[THE SUN.]
BY S. P. LANGLEY, ALLEGHENY OBSERVATORY, PA. [ [1]
When, with a powerful telescope, we return to the study of the sun's surface, we meet a formidable difficulty which our first simple means did not present. This arises from the nearly constant tremors of our own atmosphere, through which we have to look. It is not that the tremor does not exist with the smaller instrument, but now our higher magnifying power exaggerates it, causes everything to appear unsteady and blurry, however good the glass, and makes the same kind of trouble for the eye which we should experience if we tried to read very fine print across the top of a hot stove, whence columns of tremulous air were rising. There is no remedy for this, unless it is assiduous watching and infinite patience, for in almost every day there will come one or more brief intervals, lasting sometimes minutes, sometimes only seconds, during which the air seems momentarily tranquil. We must be on the watch for hours, to seize these favorable moments, and, piecing together what we have seen in them, in the course of time we obtain such knowledge of the more curious features of the solar surface as we now possess.
The eye aches after gazing for a minute steadily at the full moon, and the sun's light is from 300,000 to 600,000 times brighter than full moon light, while its heat is in still greater proportion. The object lens of such a telescope as the equatorial at Allegheny is 13 inches in diameter, and it is such light, and such heat, concentrated by it, that we have to gaze on. The best contrivance so far found for diminishing both, and without which our present acquaintance with the real appearance and character of sunspots would not have been gained, depends upon a curious property of light, discovered by a French physicist, Malus, in the beginning of this century. Let A ([Fig. 10]) be a piece of plane unsilvered glass, receiving the solar rays and reflecting them to a second similar one, B, which itself reflects them again in the direction C. Of course, since the glass is transparent, most of the rays will pass through A, and not be reflected. Of those which reach B again most will pass through, so that not a hundredth part of the original beam reaches C. This then, is so far a gain; but of itself of little use, since, such is the solar brilliancy, that even this small fraction would, to an eye at C, appear blindingly bright. Now, if we rotate B about the line joining it with A, keeping always the same reflecting angle with it, it might naturally be supposed that the light would merely be reflected in a new direction unchanged in quantity.
But according to the curious discovery of Malus this is not what happens. What does happen is that the second
glass, after being given a quarter turn (though always kept at the same angle), seems to lose its power of reflection almost altogether. The light which comes from it now is diminished enormously, and yet nothing is distorted or displaced; everything is seen correctly if enough light remains to see it by at all, and the ray is said to have been "polarized by reflection." It would be out of place to enter here on the cause of the phenomenon; the fact is certain, and is a very precious one, for the astronomer can now diminish the sun's light till it is bearable by the weakest eye, without any distortion of what he is looking at, and without disturbing the natural tints by colored glasses. In practice, a third and sometimes a fourth reflector, each of a wedge shaped, optically plane piece of unsilvered glass, are thus introduced, and by a simple rotation of the last one the light is graded at pleasure, so that with such an instrument, called "the polarizing eyepiece" ([Fig. A]), I have often watched the sun's magnified image for four or five hours together with no more distress to the eye than in reading a newspaper.
With this, in favorable moments, we see that the sun's surface away from the spots, everywhere, is made up of hundreds of thousands of small, intensely brilliant bodies, that seem to be floating in a gray medium, which, though itself no doubt very bright, appears dark by comparison. What these little things are is still uncertain; whatever they are, they are the immediate principal source of the sun's light and heat. To get an idea of their size we must resort to some more delicate means of measurement than we used in the case of the watch. The filar micrometer consists essentially of two excessively fine strands of cobwebs (or, rather, of spider's cocoon), called technically "wires," stretched parallel to each other and placed just at the focus of the telescope. Suppose one of them to be fixed and the second to be movable (keeping always parallel to the first) by means of a screw, having perhaps one hundred threads to the inch, and a large drum shaped head divided into one hundred equal parts, so that moving this head by one division carries the second "wire" 1/10000 part of an inch nearer to the first. Motions smaller than this can clearly be registered, but it will be evident that everything here really depends upon the accuracy of the screw. The guide screw of the best lathe is a coarse piece of work by comparison with "micrometer" screws as now constructed (especially those for making the "gratings" to be described later), for recent uses of them demand perhaps the most accurate workmanship of anything in mechanics—the maker of one which will pass some lately invented tests is entitled at any rate to call himself "a workman."