100 Years Ago: January 1925

[George Thomas Wilson]

100 Years Ago: January 1925

This is the one-hundred-twentieth entry in my ongoing series of reviews of National Geographic Magazines as the reach the 100th anniversary of their publication.

The first article listed on this month’s cover is entitled “Seeing America from the “Shenandoah”” and was written by Junius B. Wood, author of “The Far Eastern Republic,” “Yap and Other Pacific Islands under Japanese Mandate,” and “A Visit to Three Arab Kingdoms,” in the National Geographic Magazine. It has the internal subtitle: “An Account of the Record-making 9,000-mile Flight from the Atlantic to the Pacific Coast and Return in the Navy’s American-built, American-manned Airship.” The article contains thirty-nine black-and-white photographs, of which seven are full-page in size. The article also contains a sketch diagram of the Shenandoah on page 8 and a sketch map of the airship’s route on page 5.

X

[Note: The same diagram appears in the July 1924 issue but with a different caption.]

Sketch Map courtesy of Philip Riviere

On the morning of October 7, 1924, the big Navy airship, U. S. S. Shenandoah started from Lakehurst, New Jersey, on its record-making cruise of more than 9,000 miles, twice over the Rockies and twice around three sides of the U. S. All 300 men of the base, holding ropes, led the Shenandoah out of the hangar. Nose to the wind, she was led to the mast, where she was moored. At 10 a. m. the ship was ready to cast off, the sun had warmed the helium and fuel, supplies and crew had been loaded. The author was a passenger on the trip. He was the last on; he and his camera just made the weight limit cut. The author described the task of casting off by using an example of one he witnessed firsthand – at San Diego on October 22. The ship swayed at little then slowly started to settle, as she fell away from the supporting mast. They balanced the ship by dropping water, forward and aft. Standard speed was ordered and men in five separate cars, throttled their motors to 1,200 rpm simultaneously. The nose was kept pointed upward by having men move to the aft. After an angle of 13 degrees was reached, the maximum lift was obtained. Casting off took 16 minutes; the wait for the sun to warm the helium took several hours. They climbed as fast as they could, taking the airship to pressure height. Pressure height usually was 4,500 feet, where the helium bags were swollen almost to bursting. Casting off and mooring were much the same operation, only in reverse. In each the ship headed into the wind, and it was a balancing act along its length. In casting off, ballast was dropped. In landing, gas was valved to make the craft heavier. The engines were of no assistance in lifting until after the ship was free from the mast, or in landing after its downward drive had stopped. The Navy used the noncombustible gas, helium, which costed $55 for 1,000 cubic feet. Due to that fact, valving was frowned upon.

To limit valving, landings were done at night, when the ship was cool and heavy, while departures well after sunrise, after the gas was heated. The gas was extremely sensitive to temperature. Frequently, when the ship dropped within 300 feet of the ground, the engines could not drive it farther down, it bounced up again like a rubber ball, from the heat of the ground. Temperature of the ground and wind velocity and direction were always ascertained before attempting a landing. To make a landing, a crew of 200 or 300 men was needed to hold the ship down. To make a mooring at the mast took a dozen men to connect the two cables. To cast off from the mast, the only assistance required from outside was to uncouple the fuel and water pipes, and snap back the clamp holding the ship’s nose. The engines drove the ship down near the ground. If the ship was going directly to the mast, a steel cable was dropped, which men below coupled to on from the top of the mast; the ship rose again and an engine pulled its nose down to the mast. If the ship was going to land on the ground, ropes were dropped, and ground crews swarmed to them like flies. The author demonstrated danger to the ground crew performing that task with the tale of Chief Petty Officer O’Shea, who held on to a rope of a basket-free balloon. He reached 14,000 feet before he could tear the balloon and descend. Flapping, rolling, dropping, and finally gliding, the balloon landed in a river, and O’Shea was fished out. As the Shenandoah left her home mooring mat at Lakehurst, 10 a. m., October 7, she described a broad circle with a five-mile radius, until the altimeter showed 1,300 feet. That was above sea level and ground level. A few days later, the same altimeter registered 7,300 feet, going over the Rockies, she was only a few hundred feet above the bottom of a canyon and the menacing peaks on either side were above her. Jersey was left behind when the Delaware River was reached at 11:25.

X

The Shenandoah followed the river to Wilmington, Delaware, which was reached 20 minutes later. Baltimore was below at 1:37 p. m. The start and finish of a race at Laural from a safe altitude of 3,000 feet. An escort of airplanes came out off Washington, the ship passed between the Monument and the White House at 2:10, and reached Virginia 10 minutes later. The ship was over Orange, Virginia, at 3:59 p. m., Charlottesville at 4:35, Esmont at 5, Norwood at 5:30, and Lynchburg at 6:20. Darkness fell below while the sun still struck the gondola. Danville, Virginia was below at 8:10, and a few minutes later the Shenandoah was sailing over North Carolina. In the silent night the hum of the Shenandoah, as she passed high in the air, could be heard for miles. Greensboro was an electric cluster in a black setting at 9:20 p, m., High Point was 1,000 feet below at 9:55, a dozen flares burned in a greeting, and Salisbury followed an hour later with a salvo of locomotive whistles. Gastonia, North Carolina, was a fading glow at 12:37 a, m., October 8. And at 1:27 Gaffney South Carolina, was directly below. Spartanburg, South Carolina, was crossed at 1:57 a. m. The morning sun was following up over the hilltops before they reached Atlanta. Atlanta was rubbing the sleep out of their eyes at 4:35 a. m. (central time). Carrollton, Georgia was left behind at 6:32 and the Alabama border crossed a few minutes later. Long before Birmingham was reached, at 7:15 a. m., the mantle of smoke from her steel mills was visible. Three Army airplanes came out to meet her. Birmingham’s whistles could be faintly heard, 2,500 feet below. From Birmingham to the Black Warrior River the forest seemed without a break. Motors were running at only two-thirds speed, 1,000 rpm, but the ship was making time, with a fair wind behind. The Mississippi border was crossed and Columbus was below a 9 a. m. Greensville and the Mississippi River were crossed at 11:47. Through the second day the Shenandoah was over the land of cotton.

Fires were smoldering through the forests of Louisiana. Columns of smoke rose lazily as high as the ship. It was the same at Arkansas through the night on the return voyage, two weeks later. The Shenandoah was over Bastrop, La., at 2:10 p. m., passing Shreveport and the Red River at 4:15, and was almost to Texas. Night had fallen when the lights of Dallas twinkled below at 7:40 p. m. At 8:30 p. m. she was above the mooring mast, 8 miles outside of Fort Worth. At 9:45 she had cooled sufficiently to approach low enough to drop her cable. The cables were coupled, but the wince balked and it was not until 11:05 that she was wound down by hand and anchored. Fort Worth was the home of the Navy’s helium extraction plant. The town was enthusiastic, as was all Texas. Many thousands of automobiles were entangled in the surrounding fields and roads. Fort Worth had a reception committee keyed up for a week of hospitality. They were crestfallen when told that the Shenandoah would remain only overnight. It was the same on the return voyage. At 9:46 a. m., October 9, the Shenandoah left the mast, circled over Fort Worth, followed the main boulevard, and was off toward Tolar. The difficult leg of the voyage – to cross the Rockies – was starting. The crew had worked overnight to load fuel, oil, and water. Ranger slipped by at 12:45 p. m., Eastland, and its oil spindles at 1, Cisco at 1:12, and Putnam at 1:30. That day and next were clear, with the horizon 50 to 75 miles away. It seemed that all the automobiles in Putnam were on a hill outside of town. School children in Baird, at 1:45, ran along the street after the ship. Whistles, which echoed faintly 3,000 feet above, announced Abilene at 2:20 p. m. The radio operator aboard talked with an amateur in town, one of some 200 amateur operators with whom the ship established communications. Thousands of others heard the ships radio broadcast and Morse code. In addition to amateurs, the Shenandoah communicated with fourteen Navy, six Army, and six commercial stations.

