THE EVENING SKY AT THE AUTUMNAL EQUINOX

Round the year with the stars by Garrett Putman Serviss is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. THE EVENING SKY AT THE AUTUMNAL EQUINOX

III. THE EVENING SKY AT THE AUTUMNAL EQUINOX

“When descends on the Atlantic
The gigantic
Storm-wind of the Equinox,
Landward in his wrath he scourges
The toiling surges,
Laden with sea-weed from the rocks.”

Longfellow’s vivid lines reproduce the popular impression of the character of the season when the descending sun again touches the equator, giving the whole world once more days and nights of equal length, before he dips to the south and leaves the northern hemisphere to face the oncoming blasts of winter. There is no superstition more deeply planted than that of the “equinoctial storms.” There are such storms, it is true, but they by no means always burst at the epoch of the Equinox. The readjustment of atmospheric conditions goes on gradually, and there is often, just at the equinoctial moment, a spell of serene weather that can hardly be matched at any other season of the year. The atmosphere, recovered from the excessive heats of summer, possesses a quality of softness and “misty fruitfulness” that tranquillizes the spirit and makes nature doubly charming. It is the late afternoon of the year, when life, refreshed by the siestas of summer, resumes its activity, and the heavens no less than the face of the earth greet the eye with a smile of divine beauty.

To every season its flowers—and to every season its stars. The gardens of the sky are not the same in autumn as in summer, either in their arrangement or in the peculiarities of their bloom. There is less parade of flaming beauty, but the richness of the coup d’œil is not inferior. And just as in our September parterres some of the summer beauties remain, though a little faded, to support with their charms their stately successors, so in the skies of autumn a few of the summer stars are yet seen, though somewhat robbed of their pristine splendor as they sink toward the sunset. The garland of the Milky Way has now been flung all across the firmament, from northeast to southwest, and while Vega and Altair hang half-way down the curtain of the west, recalling the glories of the solstice, Capella appears rising in the northeast, and Cassiopeia, not less beautiful in the sky than when she awoke the jealousy of the sea-nymphs, is seen seated in her “shiny chair” east of the meridian in the north. Between Cassiopeia and Capella flashes Perseus, with his uplifted sword marked by a curve of stars embedded in the Milky Way, and above Perseus stands Andromeda, upright, with her feet toward her rescuer and her head touching the “Great Square of Pegasus,” near the middle of the sky, east of the meridian. Cepheus, the King, is on the meridian above the pole. Cassiopeia, Cepheus, Andromeda, and Perseus constitute the “Royal Family” of the sky, more enduring than the proud dynasties that by turns have ruled terrestrial affairs.

CHART III—THE AUTUMN EVENING SKY

Low down in the south, east of the meridian, glows Fomalhaut, the “Fish’s Mouth,” the leading and the only bright star of Piscis Austrinus, the “Southern Fish.” With this singular star we may begin our description of the beauties of the autumn sky. Fomalhaut well deserves the epithet singular, if for nothing else than on account of its loneliness. In this respect it is more remarkable than Cor Hydræ, which it resembles in its ruddy color. Fomalhaut is the characteristic star of autumn in our latitudes, for the same reasons that cause Antares to represent the summer. Like Antares, it startles the wandering eye and fixes the attention, although, unlike the great star of Scorpio, it has no brilliant entourage to emphasize its supremacy over the quarter of the sky where it shines. It is one of the sailors’ stars. To me Fomalhaut is full of boyhood memories and impressions gained when I learned the stars in the country, among the hills that shut in the Schoharie before it pours out into the valley of the Mohawk. Fortunately, Thomas Dick’s works and Burritt’s Geography of the Heavens had a place in our house, and neither The Arabian Nights nor The Swiss Family Robinson was able to dull my appetite for them. In the course of time I knew all the great stars by name, and found a wonderful pleasure in their acquaintance, although at times they daunted me with their imposing associations with Egypt, the Nile, Babylonia, and everything that is most ancient. I shall never forget Fomalhaut flashing along in the south, just skipping the hilltops on an autumn night. A great star is never so imposing nor so mysterious as when it thus appears to be watching the earth.

