Even the nearest fixed star is almost inconceivably remote from us. And astronomers are imprisoned on this little earth; we cannot bridge the profound distance separating us from the stars, so as to use direct measurement with tape-line or surveyor's chain. We are forced to have recourse to some indirect method. Suppose a certain star is suspected, on account of its brightness, or for some other reason, of being near us in space, and so giving a favorable opportunity for a determination of distance. A couple of very faint stars are selected close by. These, on account of their faintness, the astronomer may regard as quite immeasurably far away. He then determines with his heliometer the exact position on the sky of the bright star with respect to the pair of faint ones. Half a year is then allowed to pass. During that time the earth has been swinging along in its annual path or orbit around the sun. Half a year will have sufficed to carry the observer on the earth to the other side of that path, and he is then 185,000,000 miles away from his position at the first observation.
Another determination is made of the bright star's position as referred to the two faint ones. Now, if all these stars were equally distant, their relative positions at the second observation would be just the same as at the former one. But if, as is very probable, the bright star is very much nearer us than are the two faint ones, we shall obtain a different position from our second observation. For the change of 185,000,000 miles in the observer's location will, of course, affect the direction in which we see the near star, while it will leave the distant ones practically unchanged. Without entering into technical details, we may say that from a large number of observations of this kind, we can obtain the distance of the bright star by a process of calculation. The only essential is to have an instrument that can make the actual observations of position accurately enough; and in this respect the heliometer is still unexcelled.
[OCCULTATIONS]
Scarcely anyone can have watched the sky without noticing how different is the behavior of our moon from that of any other object we can see. Of course, it has this in common with the sun and stars and planets, that it rises in the eastern horizon, slowly climbs the dome of the sky, and again goes down and sets in the west. This motion of the heavenly bodies is known to be an apparent one merely, and caused by the turning of our own earth upon its axis. A man standing upon the earth's surface can look up and see above him one-half the great celestial vault, gemmed with twinkling stars, and bearing, perhaps, within its ample curve one or two serenely shining planets and the lustrous moon. But at any given moment the observer can see nothing of the other half of the heavenly sphere. It is beneath his feet, and concealed by the solid bulk of the earth.
The earth, however, is turning on an axis, carrying the observer with it. And so it is continually presenting him to a new part of the sky. At any moment he sees but a single half-sphere; yet the very next instant it is no longer the same; a small portion has passed out of sight on one side by going down behind the turning earth, while a corresponding new section has come into view on the opposite side. It is this coming into view that we call the rising of a star; and the corresponding disappearance on the other side is called setting. Thus rising and setting are, of course, due entirely to a turning of the earth, and not at all to actual motions of the stars; and for this reason, all objects in the sky, without exception, must rise and set again. But the moon really has a motion of its own in addition to this apparent one caused by the earth's rotation.
Somewhere in the dawn of time early watchers of the stars thought out those fancied constellations that survive even down to our own day. They placed the mighty lion, king of beasts, upon the face of night, and the great hunter, too, armed with club and dagger, to pursue him. Among these constellations the moon threads her destined way, night after night, so rapidly that the unaided eye can see that she is moving. It needs but little power of fancy's magic to recall from the dim past a picture of some aged astronomer graving upon his tablets the Records of the Moon. "To-night she is near the bright star in the eye of the Bull." And again: "To-night she rides full, and near to the heart of the Virgin."
And why does the moon ride thus through the stars of night? Modern science has succeeded in disentangling the intricacies of her motion, until to-day only one or two of the very minutest details of that motion remain unexplained. But it has been a hard problem. Someone has well said that lunar theory should be likened to a lofty cliff upon whose side the intellectual giants among men can mark off their mental stature, but whose height no one of them may ever hope to scale.