X

The performance of the auxiliary transmitter and the generator were far greater than anticipated. The ship was in communications of Bellevue laboratory every night, and by chance with the U. S. S. Canopus, in the Pacific near the Equator, and with a commercial station in Norway. Before starting, the transmitter was only expected to work 500 miles at night. The vast open spaces of Texas were breaking up into hills half an hour after Abilene was left at 45 mph. Part of Sweetwater had trekked out of town and the remainder were on roofs and freight cars at 3:14 p. m. Roscoe, with its little squares of cotton, was below at 3:28, Colorado at 3:55, and Iatan at 4:20. A train which had attempted to keep pace gave up at a little town. The first foothills of the Rockies had been reached, and the road curved and climbed while the ship sailed straight ahead. Big Spring, with the First National Bank roof as an observatory, dropped back at 4:46. Near Stanton the “fish” at the end of the 450-foot hanging antenna fell off and dropped into the dry soil of Texas and stopped. So did the radio. Though the Shenandoah was climbing, the ground was coming up faster. Midland was below at 6:47, Odessa 30 minutes later, and at 7:50 the Pecos, both river and town, were crossed at an altitude of 4,500 feet. At 9:50 she was over Van Horn with an altitude of 6,600 feet, and still climbing. Ears sung from the rarified air. The ship was lighter, from the fuel which had been consumed in the 12 hours from Fort Worth. Water ballast had been dropped, and only fuel could be jettisoned to lighten her further. The Shenandoah was rushing toward the first of the mountain passes, with cross-winds whipping around the peaks. Every man was on duty. The ship went trough the passes, keeping as low as possible to save gas. The clear night with a full moon was almost as bright as day. The black peaks were above the ship, and the shoulders came close, but always fell back.

The lights of Sierra Blanca were below at 10:15 p. m., and the giant ship was speeding through the tortuous channel at 60 mph. Her motors were roaring at full speed, 1,400 rpm. She responded to her rudder without a quiver, riding as smoothly as a ship on a calm sea. The Shenandoah climbed and passed over the top. Ahead was seen the valley of the Rio Grande. The first ridge of the Rockies had been crossed. Fort Hancock, on the river, was below at 10:45, and the course was headed northwest, toward El Paso. El Paso gave a welcome of whistles, flares, and searchlights when the ship sailed over, at 11:30 p, m., and left Texas behind. Strong winds followed up the valley. The ship sped across New Mexico at 79 mph, over Deming at 12:10 a. m., October 10, and Lordsburg at 1:32. When the Arizona line was crossed, at 2:10, the winds changed. The Shenandoah fought them until she reached her hangar at Lakehurst, two weeks later. Bowie Arizona was below at 3:07 a. m. The ship’s nose was pointed to the canyon with mountains rising to the south and the north. A 25-mph wind was whistling out of the mountain pass. The headlight of a locomotive flashed into view far ahead in the pass and the Shenandoah drove toward it into the wind. The current caught her broadside. She drifted for a breathless second. The rudders held and she slowly slid forward between the towering peaks, which rose out of the gloom, and into another valley. Cochise was passed at 4:12 a. m., and the even narrower Dragoon Pass was ahead. The lights of the little cattle station of Manzoro were below at 4:30, and the Shenandoah drove into the pass. A freight train showed the way into the inky tunnel and the ship worked slowly through. Benson, near the summit of the divide, sparkled ahead at 5:19, the east was faintly pink, and the worst of the Rockies had been crossed. Tucson, thousands of feet below, looked like gaudy stage scenery with its red roofs, green streets, and white walls on a background of brown desert, under the clear morning sun, at 6:30 a. m.

X

Maricopa at 8:20, Estrella at 9:40, and Gila Bend, with the Gila River, a dark line far to the north. Irrigated farms were green squares on the prevailing brown. A passenger train, which had kept pace for a couple of hours, slowly pulled ahead and disappeared. The Shenandoah was alone above the dry waste. Mohawk Pass, with a few green-roofed houses, went by a 11:42. From the height which the Shenandoah wassailing, the panorama was unbroken for 50 miles in any direction. The brown ribbon of the Colorado was crossed a 1:55 p. m. Yuma laid across the river to the south. Dust dimmed the sunlight, even at the ship’s altitude, as it entered California and turned northward along the eastern shore of the Salton Sea. The Imperial Valley was another irrigated checkerboard of green, its borders fighting against the shifting sands. Indio was reached at 5:15. Darkness fell suddenly. Rain and snow drove against the ship when she reached Banning, at 7:05. Sunny California’s greeting was frigid. The ship started to drop from the chill and the weight of snow. That quickly melted, and at 8:10 the course turned westward over San Bernardino, reaching the Pacific off Seal Beach at 9:15. The Shenandoah was over the North Island naval air station mast at San Diego at 10:48 p. m. Thirty minutes later she landed on the field, but was not moored at the mast until 1 a. m. The only accident that occurred on the voyager occurred when the ship landed. It bumped a little hard and one of its girders crumpled. The girder was replaced while the ship was at the mast. Five days were required. The five engines, each of 300 horsepower, propelled the ship. Three of them had water recovery condensers. They recovered from 110 to 122 pounds of water for every 100 pounds of gasoline burned. [See: “Man’s Progress in Conquering the Air,” July 1924, The Geographic.]