How immensely would the interest of many travellers’ tales be heightened if only they had known the names of the stars whose appearance they have recorded. When you have the name of the star that was seen, the season and the hour of the night are fixed at once, and the whole scene is filled with new life. When an Alpine climber, waiting in his lonely camp high on the mountain-side for the coming of day, tells me, “I saw Sirius glancing at us over a lofty peak far in the east,” I know immediately the approximate time of night and the aspect of the heavens, and the narrative gains in vividness; but if he says merely that he saw “a star” his stroke of description misses. And, then, the names of many of the stars, by their oddity and beauty, enrich the page and awake the imagination. They are, in themselves, an incantation.

The lover of the stars is grateful for any reference to them by a great writer, and yet he is often disappointed by the inadequacy of descriptions that might easily have been made memorable if only their authors had known the starry heavens a little better. How disappointing, for instance, is this passage in R. H. Dana’s Two Years before the Mast:

“Wednesday, November 5th—The weather was fine during the previous night, and we had a clear view of the Magellan Clouds and of the Southern Cross. The Magellan Clouds consist of three small nebulæ in the southern part of the heavens—two bright, like the Milky Way, and one dark. They are first seen just above the horizon after crossing the southern tropic. When off Cape Horn they are nearly overhead. The Cross is composed of four stars in that form, and it is said to be the brightest constellation in the heavens.”

That is all, and the reader’s dissatisfaction is not confined to the evidence of the writer’s lack of familiarity with the stars, but becomes yet keener when he reflects upon the brilliant picture which Mr. Dana’s powers of description should have enabled him to make of those strange sights of the southern sky, which, in his day, were so rarely seen by northern eyes.

On the equator above Fomalhaut, and close to the meridian, appears a curious group of stars in the form of a letter Y. They mark the hand and urn of Aquarius, the “Waterman.” A few degrees westward from this figure shines the Alpha (α) of the constellation, bearing the strange name Sadalmelik, the “King’s Luck,” or “Lucky One.” It is situated in the Waterman’s right shoulder, while Beta (β), some twelve degrees farther west, marks the left shoulder. Beta’s distinctive name is Sadalsuud, the “Luckiest of the Lucky.” Several other stars in this constellation have names implying good-fortune. The Arabs saw the Y-shaped figure, already referred to, as a tent, and the star Gamma (γ) in this group is called Sadachbiah, from an Arabic phrase which Professor Whitney translates “Felicity of Tents.” Upon this R. H. Allen remarks that the star probably got its name from the fact that it rose with its companions in the morning twilight of spring, “when, after the winter’s want and suffering, the nomads’ tents were raised on the freshening pastures, and the pleasant weather set in.” The star Zeta (ζ), in this same figure, is a long-period binary, probably 750 years, and a beautiful telescopic object, the distance being a little more than 3″, while the two stars are nearly equal, and very white, although one of them seems whiter than the other.

It will be observed that the outline of the constellation Aquarius is very curious, somewhat resembling that of the State of Louisiana tipped on its side. The broader part of it runs down toward Fomalhaut, and the northern part extends westward, like an L added to a house, between Equuleus and Capricornus. The latter, the constellation of the “Goat,” is relatively small and compact. Its two most interesting stars are Alpha (α), or Algedi, the “Goat,” and Beta (β), or Dabih (signification uncertain), both in one of the horns of the imaginary animal. Each of these stars is a wide double. The distance between the Alphas is 373″, and that between the Betas 205″, the latter being more than a tenth of the apparent diameter of the moon. A good eye sees at once that Alpha is double; but the two stars in Beta cannot be seen without a glass, because one of them is below the sixth magnitude, the minimum visible for the naked eye. Each of the stars in Beta is a telescopic double. The Goat heads westward, and the stars Delta (δ) and Gamma (γ) are in his tail. This constellation has given us our Tropic of Capricorn, because the place of the winter solstice was once within its boundaries, although now we find it far west, in Sagittarius.

