THE STARS AND THEIR N.A MTS.
THERE is a pleasant story of an Irishman. who approached the study of astronomy in a somewhat perplexed frame of mind. He declared that he could see quite well how it was possible to measure the distances of the stars; he could understand, at a pinch, how it might be pos- sible to weigh them, and even to determine their chemical composition; but he could not for the life of him tell how we had ever conttived to find out their names. Townsmen and shunners of the open night, many of us have never thought so much of the stars as to ask ourselves that question. Far we have wandered from the artless but earnest star-gazing of the ancient dwellers on the great Chaldaean plain, "when shep- herds watched their flocks by night," and all unwittingly laid the foundations of the science by which our ships now come to harbour on every shore. If the stars only shone on a single night in the year, what crowds would sally forth to look at them! Even as it is, few of us can surely be out of doors on a clear, moon- less night—especially in so favourable a spot as the Surrey hill- tops afford—without rising for the moment to thoughts that are as strongly touched with emotion, though perhaps not so articulate, as the celebrated sonnet of Blanco White. Yet there are not many who can enter into the spirit of Gabriel Oak's night-dial, as Mr. Hardy describes it:—" The Dog- star and Aldebaran, pointing to the restless Pleiades, were half-way up the Southern sky, and between them hung Orion, which gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it swung itself forth above the rim of the landscape. Castor and Pollux, with their quiet shine, were almost on the meridian; the barren and gloomy Square of Pegasus was creeping round to the north-west ; far away through the plantation, Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid the leafless trees, and Cassiopeia's Chair stood daintily poised on the uppermost height. One o'clock,' said Gabriel." In that brief and poetic passage, which most of us have read without pausing to think about it, is buried a whole world of mythology and forgotten beliefs. To unfold them would be no less a task than to "bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion." It is really as hard as the Irishman thought it to say where the ancient stars got their names, or how and when the inhabitants of this inconsiderable planet had the audacity to set their creeds or their heroes among the sentinel stars. But some answer. to the question can be made, as we are reminded in the interesting little work On "The Stars in Song and Legend" (Boston: Ginn and CO which has been published by Professor Jermain G. Porter, Director of the Cincinnati Observatory. A study of the old star myths and names should indeed help to "reveal to us the thoughts and feelings with which primitive man gazed into the sky, and the relations and influences which he there traced." Perhaps it is no bad thing for us, in the bustle of modern life, to be thus invited to regain for a moment the freshness of the early world, and to perceive the realism that underlies the beautiful lines of Byroa Cal the stars, "which are the poetry of heaven"
"For ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, pewee, life, have named themselves a star."
The oldest star-names which have come down to us are those ef the constellations, which—there is good reason to believe— were traced on the sky something like five thousand years ego by a forgotten race dwelling in the Valley of the Euphrates. In their present shape they have passed through the artistic hands of the Greeks, while the individual star- names have mostly come to us from the Arabs. Both sources are to be seen in Spenser's lines :— "Now when Aldebaran was mounted high Above the starry Cassiopeia's Chair."