The weather was raw and hazy, with headwinds down the coast, when the Shenandoah cast off from the San Diego mast at 9:15 a. m. October 16. Fifteen minutes later she had rounded Point Loma and was headed northward, over the Pacific Ocean, and five miles offshore. The battle fleet was at target practice in the San Pedro Channel, off Catalina Island, at 12:15 p. m. Greetings were exchanged. The Shenandoah circled inland over Los Angeles, skirting Hollywood at 1:10, passed over Santa Monica five minutes later, and was again out over the Pacific. Picturesque Santa Barbara was on the starboard side at 3:40. Dusk was falling over the lighthouse of Point Conception at 6:07 p. m. Point Arguello was off the bow at 7 p. m. and a course laid out to sea, straight for Point Piedras Blancas, which was turned at 10:55. Point Sur Light was sighted at 1:17 a. m., October 17, and Point Cypress at 1:55. Farallon Light was to port at 6:15, but San Francisco, 30 miles away, was invisible in the fog. Point Reyes was turned at 7 o’clock, the town of Mendocino at 11:34, and Fort Bragg at 11:55 a. m. Point Delgada was reached at 1:04 p. m., and Cape Mendocino, with its bobbing light-ship at 2:50. Thousands of basking seals flopped in the water as the ship passed. Dogs, whales, and pelicans seemed the only denizens of earth, water, or air which were not terrified by the ship. Eureka and the Eel River valley were near at 4 o’clock and at 7:35 p. m. Brookings, Oregon, was opposite and the California coast was left behind. The ship reached the mouth of the Rouge River at 9:10 p. m., and at 12:30 a. m., October 18, she turned inland over Florence, Oregon, up the Siuslaw River valley, turning northward again 15 miles north of Eugene, at 1:58 a. m. It passed between Corvallis and Albany at 2:25, over Salem at 3:10, Silverton at 3:15, and Portland a 4:16. The Shenandoah was over the mooring mast at American Lake, part of Camp Lewis and 10 miles south of Tacoma, at 8:15 a. m. As far as the eye could see, there was a solid floor of fog.

X

The ship was two tons light and it did not moor to the mast until 6:30 p. m. Due to headwinds and enforced time-killing, the voyage up the coast took 57 hours. The Sunday sun was late in rising in Tacoma, and it was 12:05 p. m., October 19, before the Shenandoah cast off on its return voyage. Tacoma was crossed at 12:25 and the ship circled Seattle from 1:00 to 1:20. Green Lake, at 1:05 p. m., was the farthest north of the voyage or for any airship on this continent. Bremerton navy yard, with the Mississippi docked, was below at 1:35, and the Hood Canal was on the right at 2:20. Hoquiam was passed at 3:25 p. m., and they turned southward over the Pacific at 3:45 p. m. A detour was made into the mouth of the Columbia River and over Astoria at 4:40 p. m., but weather cancel another visit to Portland. Cape Lookout was passed at 6:12, Cape Arago at 9:10 p. m., and Cape Mendocino Light at 1:55 a. m., October 20. Punta Gorda was passed at 2:30, Fort Bragg at 4, and after that everything disappeared in the fog. At 8:15 the fog lifted and the Shenandoah faced a 50-mile-an-hour gale. Bodega Head was reached at 12:30 p. m. and Point Reyes at 1:55. Only 68 miles were covered in 5 hours and 40 minutes. She rounded the last rocky head and changed course at Duxbury Point at 2:30, crossed Drakes Bay, and sailed over the Golden Gate Bridge at 3 o’clock. She swung across San Francisco and was out by San Mateo and over the Pacific again by 3:30. Monterey was passed at 3:58, Point Sur at 7:41, Point Piedras Blancas at 8:50, Point Arguello at 10:32, Santa Barbara at 11:45, the fleet anchored of San Pedro at 2 a. m., October 21, and the San Diego mooring mast at 4. The fog did not lift until 10 o’clock and the ship landed in the field at 10::55. She was moored to the mat at 11:40. The Shenandoah cast off from San Diego at 11:07 a. m., October 22, headed south toward Tia Juana, circled to warm up, and gain buoyancy, to get to an altitude of 6,000 feet to crossing the Rockies. She went south of the Salto Sea.

Sailing was bumpy. Cottonwood was below at 12:25 p. m.; Campo, 12:50; Jacumba, 1:00; Coyote, 1:40; El Centro, 2:01, Yuma, Arizona, 3:10; Mohawk, 5:20: Aztec, 5:46; and Gila Bend, 6:55. Enid was recognized at 7:30; Maricopa, 7:50; Casa Grande, 8:15; Tucson, 10:00, and the course was changed to the southeast west of Benson at 10:41. Near Naco, the faint moon disappeared. The ship slipped over the mountain, picked up the railroad track, and a few minutes later was over Bisbee. The ship was heay. They drained two fuel tanks and finally jettisoned a third to gain altitude. The ship rose to 7,300 feet, turned over Bisbee and its mountain walls at 12:43 a. m., October 23, and sighted Naco ten minutes later. The danger was passed; clear sailing was ahead. Douglas was passed at 1:27 a. m.; Rodeo, New Mexico, 2:30; Hachita, 3:47; Hermanas, 4:40; Columbus, 5:21; El Paso, Texas, 9:00 (central time); Fabens, 10: Fort Hancock, 10:45; Sierra Blanca, 11:40; Van Horn, 12:45; Pecos, 3:14; Odessa, 5:05; Midland, 5:34; Big Spring, 6:26; Colorado, 7:27; Sweetwater, 8:06; Abilene, 8:57; Fort Worth, 1:30 a. m., October 24, and moored to the mast at 2:27. A more difficult northern rout back to Lakehurst was chosen. The Fort Worth mast was left at 10:33 a. m., October 24, after fueling. Dallas was passed at 11:30; Rowlett at noon; Greenville, 12:48; Clarksville, 2:55; Morris Ferry, Arkansas, 4:17; Lockesburg, 4:45; Hot Springs, 6:57; Little Rock, 8:17; Newport and the White River, 10:25; Jonesboro, 11:55; the Mississippi and New Madrid, Missouri, 1:46 a. m., October 25; Paducah, Kentucky, 3:39; Evansville, Indiana, 5:17; Columbus, 8:00; Richmond, 9:30; Greenville, Ohio, 9:55; Dayton, 10:38; Springfield, 11:15; Columbus, noon; Zanesville, 1:06 p. m.; Moundsville, West Virginia, 2:30; Waynesburg, Pennsylvania, 4:10; Chambersburg, 6:28; York, 7:25; Chester, 9:00; Philadelphia, 9:40; and Lakehurst, New Jersey, 11:00, landing on the ground facing the hangar at 11:55.

X

An hour later, the $2,000,000 Shenandoah was berthed in the $3,600,000 hangar, at the side of the fat ZR-3, a sailing palace compared to the strictly utilitarian American-built airship. The digest of the cruise, giving the time in hours and minutes showed:

X

The cruise of the Shenandoah was over an uncharted world. Beacons by sea and signs by land had been built for those who voyaged on the surface. A new era of transportation was coming nearer, in which the airship, in which the airship would have a place as a conveyance of peace as well as an instrument of war. The American-built and American-manned airship in this cruise showed that mountains and distances were easily negotiable. The voyage to the North Pole and the exploration of the vast polar regions had been made neared realization by the Shenandoah’s venture in the face of a blustery autumn. With the springtime, polar flights might come and the world’s most inaccessible region would be within easy reach of man. In 1925, the U. S. had two great airships, small when compared to those which were planned, but which had already proved their air-worthiness and capability for the rigors of polar exploration.

The second article in this month’s issue is entitled “The Palace of Versailles, Its Park and the Trianons” and was written by Franklin L. Fisher. The article contains four black-and-white photographs, one of which is full-page in size and serves as the frontispiece for the article.