Above the head of Capricornus we recognize our old acquaintance Altair, in the Eagle, and east of this the singular little constellation of Delphinus, the “Dolphin,” often called “Job’s Coffin,” a name for which I have never been able to find any explanation. Like all small constellations whose stars are comparatively close together, it immediately attracts the eye. None of its stars exceeds the fourth magnitude; but three of them, Alpha, Beta, and Gamma, are telescopic doubles, the last named being particularly beautiful on account of the contrast of colors, gold and green; distance 11″.

Directly north of Altair is the very small constellation of Sagitta, the “Arrow,” interesting when viewed with an opera-glass for its row of little stars from which, as from a maypole lying horizontally, depend loops of still smaller stars looking like garlands. In ancient times this was sometimes called “Cupid’s Arrow,” but they did not venture to represent the little god himself. Above Sagitta are the small stars constituting the double constellation of Vulpecula et Anser, the “Little Fox and the Goose.”

Simply pausing to recognize the presence of the Northern Cross, we turn to the eastern side of the meridian, where we find Pegasus, with his Great Square. This is one of the most conspicuous figures in the sky. The star at the northeastern corner of the square is Alpheratz, of which I have spoken in the Introduction, as belonging in common to Andromeda and Pegasus. When we come to Cassiopeia I shall point out a remarkable fact relating to Alpheratz and its twin, Gamma Pegasi, about 15 degrees directly south. Every lover of the “classics” of course feels a thrill of pleasure in seeing Pegasus in the sky, “in wild flight and free.” One can spare many of the heroes for the sake of giving him room. Shakespeare’s references to the constellations are much less frequent and definite than one could wish, but he has clearly mentioned one or two, and it may be that he had the starry eidolon of the Winged Horse in his eye when he wrote, in Troilus and Cressida:

“But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage
The gentle Thetis, and anon behold
The strong-ribbed bark through liquid mountains cut,
Bounding between the two moist elements
Like Perseus’ horse.”

The constellation extends far westward from the Square, and in the imaginative sky pictures that illustrate old charts of the heavens the star Epsilon (ε) is in the nose of Pegasus, as he stretches out his neck to reach his foal, Equuleus. But the horse, with his feet toward the north, is shown upside down, unless you turn your back to the south when looking at him. The star Beta (β) is attractive on account of its neighbors forming a striking triangle with it; but the space within the Square is relatively vacant. Alpha (α) and Beta (β) are respectively Markab, the “Saddle,” and Scheat (signification uncertain).

South of the Square of Pegasus we see the western part of the constellation of Pisces, whose small stars run in streams toward the eastern horizon. Pisces furnishes one of the most remarkable examples of this phenomenon, in which the stars are seen arrayed in long, winding lines, like buttercups following a brook. Cetus is also seen rising south of Pisces; but we shall deal with these constellations later. Meanwhile we return to Alpheratz, at the northeast corner of the Square of Pegasus. The name is derived from an Arabic phrase meaning the “Horse’s Navel”; but the star is now generally associated with Andromeda, and is, indeed, the Alpha of that constellation, and shines on the maiden’s head. The star Delta (δ), in Andromeda, marks her breast, and her extended arms and chained hands are shown by rows and groups of small stars on the north and south. Beta (β), or Mirach, is in her girdle, and the two small stars northwest of it lead the eye to one of the most wonderful objects in the sky—the Great Andromeda Nebula. You may detect it as a misty speck with the naked eye; an opera-glass will show you plainly that it is a little luminous cloud. In Chart X its position is indicated by a little circle near the star Nu (ν). In a telescope it appears of a spindle shape, with a bright axis, but the best views of it are afforded by photography. On the photographic plate, exposed continuously for hours to its rays, it gradually builds up its marvellous form—the great central condensation, with the encircling spirals, emerging in all their strange splendor. It resembles a whirlwind of snow, and the appearance of swift motion and terrific force is startling. Its spectrum, instead of being that characteristic of gases, indicates that it consists principally of matter in a star-like state of condensation, and some have imagined that it is an outside universe, composed of stars too distant to be separately distinguished, and arrayed in mighty spirals, which recall the form of the Milky Way. The latest investigations show evidence, however, that it is partly nebular in constitution. These things once known, the contemplative eye is drawn to that misty speck as to a magnet.

