interesting of all the ancient constellations. If we could determine the
origin of these figures, their exact configuration as at first devised,
and the precise influences assigned to them in the old astrological
systems, we should have obtained important evidence as to the origin of
astronomy itself. Not indeed that the twelve signs of the zodiac were
formed at the beginning or even in the early infancy of astronomy. It
seems abundantly clear that the division of the zodiac (which includes
the moon's track as well as the sun's) had reference originally to the
moon's motions. She circuits the star-sphere in about twenty-seven days
and a third, while the lunation or interval from new moon to new moon
is, as we all know, about twenty-nine days and a half in length. It
would appear that the earliest astronomers, who were of course
astrologers also, of all nations--the Indian, Egyptian, Chinese,
Persian, and Chaldaean astronomers--adopted twenty-eight days (probably
as a rough mean between the two periods just named) for their chief
lunar period, and divided the moon's track round the ecliptic into
twenty-eight portions or mansions. How they managed about the fractions
of days outstanding--whether the common lunation was considered or the
moon's motion round the star-sphere--is not known. The very
circumstance, however, that they were for a long time content with their
twenty-eight lunar mansions shows that they did not seek great precision
at first. Doubtless they employed some rough system of 'leap-months' by
which, as occasion required, the progress of the month was reconciled
with the progress of the moon, just as by our leap-years the progress of
the year is reconciled with the progress of the sun or seasons.
The use of the twenty-eight-day period naturally suggested the division
of time into weeks of seven days each. The ordinary lunar month is
divided in a very obvious manner into four equal parts by the lunar
aspects. Every one can recognise roughly the time of full moon and the
times of half moon before and after full, while the time of new moon is
recognised from these two last epochs. Thus the four quarters of the
month, or roughly the four weeks of the month, would be the first
time-measure thought of;--after the day, which is the necessary
foundation of all time measures. The nearest approach which can be made
to a quarter-month in days is the week of seven days; and although some
little awkwardness arose from the fact that four weeks differ
appreciably from a lunar month, this would not long prevent the adoption
of the week as a measure of time. In fact, just as our years begin on
different days of the week without causing any inconvenience, so the
ancient months might be made to begin with different week-days. All that
would be necessary to make the week measure fairly well the quarters of
the month, would be to start each month on the proper or nearest
week-day. To inform people about this, some ceremony could be appointed
for the day of the new moon, and some signal employed to indicate the
time when this ceremony was to take place. This--the natural and obvious
course--we find was the means actually adopted, the festival of the new
moon and the blowing of trumpets in the new moon being an essential part
of the arrangements adopted by nations who used the week as a chief
measure of time. The seven days were not affected by the new moons so
far as the nomenclature of these days, or special duties connected with
any one of them, might be concerned.
Originally the idea may have been to have festivals and sacrifices at
the time of new moon, first quarter, full moon, and third quarter; but
this arrangement would naturally (and did, as we know, actually) give
way before long to a new moon festival regulating the month and
seventh-day festivals, each class of festival having its appropriate
sacrifices and duties. This, I say, was the natural course. Its adoption
_may_ have been aided by the recognition of the fact that the seven
planets of the old system of astronomy might conveniently be taken to
rule the days and the hours in the way described in the essay on
astrology. That that nomenclature and that system of association between
the planets and the hours, days, and weeks of time-measurement was
eventually adopted, is certain; but whether the convenience and apparent
mystical fitness of this arrangement led to the use of weekly festivals
in conjunction with monthly ones, or whether those weekly festivals were
first adopted in the way described above, or whether (which seems
altogether more likely) both sets of considerations led to the
arrangement, we cannot certainly tell. The arrangement was in every way
a natural one; and one may say, considering all the circumstances, that
it was almost an inevitable one.
There was, however, another possible arrangement, viz., the division of
time into ten-day periods, three to each month, with corresponding new
moon festivals. But as the arrival of the moon at the _thirds_ of her
progress are not at all so well marked as her arrival at the quarters,
and as there is no connection between the number ten and the planets,
this arrangement was far less likely to be adopted than the other.