Most tourists’ first view of Versailles was from the main gate. As one passed through the gate, one saw, facing him, the great equestrian statue of Louis XIV, that august monarch who occupied the throne of France for 72 years. Guarding the court in impressive grandeur were statues of distinguished statesmen and marshals. Even across the vast expanse of cobblestone stretching in every direction, those honored of France appeared of heroic size. At either side and in front rose the impressive walls of “the architectural masterpiece of the most brilliant era of a great nation.” It was later transformed by King Louis Philippe into a museum “to all the glories of France.” The patrons of art came to see the creations of the architect Mansart, the murals of Le Brun, the portraits of Mignard, the sculptures of Coysevox, and the landscape gardening of Le Norte. Versailles was the seat of government until the Revolution. The intrigues of the court, so frequently appearing in literature and upon the stage, were brought to mind and the frivolities of the pleasure-mad nobility were once more rehearsed. In the author’s imagination, the concourse was again thronged with a ragged populace brandishing aloft crude weapons and shouting demands for food and for death to their King and “The Austrian.” To the casual tourist, that grand entrance was a bit forbidding, and viewed with the apprehension that came to tired feet the seemingly endless ocean of cobblestone under the glare of the sun. The Grande Chapelle, which attracted instant attention upon entering the gates, was designed by Mansart. In the hundreds of rooms in the palace, it was said that 10,000 persons could be housed. The cost of building the palace was estimated at $100,000,000, which considering the period and methods employed by an absolute monarch, was tremendous, even in 1925. The architecture was of the most eye-filling style and the interior furnishings were the last word in luxury.

X

A hundred sculptors were said to have been employed to provide the statuary which decorated the gardens as well as the palace itself, and countless painters executed masterpieces to adorn the walls and ceilings. The double attraction of art and history gave that palace a rare prestige. It was Versailles which furnished the model for the palace of Sans Souci at Potsdam and other less widely known German palaces. Just as Louis XIV made Versailles the center of interest of his France by the brilliance of his court, it was the policy of the Bourbons to call to France the artistic industries of other countries. Flemings and Italians who excelled in the finer arts were induced to make their homes in France and to act as teachers to the artistically inclined. In that manner, the royal manufacture of tapestries, carpets, furniture, and porcelain was established. Colbert organized an academy of architecture. There was also an academy of painting and sculpting, and even a French academy at Rome had been established to study Greek and Roman art. Versailles was not made in a day; its construction continued throughout the reigns of three successive kings. Louis XIV had the vision of it almost in its entirety, and much was accomplished in a reign as long as his. With his own hands Louis was said to have drawn roughly the plans for Versailles. The palace was built around the hunting lodge of Louis XIII, the walls of which still enclosed the Marble Court, while the gardens were cut out of the earlier king’s estate. Much of the ground was low and the earth of the terraces was brought from afar. The necessary grading and leveling, the construction of the aqueduct, and the building of the road from Paris required “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men” – 6,000 horses and 36,000 men were employed at the task. The most famous room, the Hall of the Mirrors, still retained much of its former magnificence, though its silver furniture was sacrificed to the mint when money troubles afflicted the Grand Monarch.

That room was lighted by 17 great windows overlooking the gardens, opposite which were a corresponding number of arcades filled with 306 beveled mirrors, whose size and brilliance were wonders of their time. When lighted by myriads of candles, the gorgeous scenes they reflected challenged description. On the vaulted ceiling of that and the rooms at either end, Le Brun painted a series of pictures illustrating the triumphs of his master’s reign. In them, Louis was represented as a Roman Emperor in golden armor. In 1925, it was still the largest painting in France. On the same floor were the rooms of greatest interest to the romantically inclined, the Cabinets of Marie Antoinette. They were small and consisted of a boudoir, two libraries, a salon, bath, and dressing room, and were adjacent to the state suite, the bedroom occupied by succeeding queens of France. The bedroom of the King was behind the center of the Hall of the Mirrors, its window looked out upon the Marble Court toward the Paris gate. Below the windows of the Hall of the Mirrors, on the opposite front of the Palace, was a terrace with two limpid pools enclosed by marble curbs. Each of those natural mirrors was decorated with four recumbent statues in bronze which represented the rivers of France. Each figure was made by a different sculptor. Straight down the center of the garden were, in order, the Basin of Latona, the Tapis Vert, the Basin of Apollo, and the Grand canal, while to the left and right other fountains, lawns, and flower beds filled the visitor’s eyes with beauty. Walks led in every direction and statuary in marble and bronze peopled the vast spaces, which were otherwise often almost deserted. Near the Basin of Apollo was a bit of striking architecture that seemed out of place. That was the Colonnade; it consisted of a circular arrangement of columns supporting a balustrade. Between the columns were marble basins, where jets of water played, and in the center on the enclosure: Pluto and Proserpine.

X

The Grand Canal, the main body of which was nearly a mile in length, had two arms, forming a cross. On those waters, in the time of Louis XIV, boating was a popular diversion of the court. The King has his own magnificent galley, hung with silk, and rigged in crimson and gold. In the gardens before the south wing of the palace stood the Orangery, a great conservatory built by Mansart. It was built because of Louis XIV’s fondness for orange trees. Even before the great palace was completed, in 1682, the fancy of Madame de Montespan had called for the establishment of a summer house, where fetes, dancing parties, and suppers could be given. The site chosen was at the end of the right arm of the Grand Canal, where a shabby village called Trianon touched the edge of the park. The land was taken over, the houses demolished, and the first structures of the Grand Trianon were built. It was later rebuilt and enlarged by Mansart. Gabriel built a small pavilion nearby. In the extended park another palace was quickly erected. Benjamin Franklin, first American envoy to France, saw Versailles as a private citizen during a visit to Europe in 1767, while Louis XV was still king. Later he visited it officially, when he and fellow negotiators were there to ratify the Franco-American alliance signed in 1778. On his official visit, he was attired in correct court costume, except that he wore no formal wig, much to dismay of attendants. No wigs would fit him. “Your wigs are too small,” remarked Dr. Franklin. “Not at all,” replied the wigmaker, “Monsieur’s head is far too large!” Marie Antoinette showed special favor to Franklin and enjoyed conversing with him about the new country. To tell the whole story of Versailles required the space of at least one good-sized books, for the place was replete with the interest of art and history in an era of splendor. To the traveler bored with the sights of Europe, it was outstanding in its magnificence, and to those who had read about Versailles, the time spent there was all too short.

The third item listed on this month’s cover is entitled “Versailles, the Magnificent” and has Gervais Courtellemont in the byline. It is not an article but a set of “14 Autochromes Lumiere,” or color photographs embedded within the second article. The first and last photos are full-page in size, the remaining twelve are two to a page. The set of color photos appear on a block of eight plates numbered I through VIII in Roman numerals and representing pages 53 through 60 in the issue.