The star Gamma (γ), or Almaack, the “Badger,” is in Andromeda’s foot. It is a wonderful triple star, whose largest member is orange in color, the second emerald-green, and the third blue. The two larger stars are easily seen with an ordinary telescope, the distance between them being about 10″, but the third is difficult, the distance from the second being, in 1908, only 0″.45. The last two form a binary, with a period of about fifty-four years. When they are nearest to each other no telescope can separate them. The colors of the two largest stars are very striking, and yet some eyes seem incapable of appreciating them. This is also true of many separate stars in the sky which possess distinctive tints. It is a fine test of the chromatic capacity of the eye to be able to enjoy the differences among the hues of the stars. Color-blindness is far more common than is usually suspected, and is apt to manifest itself in this way when not otherwise noticed. From theoretical considerations Holmgren has shown that three varieties of color-blindness may exist: first, where the sense is defective for only one color, either red, green, or violet; second, where two colors, either red and green or red and violet, are not perceived; and third, where the defect extends to three colors, including red, green, and violet. A person suffering from either of these forms of blindness would lose much of the peculiar beauty exhibited by certain stars and combinations of stars.

To the right of Almaack, as one faces north, is the little constellation of Triangulum, and beyond that, in the same direction, Aries, the “Ram,” clearly marked by three stars, the two smaller of which are quite close together. The largest star, Alpha (α), is called Hamal, the “Ram,” or “Sheep”; and the next largest, Beta (β), Sheratan, the “Sign,” this name being due to the fact that in the days of Hipparchus Sheratan marked the place of the Vernal Equinox, and consequently the point of beginning of the year, of which it was the sign. Gamma (γ), the companion of Sheratan, sometimes called Mesarthim (signification uncertain), is a beautiful telescopic double whose components are 8″.8 apart. The smaller one has a curious tint which Webb and others have described as “gray.”

Aries was originally the leader of the zodiac, but the Precession of the Equinoxes has now thrown it into second place, and brought Pisces to the front, the twelve signs of the zodiac being like a fixed circular framework through which the constellations drift toward the east. The sign Aries remains the first of the zodiac, but is occupied by the constellation Pisces. Is there in any language a word more mysteriously impressive than “zodiac”? Astrological superstition, perhaps, partly accounts for this. The word comes from the Greek for “animal,” because nearly all the constellations of the zodiacal circle are representations of animals. It surrounds the sky with a great menagerie of starry phantasms, through the midst of which the sun pursues his annual round. When he enters the sign of Aries spring commences; when he enters Cancer summer reigns; when he reaches Libra it is the beginning of autumn, and when he is in Capricorn winter is at hand. We have nothing quite equal to the old Greek story of Phaeton begging from his father, Phœbus Apollo, the privilege of driving the Chariot of the Sun, and losing his way through terror of the threatening forms amid which lay his course—the “Scorpion,” with his fiery sting uplifted to strike; the huge “Crab,” sprawling across the way; the fierce “Ram,” with lowered head; the great “Bull,” charging headlong upon him; the terrible “Lion,” with bristling mane; the “Archer,” with bow bent and arrow aimed; the “Goat,” with crooked, threatening horns; the sturdy “Waterman,” emptying his vast urn in a raging flood; the balance of “Libra” extended as if to weigh his fate—even the benign aspect of the “Twins” and the gentle look of the sedate “Virgin” could not restore his equanimity. It was the wildest of all wild rides, and Phaeton was the precursor of the modern chauffeur gone mad with the speed of his flight, and crazed by the pursuit of phantoms which rise remorselessly in his path. It was probably in Aries that the inventors of the story imagined the beginning of the adventure.