Accordingly we find that only one or two nations adopted it. Six sets of
five days would be practically the same arrangement; five sets of six
for each month would scarcely be thought of, as with that division the
use of simple direct observations of the moon for time measurement,
which was the real aim of all such divisions, would not be convenient or
indeed even possible for the generality of persons. Few could tell
easily when the moon is two-fifths or four-fifths full, whereas every
one can tell when she is half-full or quite full (the requisite for
weekly measurement); and it would be possible to guess pretty nearly
when she is one-third or two-thirds full, the requisite for the
tridecennial division.
My object in the above discussion of the origin of the week (as
distinguished from the origin of the Sabbath, which I considered in the
essay on astrology), has been to show that the use of the twelve
zodiacal signs was in every case preceded by the use of the twenty-eight
lunar mansions. It has been supposed that those nations in whose
astronomy the twenty-eight mansions still appear, adopted one system,
while the use of the twelve signs implies that another system had been
adopted. Thus the following passage occurs in Mr. Blake's version of
Flammarion's 'History of the Heavens:'--'the Chinese have twenty-eight
constellations, though the word _sion_ does not mean a group of stars,
but simply a mansion or hotel. In the Coptic and ancient Egyptian the
word for constellations has the same meaning. They also have
twenty-eight, and the same number is found among the Arabians, Persians,
and Indians. Among the Chaldaeans or Accadians we find no sign of the
number twenty-eight. The ecliptic, or "yoke of the sky," with them, as
we see in the newly-discovered tablet, was divided into twelve
divisions, as now, and the only connection that can be imagined between
this and the twenty-eight is the opinion of M. Biot, who thinks that the
Chinese had originally only twenty-four mansions, four more being added
by Chenkung, 1100 B.C., and that they corresponded with the twenty-four
stars, twelve to the north and twelve to the south, that marked the
twelve signs of the zodiac amongst the Chaldaeans. But under this
supposition the twenty-eight has no reference to the moon, whereas we
have every reason to believe it has.' The last observation is
undoubtedly correct--the twenty-eight mansions have been mansions of the
moon from the beginning. But in this very circumstance, as also in the
very tablets referred to in the preceding passage, we find all the
evidence needed to show that originally the Chaldaeans divided the
zodiac into twenty-eight parts. For we find from the tablets that, like
the other nations who had twenty-eight zodiacal mansions, the Chaldaeans
used a seven-day period, derived from the moon's motions, every seventh
day being called _sabbatu_, and held as a day of rest. We may safely
infer that the Chaldaean astronomers, advancing beyond those of other
nations, recognised the necessity of dividing the zodiac with reference
to the sun's motions instead of the moon's. They therefore discarded the
twenty-eight lunar mansions, and adopted instead twelve solar signs;
this number twelve, like the number twenty-eight itself, being selected
merely as the most convenient approximation to the number of parts into
which the zodiac was naturally divided by another period. Thus the
twenty-eighth part of the zodiac corresponds roughly with the moon's
daily motion, and the twelfth part of the zodiac corresponds roughly
with the moon's monthly motion; and both the numbers twenty-eight and
twelve admit of being subdivided, while twenty-nine (a nearer approach
than twenty-eight to the number of days in a lunation) and thirteen
(almost as near an approach as twelve to the number of months in a year)
do not.
It seems to me highly probable that the date to which all inquiries into
the origin of the constellations and the zodiacal signs seems to
point--viz. 2170 B.C.--was the date at which the Chaldaean astronomers
definitely adopted the new system, the lunisolar instead of lunar
division of the zodiac and of time. One of the objects which the
architects of the Great Pyramid (not the king who built it) may have had
was not improbably this--the erection of a building indicating the epoch
when the new system was entered upon, and defining in its proportions,
its interior passages, and other features, fundamental elements of the
new system. The great difficulty, an overwhelming difficulty it has
always seemed to me, in accepting the belief that the year 2170 B.C.
defined the beginning of exact astronomy, has been this, that several of
the circumstances insisted upon as determining that date imply a
considerable knowledge of astronomy. Thus astronomers must have made
great progress in their science before they could select as a day for
counting from, the epoch when the slow reeling motion of the earth (the
so-called precessional motion) brought the Pleiades centrally south, at
noon, at the time of the vernal equinox. The construction of the Great
Pyramid, again, in all its astronomical features, implies considerable
proficiency in astronomical observation. Thus the year 2170 B.C. may
very well be regarded as defining the introduction of a new system of
astronomy, but certainly not the beginning of astronomy itself. Of
course we may cut the knot of this difficulty, as Prof. Smyth and Abbe
Moigno do, by saying that astronomy began 2170 B.C., the first
astronomers being instructed supernaturally, so that the astronomical
Minerva came into full-grown being. But I apprehend that argument
against such a belief is as unnecessary as it would certainly be
useless.
