Читать книгу Star-land: Being Talks With Young People About the Wonders of the Heavens - Robert S. Ball - Страница 4

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We can all feel that the sun is very hot, and we know that it is very big and a long way off. Let us first talk about the heat from the sun. On a cold day it is pleasant to go into a room with a good fire, and everybody knows that the nearer we go to the fire, the more strongly we feel the heat. The boy who is at the far end of the room may be shivering with cold, while those close to the fire are as hot as they find to be pleasant. If we could draw much nearer to the sun than we actually are, we should find the heat greatly increased. Indeed, if we went close enough, the temperature would rise so much that we could not endure it; we should be roasted. On the other hand, we should certainly be frozen to death if we were transported much further away from the sun than we are now. We are able to live comfortably, because our bodies are just arranged to suit the warmth which the sun sends to that distance from it at which the earth is actually placed.

Suppose you were able to endure any degree of heat, and that you had some way of setting out on a voyage to the sun. Take with you a wax candle, a leaden bullet, a penny, a poker, and a flint. Soon after you have started you find the warmth from the sun increasing, and the candle begins to get soft and melt away. Still, on you go, and you notice that the leaden bullet gets hotter and hotter, until it becomes too hot to touch, until at last the lead has melted, as the wax had previously done. However, you are still a very long way from the sun, and you have the penny, the poker, and the flint remaining. As you approach closer to the luminary the heat is ever increasing, and at last you notice that the penny is beginning to get red-hot; go still nearer, and it melts away, and follows the example of the bullet and the candle. If you still press onwards, you find that the iron poker, which was red-hot when the penny melted, begins to get brighter and brighter, till at last it is brilliantly white, and becomes so dazzling that you can hardly bear to look at it; then melting commences, and the poker is changed into liquid like the penny, the lead, and the wax. Yet a little nearer you may carry the flint, which is now glowing with the same fervor which fused the poker, but even the flint itself will have to yield at last and become, not merely a liquid like water, but a vapor like steam.

You will ask, how do we learn all this? As nobody could ever make such a journey, how can we feel certain that the sun is so excessively hot? I know that what I say is true for various reasons, but I will only mention one, which is derived from an experiment with the burning-glass, that most boys have often tried.

Fig.1.—How to use the Burning-glass.

Fig.2.—The Noonday Gun.

We may use one of those large lenses that are intended for magnifying photographs. But almost any kind of lens will do, except it be too flat, as those in spectacles generally are. On a fine sunny day in summer, you turn the burning-glass to the sun, and by holding a piece of paper at the proper distance a bright spot will be obtained (Fig.1). At that spot there is intense heat, by which a match can be lighted, gunpowder exploded, or the paper itself kindled. The broad lens collects together the rays from the sun that fall upon it, and concentrates them in one spot, which consequently becomes hot and bright. If we merely used a flat piece of glass the sunbeams would go straight through; they would not be gathered together, and they would not be strong enough to burn the paper. The lens, you see, is not flat; its faces are curved, and they thus acquire the power of bending in rays of light or heat, so as to unite their effect on that one point which we call the focus. When a great number of rays are thus collected on the same spot, each of them contributes a little warmth.

Fig.3.—A Tell-tale for the Sun.

Some ingenious person has turned this principle to an odd use, by arranging a burning-glass over a cannon in such a way that just when noon arrived the spot of light should reach the touch-hole of the cannon and fire it off. Thus the sun itself is made to announce the middle of the day (Fig.2).

Another application of the burning-glass is to obtain a record of the number of hours of sunshine in each day. You will understand the apparatus from Fig.3; the lens is here replaced by a glass globe, which acts as a burning-glass. As the sun moves over the sky the bright spot of light also moves, and therefore burns its track on a sheet of paper marked with lines corresponding to the hours. When the sun is hidden by clouds the burning ceases, so by preserving each day the piece of paper, we have an unerring tell-tale, which shows us during what hours the sun was shining brightly, and the hours during which he was hidden. You see, the burning-glass is not merely a toy, it can be made useful in helping us to learn something about the weather.

