plainly the youngest of the trio. Centuries, and perhaps thousands of years, must have elapsed between the periods of their upheaval, for the two older craters are partly filled with débris, while it is manifest at a glance that when the south eastern wall of Theophilus was formed, it broke away and destroyed a part of the more ancient ring of Cyrillus. There is no more tremendous scene on the moon than this; viewed with a powerful telescope, it is absolutely appalling.

The next photograph shows, if possible, a still wilder region. It is the part of the moon lying between Tycho and the south pole. Tycho is seen in the lower left-hand part of the picture. To the right, at the edge of the illuminated portion of the moon, are the crater-rings, Longomontanus and Wilhelm I, the former being the larger. Between them are to be seen the ruins of two or three more ancient craters which, together with portions of the walls of Wilhelm I and Longomontanus, have been honeycombed with smaller craters. The vast crateriform depression above the center of the picture is Clavius, an unrivaled wonder of lunar scenery, a hundred and forty-two miles in its greatest length, while its whole immense floor has sunk two miles below the general surface of the moon outside the ring. The monstrous shadow-filled cavity above Clavius toward the right is Blancanus, whose aspect here gives a good idea of the appearance of these chasms when only their rims are in the sunlight. But observe the indescribable savagery of the entire scene. It looks as though the spirit of destruction had gone mad in this spot. The mighty craters have broken forth one after another, each rending its predecessor; and when their work was finished, a minor but yet tremendous outbreak occurred, and the face of the moon was gored and punctured with thousands of smaller craters. These relatively small craters (small, however, only in a lunar sense, for many of them would appear gigantic on the earth) recall once more the theory of meteoric impact. It does not seem impossible that some of them may have been formed by such an agency.

One would not wish for our planet such a fate as that which has overtaken the moon, but we cannot be absolutely sure that something of the kind may not be in store for it. We really know nothing of the ultimate causes of volcanic activity, and some have suggested that the internal energies of the earth may be accumulating instead of dying out, and may never yet have exhibited their utmost destructive power. Perhaps the best assurance that we can find that the earth will escape the catastrophe that has overtaken its satellite is to be found in the relatively great force of its gravitation. The moon has been the victim of its weakness; given equal forces, and the earth would be the better able to withstand them. It is significant, in connection with these considerations, that the little planet Mercury, which seems also to have parted with its air and water, shows to the telescope some indications that it is pitted with craters resembling those that have torn to pieces the face of the moon.

Upon the whole, after studying the dreadful lunar landscapes, one cannot feel a very enthusiastic sympathy with those who are seeking indications of the continued existence of some kind of life on the moon; such a world is better without inhabitants. It has met its fate; let it go! Fortunately, it is not so near that it cannot hide its scars and appear beautiful—except when curiosity impels us to look with the penetrating eyes of the astronomer.