X

A list of the caption headings for the color photos with the plate numbers is as follows:

• “Blindman’s Buff as Played in the Time of Marie Antoinette, Queen of Louis XVI” – Plate I
• “A Scene at Sunset in the Park” – Plate II
• “Among the Flowerbeds of Versailles” – Plate II
• “The Red Marble Fountain in the Bassin de Latone” – Plate III
• “The Chateau of Versailles, from the Gardens” – Plate III
• “The Architectural Triumph of the “Great Reign”” – Plate IV
• “A Vista in the Gardens of Versailles” – Plate IV
• “The Queen’s House in the Hamlet: Petit Trianon” – Plate V
• “The Belvedere of the Petit Trianon” – Plate V
• “The Park in September” – Plate VI
• “The Grotto of Apollo” – Plate VI
• “The Temple of Love in the Gardens of the Petit Trianon” – Plate VII
• “The Mill of Marie Antoinette: Petit Trianon” – Plate VII
• “The Park of the Petit Trianon in Autumn” – Plate VIII

X

The fourth item (third article) listed on this month’s cover is entitled “Chichen Itza, an Ancient American Mecca” and was written by Sylvanus Griswold Morley, author of “Excavating at Quirigua, Guatemala,” and “The Foremost Intellectual Achievement of Ancient America,” in the National Geographic Magazine. The article has an internal subtitle: “Recent Excavations in Yucatan Are Bringing to Light the Temples, Palaces, and Pyramids of America’s Most Holy Native City.” The article contains thirty-four black-and-white photographs, of which six are full-page in size. It also contains a sketch diagram of the site on page 87

X

and a sketch map of Central America and Southern Mexico on page 64.

Sketch Map courtesy of Philip Riviere

Around the time that the Western Roman Empire was falling to pieces in the Old World, there took place in the New World an event which would affect the history and fortunes of America’s most brilliant aboriginal people, namely the discovery of the Yucatan by the Maya, sometime between 471 and 530 A. D. For perhaps a thousand years prior to that date the Maya lived in a region including parts of Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras (see shaded area of the map). There, a magnificent civilization had been developed. That region, in 1925 overgrown with a dense tropical forest, had been cleared and put under intense cultivation. Great cities had flourished on every side. Lofty pyramid-temples and splendid palaces, spacious plazas and courts filled with elaborately carved monuments, market places, terraces, causeways, were counted, not by tens, but by thousands. Indeed, that region was probably the most densely populated region of its size in the world during the first five centuries of the Christian Era. Nor did other arts and science lag behind architecture and sculpture. Metal, it was true, the Mayans lacked. But they still carved such hard substances as jade. Necklaces, anklets, wristlets, earrings, nose-ornaments, beads, and pendants were made from the same refractory material. Exquisite wood carvings, delicate modeling in stucco, ceramics, painting, weaving, and gorgeous mosaics made of brilliantly colored feathers were some of the other arts in which the Maya acknowledged few equals. But the Mayan Dark Ages were approaching. Art, architecture, and learning were soon to suffer an eclipse. The Maya during the seventh century were forced to abandon the Old Empire region and to seek new homes elsewhere. The causes of that great Mayan Exodus were as yet obscured. Climate changes, intercede strife, foreign invasions, intellectual and social exhaustion, epidemics of yellow fever, and even the high cost of living had been suggested to account for that great historic event.

The author believed that the Maya gradually exhausted the productivity of land available for cultivation. Planting eventually became impossible, as the repeated burnings to clear land left a thick sod to grow that no cereal could force its way up through it. The people were literally starved into searching for new homes. No lesser calamity than that could have driven a whole nation to abandon their home. Whatever may have been responsible for the migration, the fact was clear, that the Yucatan was discovered in the latter half of the fifth century, by advanced parties of the Old Empire. They pushed north into the forests of the southern Yucatan. Entrance to that new land was from the south and the southeast, in the region of Lake Bakhalal. Once they were near the lake, it was only sixty years before that Chichen Itza was discovered, sometime between 471 and 530 A. D. The Yucatan was a parched and waterless land. There was no surface water, no rivers or streams, and only one or two lakes. The country was of limestone formation, with only a subterranean water supply, with relatively few places where it was accessed naturally. A few natural openings had been formed, great holes in the ground, places where the limestone crust had fallen through, exposing water. The Maya called them cenotes, and wherever they existed important centers of population were established and flourished. The place where Chichen Itza was favored in that respect. There were two great natural wells within half a mile of each other. The name, Chichen Itza, means “The Mouths of the Wells of the Itza.” “Chi” meant mouths, “Chen” meant wells, and Itza was the name of the tribe who came to that site. During the first century of its existence, Chichen Itza was little more than a frontier town, compared to the great cities of the Old Empire.

X

The city’s early struggles were acute. It was far removed from other centers of population, and not withstanding its wells, it was doubted whether it was prosperous. Only one monument had been found at Chichen Itza. It was a stone door lintel over the doorway of a small temple, dated August 28, 619 A. D. It was the earliest yet discovered. The temple and other building in that area were in a more advanced state of decay indicating that this was the oldest part of the city. In 668 A. D. the city was abandoned for some unknown reason, and the Itza moved westward and founded a new capital, called Chakanputun, where they dwelt for two centuries. That first abandonment of Chichen Itza corresponded with the final abandonment of the last cities of the Old Empire, possibly from the same cause. The destruction of Chakanputun by fire in 944 A. D. again set the Itza wandering. They returned to Chichen Itza in 964 A. D. The horizon of Mayan history broadened. Tribes from the Old Empire established new cities in the Yucatan. In 1004 A.D., the three largest city-states – Chichen Itza, Uxmal, and Mayapan – formed a triple-alliance by which they governed the peninsula equally. This was the period of the true Mayan Renaissance. Under the peace and prosperity brought about by the league, art and architecture were revived. Great buildings of cut stone, elaborately decorated with sculptures. Were put up on every side. Every town, no matter how small, had a pyramid-temple and chief’s house built of stone. Several buildings dating from that period lied south and west of the Group of the Thousand Columns. But Chichen Itza had not yet reached her greatest development. That was not to come until she was conquered by foreigners. The ruler of Mayapan, with his allies, the Aztecs, defeated the Itzas in 1201 A. D. From that time onward until its final abandonment, in 1448, Chichen Itza was held in trall by foreign rulers, the Toltec-Aztec allies of Hunnac Ceel.

That foreign influence gave to the city not only new rulers, but also new customs, new esthetic inspiration, new architecture, and even a new religion. The conquerors brought with them the worship of Quetzalcoatl, the “Feathered Serpent.” All over the northern part of the city, dated from that last period, temples and sanctuaries were raised to the new god. Never before had the city experienced such a building boom. The Castillo, the principal temple to the new god, was from that time; as was the Group of the Thousand Columns, a vast architectural complex enclosing a central plaza containing more than five acres, and composed of pyramid temples, colonnaded halls, sunken courts, terraces, and platforms. Everywhere there were images of the Feathered Serpent, the patron deity of the city. Other buildings of that period were the Ball Court, the Temple of the Jaguars, the Astronomical Observatory, the Temple of Tables, the High Priest’s Grave, and the Northwest Group. In two and a half centuries, 1201-1448 A. D., more buildings went up in the city than had been built since its foundation, six centuries earlier. The foreign rulers, with their new ideas, gave the Itza just that impetus which had been lacking. Under their progressive and vigorous rule, the Itza came back strongly again. During that final period. Chichen Itza became the Holy City of the Naya. That claim of special sanctuary was connected to the two water holes. From the beginning, the southern well, locally known as “iguana,” had been used as the chief source of water. It was nearer the center of the city, and its sided were less precipitous, so that a masonry stairway was built to the water’s edge, 70 feet below. The other water hole was somewhat larger, with vertical, even undercut sides. It was doubted that it served as a source of water. Because of that inaccessibility, it was held in some veneration, if not, in actual awe. The conquerors capitalized on the semi-sacred nature of the well by using it for human sacrifice.