Another experiment with the burning-glass will also teach us something. Take a candle, and from its flame you can get a bright point at the focus. It may fall upon your hand, but you can hardly feel it, and you will readily believe that the focus is not nearly so hot as the candle. Even when a burning-glass is held in front of a bright fire there is comparatively little heat in the focus. By using a lens to condense the beams from an electric lamp, Professor Tyndall has shown how to light a piece of paper, and to produce many other effects. But, nevertheless, the focus is not nearly so hot as the arc between the two glowing carbons. You might move your finger through the focus without much inconvenience, but I would not recommend you to trust your finger between the poles of the electric light itself. The temperature obtained at the focus of a burning-glass seems thus to be always less than that prevailing at the source of heat itself. This principle will be equally true when we turn a burning-glass to the sun, and hence we know that the sun must be hotter than any heat which can be obtained by the biggest burning-glass on the brightest of summer days. But burning-glasses a yard wide have been made, and astonishing heat effects have been produced. Steel has thus been melted by the sunbeams, and so have other substances which even our greatest furnaces cannot fuse. Therefore the sun must have a higher temperature than that of molten steel; higher, indeed, than any temperature we can produce on the earth.

I have tried to prove to you that the sun is very hot; but it would be well to see what arguments might be used on the other side. Indeed, it is by considering objections that we often learn. So I shall tell you of a difficulty that was once raised when I was endeavoring to explain the heat of the sun to an intelligent man. “I am sure,” said my friend, “that you must be quite wrong. You said that the nearer you got to the sun the hotter it would be; but I know this to be a mistake. When tourists go to Switzerland, they sometimes climb very high mountains. But the top of a mountain, of course, is nearer the sun than below; and so, if the sun were really hot, the climber should have found it much warmer on the top of the mountain than at its base. But every one knows that there is abundant ice and snow on lofty Alpine summits, while down below in the valleys there may be at the same time excessively warm weather. Does it not therefore seem that the nearer we go to the sun the colder it is, and the further we are from the sun the warmer it is?”

But my friend was quite wrong in his argument. The coldness of the mountain tops depends upon something which he had not taken into account. There is something else besides the sun which helps to make us so warm and comfortable. This other essential thing is more or less deficient at great heights. You know that we live by breathing air, and we find air wherever we go, over land and sea, all round the earth. Those who ascend in balloons are borne upwards by the air, and thus we can show that air extends for miles and miles over our heads, though it becomes lighter and thinner the loftier the elevation.

We not only utilize the air for breathing, but it is also of indispensable service to us in another way. It acts as a blanket to keep the earth warm; indeed, we ought rather to describe the air as a pile of blankets one over the other. These air blankets enable the earth to preserve the heat received from the sunbeams by preventing it from escaping back again into space. Thus warmth is maintained, and our globe is rendered habitable. You see then, that for our comfort we require not only the sun to give us the heat, but also the set of blankets to keep it when we have got it. If we threw off the blankets we should be uncomfortable, though the sun were as bright as before. A man who goes to the top of a mountain at mid-day does approach the sun to some extent, and, so far as this goes, he ought no doubt to feel warmer, but the gain is far too small to be thought of. Even at the top of Mont Blanc the increase in heat due to the approach to the sun would be only one ten-millionth part of the whole. This would be utterly inappreciable; even a thermometer would not be delicate enough to show it. On the other hand, by ascending to the top of the mountain, the climber has got above the lower regions of the air; he has not, it is true, reached even halfway to the upper surface—that is still very far over his head—but the higher layers of the atmosphere are so very thin that they form most indifferent blankets. The Alpine climber on the top of the mountain has thus thrown off the best portion of his blankets, and receives a chill; while the gain of heat arising from his closer approach to the sun is imperceptible. Perhaps you will now be able to understand why eternal snow rests on the summits of the great mountains. They are chilled because they have not so many air blankets as the snug valleys beneath.

The brightness of the sun is among the most wonderful things in nature, and there are three points that I ask you to remember, and then indeed you will agree with Milton, that the sun is “with surpassing glory crowned.” First think of the beauty and brilliancy of a lovely day in June. Then remember that all this flood of light comes from a single lamp at a most tremendous distance; and thirdly, recollect that the sun is not like a bull’s-eye lantern, concentrating all his light specially for our benefit, but that he diffuses it equally around, and that we do not get on this earth the two-thousand-millionth part of what he gives out so plenteously! When we think of the brightness of day, of the distance from which the light has come, though Nature has not adjusted any vast lenses to direct the light specially in our direction, we begin to comprehend the sun’s true magnificence.