Andromeda and Cassiopeia, Pegasus and Orion, the Twins and the Ship Argo, all bear the print of that brilliant Hellenic imagination which has done so much to illuminate and beautify the world. It is needless to speak in detail of a mythology that—even in days of the "modern side "—must be supposed to be familiar to every schoolboy. Yet there is reason to believe that the Greeks did but apply their own names to figures that had been placed in the sky long before, and referred, to a state of civilisation which was already buried under the drums and tramplings of many conquests when Homer sang and Plato reasoned. Astronomical considera- tions give us a reasonable guess at the time and place of the birth of the constellations, but it is probable that we shall never know more of their origin. They may have been part of some early religion written on the face of the heavens for all men to read; they may have formed the proudest Pantheon of dead heroes ever conceived by man; they may have been simply a convenient nunnoria tech.nica by which the first astronomers defined the places of the stars. Probably the earliest star-names that
have yet been brought to light are to be deciphered on the Assyrian tablets. There we find the Pole Star, "whose true- fixed and resting quality" was perhaps the first discovery made in the stellar universe, called the "Judge of Heaven" and the "High One of the Enclosure of Light." Charles's Wain was already the "Long Chariot," and Cassiopeia, the Lady in the Chair, was the "Lady of Corn," showing how
prone men have always been to see their own little figures reflected on the sky. Auriga was already the " Chariot," and its driver held the "Goat," Capella, in his arms. The Pleiades and the "rainy Hyades" were the "Great Twins" or the "Foundations." Regulus was then the " King " of the starry plain, and the Horse, the Serpent, the Scorpion, and the Bull were already to be found in the places where we look for them to-day. Bootee was the Herdsman, and Aries the Ram. How are we to explain this coincidence between the Greek and the Euphratean astronomers ? Is it mere plagiarism, or an instance of the extraordinary currency of tradition, or a proof that the constellations really look like the strange forms which we try to see in them ? One can understand that Castor and Pollux should always be called the Twins, and the American name of the Dipper is only a little more realistic than the Plough or our own Wain—though it is not easy to see how Homer perceived the Bear in the same stars—and no great stretch of imagination is needed to see the outspread wings of the Swan and the curve of the Sickle. But beyond that we can hardly go, and the real origin of the constella- tion-figures is likely to remain to all time " wropt in mist'ry." When we turn to the names of individual stars, we seem to be on surer ground. The brightest of all, Sirius or the Dog-star, probably owes the latter name to his association with Orion the Hunter. Sirius, of course, is the sparkling star or "scorcher," the Arabic Al Shire. It is curious to note
how many of the popular names of individual stars are a legacy from the Arabs, who did so much to keep science alive through the European dark ages. Aldebaran is "the Follower," because he seems to drive the Pleiades before him. The Pleiades themselves contain a mystery: why are they always called seven? There are only six now visible to an ordinary eye, and those who can see seven can see at least eleven. When did the "fallen sister" vanish from the sky? The name tells us nothing,—any snore than does the popular association of these lovely stars with the "little she- goats" that honest Sancho Panza saw on his aerial excursion. -Another problem is set to astronomers by the Arabic narr - of Algol, "the demon," which is simply our old friend the Ghoul of the "Arabian Nights." It is almost necessary to assume that such a name refers to Algol's remarkable variations in light, which we now know to be caused by a huge dark planet—probably about the size of our sun—revolving round
it. Yet there is absolutely no record of any perception of a change in the luminosity of Algol before 1783. Here
the name has evidently preserved an observation which has been entirely lost. Modern attempts to record things in the sky have been less fortunate. Dr. Porter tells us that the Leipsic Academy in 1807 decreed that the belt and sword of Orion, the most splendid of all the constellations, should in
future be known by the name of Napoleon; but the tranquil stars smile on, undisturbed by that meteoric career. Herschel's loyal proposal to call his new planet the Georgium Sidus was little more fortunate. The only Monarch of modern times who is actually commemorated in the sky is—of all choices ! —Charles 11, after whom a fine double star in BoOtes was christened " Cor Caroli." After all, the Merry Monarch deserved such an honour, for he had the good sense to found Greenwich Observatory. As a rule the modern nomenclature of the stars is of a severely practical nature. It is convenient for the astronomer, but the average man declines to think of Sirius as "a Canis Majors," or as "1900, R. A. 6 hrs. 40.7 min.,—Dec. 16° 35'." Tennyson's well-known line would not be improved if it spoke of "Lamps which out-burn'd a Argus (Carinae)." " Groombridge 1830," and "C. Z. Vb., 243" may be very interesting stars, but they must not think to compete in the general estimation with Aldebaran and Fomalhaut, Canopus or Vega or Procyon. Yet the mind rises above catalogues, and of a star that interests us we may say with the poet:—
"A learned man
Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same."
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