X

The gruesome sacrificial rite, which attracted pilgrims from all parts of the Mayan world, involved hurling young Itzan maidens into its gloomy depths to appease the wrath of offending deities. Along with those human sacrifices, all sorts of valuable personal objects were thrown into the pool, which bore the name Cenote of Sacrifice. Pilgrims came to hurl their personal treasures into the depths. Pendants and bells of gold from Costa Rica and pottery from northwestern Mexico have been found in the waters. The rulers of the city spared no effort to give the ceremony a proper setting. The Temple of Kukulcan (Mayan for Quetzalcoatl) faced the pool of sacrifice and was connected to it by a stone causeway, a quarter of a mile long, 30 feet wide, and 25 feet above the plain. Other temples were erected in the immediate vicinity, and at the edge of the pool itself there was a small shrine for the last solemn rites. For a decade, the Carnegie Institute had a plan to intensively study that ancient American metropolis. Several preliminary expeditions had been sent to ascertain the problems involved. In June 1923, the plan, covering 10 years, was presented to the Mexican Government. The plan was approved for a period of 10 years, beginning January 1, 1924. Before digging could begin, the area was surveyed and a map on a scale of 1 to 200 was made. It located all the artificial construction within the area surveyed. Nearly a mile square. The city was divided into several sections, each section characterized by architectural unity. The point where they began their work was the Group of the Thousand Columns, an enormous construction covering more than twenty acres. It was so named because its chief architectural feature was the column. Some were round, others square; some were sculpted while others plain. In the different colonnades, porticos, temples, halls, and minor courts surrounding the great Court of the Columns, more than a thousand columns had been counted.

The Court of the Columns contained five acres of ground. Originally it was paved with a hard limestone-plaster, though toward the center, that pavement had been destroyed by the forest. The north and west sides of the court were bounded by two very long colonnades of round columns with square capitals, each five columns deep. The remaining sides were occupied by imposing buildings of greater complexity of ground plan. It was in one of those buildings, the Northeast Colonnade, that excavations were begun in 1924. First, the two principal gateways into the Court of the Columns were cleared, to give convenient entrance, without having to climb over the fallen colonnades. The gateway in the western side proved relatively uninteresting. The western colonnade was only two steps above the floor of the court; it was a simple passageway. The North Colonnade surmounted a terrace 7 feet above the court, and it was through that terrace that the northern gateway passed. Both ends of it were decorated with flanking sculpted panels, the eastern side with jaguars and the western side with macaws and parrots. The gateway was paved with well-cut flagstones. The principal work of 1924 was the excavation of the Northeast Colonnade. That building faced south on a small square just east of the Court of the Columns. This colonnade was 100 feet long, 49 feet wide, and 19½ feet high, rising from a low terrace 2 feet above the square. It was composed of five tiers of square columns, ten columns in each tier except the front one, where the two end walls occupied the space of two columns, making a total of 48 columns. The eight columns across the front divided the façade into nine doorways. All the columns were plain except for the four central ones in the back, which were elaborately sculpted and enclosed a sculpted thrown or platform. The upper part of the façade was composed of an elaborately sculpted panel, 93 feet long by 11 feet high, a mammoth mosaic of cut stone.

X

The wreck of that façade had strewn scores of intricately sculpted blocks across the terrace in front, leaving the investigators with a veritable giant jigsaw puzzle. At each end of the mosaic, as well as in the middle, there were a pair of mask panels, one above the other. Three round shields, one above the other came next, and judging from the numbers found, they must have been a recurring element of the decorations. Above the next to last doorway at each end was a human figure, clothed in featherwork cloaks, plumed headdress, embroidered girdles, and jade necklaces, pendants, earrings, wristlets, and anklets. The right hand grasped a spear and the left held an embroidered bag. The building was surmounted by a cornice of the same style as the medial one. Those two cornices were themselves extremely decorative. They were made of three parts; the top and bottom parts were plain, the top sloping upward and the bottom part sloping downward. The middle member was sculpted with a pair of intertwined rattlesnakes, with head and tail at each end. The author imagined the façade in its entirety, as it was, his vision added colors – red, blue, green, and yellow – painted over the carvings, human, jaguar, and birds. Passing through the middle doorway and walking toward the back, one passed between the outer pair of sculpted columns, also painted, and stood before a dais, or throne, the sides of which were sculpted with lines of warriors, and the cornice with intertwining rattlesnakes running around the top. It was flanked by the inner pair of sculpted columns. All four sides of those four columns were sculpted, making a total of sixteen panels. Most of the subjects were warriors. An exception was the on the front of the left, rear column; it was of the feathered serpent, the city’s god. Along the back and side walls ran low benches. This was no temple or sanctuary, but rather an audience chamber, a council hall, or a tribunal.

Mayan temples were different; they were composed of a much smaller outer corridor and an inner sanctuary surmounting a lofty pyramid. The colonnade had undergone two or three changes in ancient times. The small L-shaped portico against the eastern end had round columns that were crudely fashioned. A second modification was at the northeast corner, where secondary walls had been built enclosing six of the columns making it a chamber by itself within the colonnade, but cut off from it. A third modification was done when the heavy roofs of those colonnades weakened. Sustaining walls were built between some columns to help support the roofs. This was done in the northwest corner. Those sustaining walls were of the crudest masonry. Several pieces of the cornice to the sculpted dais itself were found in that roughly laid wall. But other structural issues besides the sagging roof causes the site to be abandoned. To the north of the colonnade was large natural depression, and shoring up that flank of the building, which was tilting outwards. Walls were built between the bench along the back wall and the back columns to keep them from shifting outward. The history of that building, must date after 100 A. D., after the Toltec-Aztec influence, was clear from the excavation. Some time after the original colonnade was completed, a single-room sanctuary was built on the high building abutting the colonnade on its west. A stairway was built to access that high sanctuary. That stairway helped preserve the only part of the façade above the medial cornice and giving the original height of the building, 19½ feet. That knowledge helped in the arrangement of several elements of the mosaic. After Chichen Itza was abandoned, in the middle of the fifteenth century, and the Itza returned south, from whence they came, a few stragglers stayed in the deserted city and sheltered in the empty temples and palaces. It was they who erected the crude walls to support the sagging roof, vandalizing the Rattlesnake-Warrior throne in the process.

X

The yield of small objects, ceramics, obsidian knives, jade beads, earrings, etc., was very small, though that had been anticipated. Digging in a public building was always far less rewarding than in tombs and dwelling sites. Temples and palaces were rifled of their treasures before they were abandoned. That was the almost universal experience in American archeology. In subsequent seasons, tombs will be located, and the return of small objects would undoubtedly be much larger. The Maya buried their most cherished possessions with the dead, each according to his trade – the huntsman with his favorite spear, the potter with his best loved bowl, the priest with his book of rituals – and it was certain that part of that material culture would be recovered as work proceeded. In 1925, how different was the story from that other time. Silent were the temples, courts, and colonnades; gone the rulers, priests, and sacrificial victims; gone the artisans and builders – back to Mother Earth, enshrouded by the living green of trees bushes and flowers. But of a moonlight night, standing on a lofty terrace before the palace of the Itzan kings, the silent city at one’s feet, the temples and pyramids rising white above the dark forest, breezes whispering through the trees brought stirring tales of other days, other men, other deeds, and he who would might listen then and hear.