Below the feet of Andromeda, in the northeast, appears Perseus, her rescuer, hurrying to the combat with the oncoming Sea Monster, and carrying the blood-freezing head of Medusa in one hand and his diamond-hilted sword in the other. He wraps the glory of the Milky Way around him like a flying mantle, and brandished in the direction of Cassiopeia, the maiden’s mother, and of King Cepheus, her father, is seen his magic blade, made splendid in the sky by one of the finest assemblages of small stars that can anywhere be seen. This beautiful star-swarm, visible to the naked eye as a glowing patch in the Milky Way, is indicated in Chart X by a double cluster of dots above the star Eta (η). Seen with a powerful opera-glass, or better with a small telescope, it is an object that one can never cease to admire and wonder at. It is so bright that the unassisted eye sees it as soon as it is directed toward that part of the sky. It seems to throw a halo over the surrounding sky, as if at that point the galaxy had been tied into a gleaming knot. It is popularly called the “Sword Hand of Perseus.” But how inadequate seems such terrestrial imagery when we reflect that here a vast chaotic nebula has been, through æons of evolution, transformed into a kingdom of starry beauty.

The star Alpha (α) Persei, also known as Algenib (Arabic Al Janib, the “Side”), is the centre of a bending row following the curve of the Milky Way. The appearance of this curve of stars is very attractive to the eye. Algenib is a beautiful star, allied to our sun in spectroscopic character, and approaching us at the rate of about 560,000 miles per day.

But the greatest marvel of Perseus is the “Demon Star,” Algol, in the head of Medusa, which is represented depending from the hero’s right hand. Algol bears the Greek letter Beta (β). It is the most wonderful of variables, and its variations can be watched without any instrumental assistance. For the greater part of the time it is of nearly the second magnitude; but once every two days, twenty hours, and forty-nine seconds it begins suddenly to lose light, and in about four hours or less it fades to nearly the fourth magnitude, being then no brighter than some of the faint stars around it. Almost immediately it begins to brighten again, and in the course of about three hours is seen shining with its pristine splendor. The cause of these singular variations is believed to be the existence of a dark star, or a mass of meteors, revolving round Algol at such close quarters that a distance of only 3,000,000 miles separates the centres of the two. Algol itself is demonstrably considerably larger than our sun, but of less density. The Arabic name for this star was Al Ghul, the “Demon,” or “Fiend of the Woods,” and our word ghoul comes from it. The imagination of a Poe could not have represented a more startling thing—a sun that winks like a gloating demon! One may easily cultivate an uncanny feeling while watching it. No one need be surprised that the astrologers make much of the malign influence of Algol. If one had faith in them, one might as well be born with the millstone of fate tied to his neck as to have Algol in his nativity.

Below Perseus, and not very high above the horizon, sparkles the brilliant Capella, but that is for the next chapter. We turn to Cassiopeia. Her “W,” or “Laconian Key,” is a familiar asterism to all who know anything at all of the starry heavens. The five stars forming this figure are also represented as marking the Chair in which the unfortunate though beautiful queen sits. There is a delightful reference to this “Chair” in Xavier de Maistre’s Expédition Nocturne autour de ma Chambre. When the hero discovers the slipper of his fair neighbor of the upper flat visible on the balcony above, he wishes “to compare the pleasure that a modest man may feel in contemplating a lady’s slipper with that imparted by the contemplation of the stars.” Accordingly, he chooses the first constellation that he can see. “It was, if I mistake not, Cassiopeia’s Chair which I saw over my head, and I looked by turns at the constellation and the slipper, the slipper and the constellation. I perceived then that these two sensations were of a totally different nature; the one was in my head, while the other seemed to me to have its seat in the region of the heart.”

The names of three of the five stars forming the “Chair” are: Alpha (α) Schedar (from Al Sadr, the “Breast”); Beta (β) Caph (Arabic Kaff, “Hand”); and Delta (δ) Ruchbah or Rucbar, the “Knee.” Caph and Ruchbar are of particular interest, the first because, together with Alpheratz and Gamma Pegasi (often called Algenib, although that name belongs to Alpha Persei), it lies almost exactly on the Equinoctial Colure, or First Meridian of the Heavens; and Ruchbah, because, as explained in Chapter I, it lies in a line with Polaris and the true pole, thus serving to indicate the position of Polaris with regard to the pole at any time. Caph, Alpheratz, and Gamma Pegasi are often called the “Three Guides,” because, as just explained, they graphically show the line of[ the Equinoctial Colure, which is a great circle passing through the pole and cutting the equator at the Vernal and Autumnal Equinoxes. On the opposite side of the pole this line passes between the stars Gamma (γ) and Delta (δ) in Ursa Major.