The fourth article (fifth item) listed on this month’s cover is entitled “Interviewing the Stars” and was written by William Joseph Showalter, author of “Exploring the Glories of the Firmament,” “Exploring the Mysteries of Plant Life,” etc., in the National Geographic Magazine. It has the internal subtitle: “How Twentieth Century Astronomers are Inducing the Heavens to Reveal Their Secrets.” The article contains eighteen black-and-white photographs, three of which are full-page in size. It also contains three sketch diagrams on pages 96, 102, and 103. The sketch on page 96 is full-page in size and serves as the article’s frontispiece.

Sketch Diagram courtesy of Philip Riviere

Sketch Diagrams courtesy of Philip Riviere

On the 24th of January [1925] the sun and moon were scheduled to stage another of their great periodic dramas in which the Empress of the Night for a few brief minutes banished the King of the Day and ruled the diurnal sky. Only those who had the choicest seats directly in front of center stage got the full benefit of the act. They were in a strip of territory 70 miles wide stretching from a point northwest of Duluth to the Atlantic Ocean, between upper New York City and Newport, Rhode Island. While the laity saw it as a spectacle, the scientist studied the haze around the lightless moon, the sun’s chromosphere, for it held many secrets. Also, they looked for stars near the suns edge to test Einstein’s Theory. The man in the street asked what was the point of any investigation; to which the author had no answer. Nor could he foretell what new truths would be discovered, or what applications to human welfare they would have. But new scientific knowledge always was applied to human necessities. In 1925, the American-built Shenandoah crossed and recrossed the continent without fear of the gas explosions which had wrecked so many superb airships. And all largely because Lockyer, in 1868, trained his spectroscope on the great flames that shot out from the sun, and detected a new line in his spectrum. He noticed its similarity to the lines made by hydrogen and theorized it was a unknown light gas. Twenty-eight year later, Sir William Ramsay obtained a small quantity of the new gas from uranite. When excited, it had the same telltale autograph that Lockyer had observed. Later, physicists found that when Radium disintegrated it produced that same gas. More years passed. The World War was on, and America had entered it. The housewives of the plains of Kansas complained of the quality of their natural gas. It did not make enough heat or sufficient light. A professor, H. P. Cady, found the trouble. In his spectroscope he found the natural gas contained helium, as inert as stone.

The American Chemical Society met, and the professor was put on the program to tell of his discovery. The war was at its height and chemists from the Allied nations were there to discuss how chemistry could help the war effort. One chemist after the other made his contribution to the discussion. Then came the professor. He apologized for not contributing to the theme. After he spoke, a venerable British savant declared that he need not apologize, for his discovery would promote victory more than all the rest presented put together. Thus, came helium as the straw that broke the Hohenzollern back. It made possible the construction of giant dirigibles which could conduct raids over the enemy lines without fear of inflammable bullets. And it was the training of a spectrograph on a huge flame on the rim of the sun during an eclipse that had first revealed the element. The American people listened in on the election returns that gave Mr. Coolidge the nod, and marveled once more at the wonders of radio. But they little dreamed that a Danish astronomer had done the pioneering work which released Bell’s telephone from the bondage of wires and made the ether of space its servant. When Roemer found that eclipses of the moons of Jupiter occurred sixteen minutes earlier when Jupiter and the earth were on the same side of the sun than when on opposite sides, he deduced the light was not instantaneous, but traveled about 186,000 miles a second. Maxwell concluded that light must be electromagnetic, and there should be other waves the eye could not see. Hertz detected those waves, and Marconi harnessed them. The ether waves had been made to reproduce light as well as sound, and radio pictures had hurtled through the air from Washington to Philadelphia. Furthermore, they had been made to carry 16 such pictures a second, which meant radio movies [television]. The author envisioned Americans “seeing in” as well as “listening in” on the next presidential inauguration, in 1929.

X

As our coal reserves approached exhaustion and our oil wells went dry, we needed to solve the problem of power for industry. How much energy did Old Sol send into space? The estimates of Langley and Abbot indicated that the sun gave off, in an hour, the equivalent of burning a layer of coal, 15 feet thick, covering its entire surface. How much of that heat reached the earth? Nordmann said 265,000,000 horsepower every 24 hours. Down through 93,000,000 miles of super-arctic space the sun sent us that vast supply of energy, day in and day out. There was an inkling of a different kind of solution of the problem of power after coal and oil supplies were gone. Studying Sirius, the Dog Star, and its companion, astronomers found that that satellite had nearly the mass of the sun, although it was only a little large than the earth. If that was true, then there were states of matter of which man had never dreamed before. That dark star was 50,000 times as heavy as the same bulk of water. The world was looking for a good conductor of electricity without undue loss of power. It was possible that this new understanding of matter might lead to a new and better conductor. If the sun withheld its secrets of wireless transmission of power, and if the companion of Sirius refused to tell how to make denser materials, there was still some basis of hope that an infinite source of power might yet be found. The astronomer and the physicist had pooled their forces in cross-examining the atom. In the laboratory and through the telescope, they were attacking it with X-rays, spectroscopes, and other instruments. When Madame Curie discovered radium and Rontgen produced the X-rays they emitted, the world got an inkling of the incredible amount of energy stored in those infinitesimal solar systems. The physicist was bombarding the atoms to break them up [fission], while the astronomer studied the forces affecting them in the sun and stars [fusion]. Mans quest for power, from manpower, to horse and ox, wind power and water wheel (using the gravitational force of molecules), steam engine (using the expansive force of molecules), and finally he began to utilize the explosive force of molecules, like the automobile.

Hints of another force led to electric power. But radium atoms told the physicists that atoms exploded just like molecules do, only with infinitely more power. The strongest explosion had been able to produce rate of 7,700 yards a second, but the radium atom, in its disintegration, hurled fragments at 12,000 miles a second, 3,000 time faster. The atomic inquisition continued to other elements. By passing electricity through an element to make it flash explode, its spectrum was taken. Iron, tungsten, aluminum, calcium, and many other materials had been examined. Calcium disclosed nearly 900 lines in its spectrum. Those lines served as probes into the behavior and constitution of matter. For astronomers, they also served as speedometer to gauge the flight of stars through space, and as thermometers to measure the stars’ temperatures. Each atom was a solar system with a central sun, a nucleus, and planets, electrons. The simplest atomic solar system was the hydrogen atom. In the hydrogen atom, the electron was constantly its orbit. The jumping of the electron from one orbit to another created a wave in the ether, its length depended on the length of the hop. The lines in the spectrum of hydrogen were a summary of all the orbital hops. Every element had its own particular group of lines, like a signature. So, when astronomers found a set of lines in the spectrum of a star, he knows that element was present. When he found an unknown set, he had discovered a new element, as in the case of helium. The pitch of a passing train went from high to low as it changed from approaching to receding. In the same way, when light from a star moving toward us went into the spectroscope the lines were shifted towards the end corresponding to a high pitch, while a spectrum lines from a star moving away from us were shifted towards the low pitch end. The shift only showed the speed relative to us; the star could have been moving much faster diagonally.