The star Eta (η) is an extremely beautiful binary, period about two hundred years, distance at present more than 6″. The combination of colors is especially remarkable, the larger component being orange, and the smaller purple. Piazzi Smyth saw the color of the smaller star as “Indian red,” and others have variously called it “garnet,” “violet,” and, curiously enough, considering the general opinion to the contrary, “green.” There is no doubt, whatever the exact hue may be, that this star wears a livery distinguishing it from any other in the sky. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that there is as great a variety of color tones among stars as among flowers. Although the great majority of stars approximate to white, there are, nevertheless, red stars, green stars, blue stars, lilac stars, yellow stars, orange stars, indigo stars, and violet stars, and stars of other tints and shades. All of those which are deeply colored are linked together in close pairs, but the colors they exhibit are not an effect of contrast. It is wonderful to think of suns of such hues, but there they are! And, after all, it would be no more difficult to account for the colors of stars than for those of flowers. But to live under a purple or an emerald sun might not be as agreeable as life in the rays of our white orb, whose light splits into rainbows, as light of a single primary color could not do. A flower-garden under a green sun would not be the marvel of prismatic hues that it is in our world.

Cassiopeia is memorable for being the scene of one of the greatest astronomical occurrences on record. Near the star Kappa (κ), in 1572, appeared the most splendid new star that has ever been seen. It is known as “Tycho’s Star,” the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe having been an assiduous student of the wonderful phenomenon during the sixteen months that it remained visible. There is a red variable star of less than the tenth magnitude quite close to the spot where Tycho recorded the appearance of his nova, and it has been thought that this may be the mysterious object itself. In 1901 a new star, almost equal in brilliance to Tycho’s, suddenly burst out in Perseus, between Algol and Algenib, and these two so similar phenomena occurring in the same quarter of the heavens are usually linked together in the discussion of new stars. The reader who wishes more particulars about these stars may consult Curiosities of the Sky.

The background of the sky around Cassiopeia is a magnificent field for the opera-glass and the telescope. In sweeping over it one is reminded of Jean Paul Richter’s Dream of the Universe:

“Thus we flew on through the starry wildernesses; one heaven after another unfurled its immeasurable banners before us and then rolled up behind us; galaxy behind galaxy towered up into solemn altitudes before which the spirit shuddered; and they stood in long array, through which the Infinite Beings might pass in progress. Sometimes the Form that lightened would outfly my weary thoughts, and then it would be seen far off before me like a coruscation among the stars, till suddenly I thought to myself the thought of 'There,’ and then I was at its side. But as we were thus swallowed up by one abyss of stars after another, and the heavens above our eyes were not emptier, neither were the heavens below them fuller; and as suns without intermission fell into the solar ocean like waterspouts of a storm which fall into the ocean of waters, then at length the human heart within me was overburdened and weary, and yearned after some narrow cell or quiet oratory in this metropolitan cathedral of the universe. And I said to the Form at my side: 'O Spirit! has then this universe no end?’ And the Form answered and said, 'Lo! it has no beginning!’”

Westward from Cassiopeia, directly over the pole, and lying athwart the meridian, is the constellation of Cepheus, the King, less conspicuous than that of his queen, Cassiopeia, but equally ancient. Its leading star, Alpha (α), also called Alderamin, the “Right Arm,” is a candidate for the great office of Pole-star, which it will occupy in about 5500 years. Beta (β), the second in rank, is named Alfirk, the “Flock” or “Herd.” If you are sweeping here with an opera-glass you will perceive, about half-way between Alpha (α) and Zeta (ζ), a small star which will at once arrest your attention by its color. It is the celebrated “Garnet Star” of Sir William Herschel, who was greatly impressed by its brilliant hue, declaring it to be the most deeply colored star that the naked eye can find in the sky. But its color is not so striking unless a glass be used.

Low down in the north-northwest we see the Great Dipper, above it the coiling form and diamond head of Draco, and then, still higher, the Northern Cross and Vega, bright as a jewel. Hercules and the Northern Crown are near setting in the northwest.

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