X

Determining the distances of stars was a pressing concern of astronomers. Knowing that electrons in atoms under high pressure and low temperature and under high temperature and low pressure caused peculiar lines on the spectroscope, the study of those lines allowed the ability to fix the absolute brightness of almost any star. Knowing the absolute brightness and the apparent brightness of a given star, one could determine the distance to that star. Long before the Pharaohs ruled Egypt, electrons jumping to another orbit on a faraway star created a series of ether waves. Those waves which swept out into space, traveling at eleven million miles a minute, were just arriving here on earth, bringing information about that star. In fixing stellar distances by the study of spectral lines and light variations’ it was necessary to know, by other means, the distance of certain key stars. Just as civil engineers measured the distance to an object using a baseline and transit to get a triangle, the astronomer measured distant objects by using large baselines. To measure the distance to the moon, a baseline from the U. S. to France sufficed. For distances to the planets, the diameter of the earth was used as the baseline. To measure the distance to stars, a much larger baseline was needed. The diameter of the earths orbit was used. A star was viewed and then, six months later, viewed again. In 1836, Bessel measured the distance to the first star measured this way, 61 Cygnus. He found it forty trillion miles away. So laborious did such work prove that only 60 stars had been fixed by 1900. By using that method, the distance of stars up to 373 trillion miles had been calculated. There were, however, distances to measure that were too far for that method. The sun and its family were driving through space toward Vega at 12 miles a second. In twenty years, that flight gave a baseline 40 times as long as the diameter of the earth’s orbit.

The photographic plate was an invaluable ally to the astronomer. It could see what the eye had never been able to behold. The light of the stars was gathered for hours as any given star was held on a definite spot on the plate, building up its image. Using plates from 18 great observatories around the word, a vast directory of all stars down to the eleventh magnitude had been completed and contained some six million stars. The author imagined the value of those plate one thousand years from 1925, if they could be preserved. If we traveled through space on the wings of light, we began to appreciate the span of the heavens. We could have traveled to the moon in one second; to the sun in eight minutes; and to Neptune in four hours. If we visited the nearest star, Proxima Centauri, it took four years. Visiting Sirius took eight years; Altair, 15 years; Vega and Arcturus, 30 years; and Capela, 47 years. Traveling to the Pleiades took 325 years; and a journey to Rigel took 500 years. But great as were those distances, they were short journeys compare to some we could have taken. The star cluster in Hercules, containing a million stars, was some 36,000 light years away; the globular cluster, Messier 79was 85,000 light years away. Clusters had been found 200,000 light years away. But some authorities believed that there were at still greater distances floated a million spiral nebulae [galaxies]. They lied at distances of 500,000 to 10,000,000 light years away and appeared to be other “universes” with millions of stars, just like our own Milky Way. All the novae – stars that flared up and then waned – occurring in the Milky Way all attained the same maximum brightness. Using that as a yardstick, a great debate was settled. Two leading astronomers held widely different opinions regarding spiral nebulae. One believed they were part of our own system while the other claimed they were “island universes.” Discovering novae in them swung the argument in favor of the latter.

X

In many sections of the sky were found black spots and hazy whisps of light. For years those “coal sacks,” “holes in the heavens,” and “glowing clouds” mystified astronomers. It had been found that light, whose pressure on earth was feeble, exerted a tremendous pressure in the hotter stars. Every bright star exuded oceans of cosmic dust particles. Great clouds of that cosmic dust formed. If those vast clouds occurred in regions remote from stars, they were dark and foreboding, the “coal sacks” of the heavens; If they chanced to form in regions peopled by stars, the became cosmic clouds with silver linings. Those huge, shapeless nebulae formed the breeding ground where stars were born. The theory was that when the cloud became so heavy that gravitation began to draw together the particles. As the process when on, the molecules began to collide with one another with the result that mass began to glow, first red, then yellow, white, then blue as the contraction went on and temperatures rose. When it reached the limits of contraction, a star, like Rigel, was born. The vast pressures and terrific temperatures resolved all matter to its simplest form. Here, hydrogen and helium were the dominant elements. The star was in its prime. Then cooling began. The author continues to describe what he believed was the life of a star. He thought that a star passed through each color as it cooled, a blue star like Rigel became a yellow star like the sun, and then a red giant and finally a red dwarf. After millions of years, the red glow ceased and the dying star passed into the realm of the unseen. It was believed that, in its youth our sun was, perhaps, as large as Antares, filling the space out to the orbit of Neptune. As it cooled, it shrank. Tides were raised so high that vast elongated drops of molten material pealed away from the shrinking sun. Those molten drops became the planets, from Neptune down to Mercury. In the author’s eye, that was how the sun that was became the solar system of 1924.

What of those planets? Was Mars inhabited? Were there canals on its surface? Did other stars have planetary systems like our own? When Mars came closest to the earth last summer [1924], the author visited some of the leading observatories in America. The public was excited, but the astronomers were not. That opposition had Mars very low to the southern horizon so that it was seen though much more of the atmosphere. Viewing and photography were poor. Two years hence [1924], during the next opposition, Mars would be much higher from the southern horizon and viewing would be better. Mars was the most observable of the planets. Venus hid herself in clouds preventing views of the surface; but the atmosphere of Mars was less dense. Telescopes could see the surface and geologic features were seen. Among those features, the polar cap advanced during winter and retreated in summer. With reference to the “canals” that some observers had believed they could see, it was to be said that none of the larger telescopes had ever revealed them. The question arose whether any other star had a system of planets like our solar system. The author doubted any telescope could see such planets, but reasoned by analogy, our was not the only one with a family of planets. If we relied solely on our eyes, we would think that the earth was the only planet with a moon. Then came the question of interplanetary and interstellar communication of life [panspermia]. Biology had demonstrated that there were forms of life that went into a deep sleep when placed into a high vacuum and the cold of space. There was certain reason for believing that suspended life, in its lowest forms, might pass from planet to planet or even dark star to dark star. Much the greater difficulty was finding a suitable for the waking bit of life on a new planet or another dark star.

X

If the human race expanded from 1925 to 2025 in the ratio that it expanded from 1804 to 1914, the earth would have a population of more than four billion souls. To meet their ever-growing needs was a job for the applied scientist. But ahead of him must go pure science, laying foundations of truth upon which must be built the superstructure of human progress. Mt. Wilson, Yerkes, Lick, and other great observatories were helping lay that foundation.

Tom Wilson

[George Thomas Wilson]

Note: My scanner died, so there are placeholders in place of most photos, for now.

[Scott T. Shier]

The big 120! Congrats Tom!

[George Thomas Wilson]

120 Review, 121 Months.  Remember my double-issue review in 2017 (Nov-Dec 1917).