And now let us consider how this theory accords with the result to which
we were led by the position of the great vacant space around the
southern pole. So far as the date is concerned, we have already seen
that the epoch 2170 B.C. accords excellently with the evidence of the
vacant space. But this evidence, as I mentioned at the outset,
establishes more than the date; it indicates the latitude of the place
where the most ancient of Ptolemy's forty-eight constellations were
first definitely adopted by astronomers. If we assume that at this place
the southernmost constellations were just fully seen when due south, we
find for the latitude about thirty-eight degrees north. (The student of
astronomy who may care to test my results may be reminded here that it
is not enough to show that every star of a constellation would when due
south be above the horizon of the place--what is wanted is, that the
whole constellation when towards the south should be visible at a single
view. However, the whole constellation may not have included all the
stars now belonging to it.) The station of the astronomers who founded
the new system can scarcely have been more than a degree or two north of
this latitude. On the other side, we may go a little further, for by so
doing we only raise the constellations somewhat higher above the
southern horizon, to which there is less objection than to a change
thrusting part of the constellations below the horizon. Still it may be
doubted whether the place where the constellations were first formed was
less than 32 or 33 degrees north of the equator. The Great Pyramid, as
we know, is about 30 degrees north of the equator; but we also know that
its architects travelled southwards to find a suitable place for it. One
of their objects may well have been to obtain a fuller view of the
star-sphere south of their constellations. I think from 35 to 39 degrees
north would be about the most probable limits, and from 32 to 41 degrees
north the certain limits of the station of the first founders of solar
zodiacal astronomy.
What their actual station may have been is not so easily established.
Some think the region lay between the sources of the Oxus (Amoor) and
Indus, others that the station of these astronomers was not very far
from Mount Ararat--a view to which I was led long ago by other
considerations discussed in the first appendix to my treatise on 'Saturn
and its System.'
At the epoch indicated, the first constellation of the zodiac was not,
as now, the Fishes, nor, as when a fresh departure was made by
Hipparchus, the Ram, but the Bull, a trace of which is found in Virgil's
words--
Candidus auratis aperit cum cornibus annum Taurus.
The Bull then was the spring sign, the Pleiades and ruddy Aldebaran
joining their rays with the sun's at the time of the vernal equinox. The
midsummer sign was the Lion (the bright Cor Leonis nearly marking the
sun's highest place). The autumn sign was the Scorpion, the ruddy
Antares and the stars clustering in the head of the Scorpion joining
their rays with the sun's at the time of the autumnal equinox. And
lastly the winter sign was the Water Bearer, the bright Fomalhaut
conjoining his rays with the sun's at midwinter. It is noteworthy that
all these four constellations really present some resemblance to the
objects after which they are named. The Scorpion is in the best drawing,
but the Bull's head is well marked, and, as already mentioned, a leaping
lion can be recognised. The streams of stars from the Urn of Aquarius
and the Urn itself are much better defined than the Urn Bearer.
I have not left myself much space to speak of the finest of all the
constellations, the glorious Orion--the Giant in his might, as he was
called of old. In this noble asterism the figure of a giant ascending a
slope can be readily discerned when the constellation is due south. At
the time to which I have referred the constellation Orion was
considerably below the equator, and instead of standing nearly upright
when due south high above the horizon, as now in our northern latitudes,
he rose upright above the south-eastern horizon. The resemblance to a
giant figure must then have been even more striking than it is at
present (except in high northern latitudes, where Orion, when due south,
is just fully above the horizon). The giant Orion has long been
identified with Nimrod; and those who recognise the antitypes of the Ark
in Argo, of the old dragon in Draco, and of the first and second Adams
in the kneeling Hercules defeated by the serpent and the upright
Ophiuchus triumphant over the serpent, may, if they so please, find in
the giant Orion, the Two Dogs, the Hare, and the Bull (whom Orion is
more directly dealing with), the representations of Nimrod, that mighty
hunter before the Lord, his hunting dogs, and the animals he hunted.
Pegasus, formerly called the Horse, was regarded in very ancient times
as the Steed of Nimrod.
In modern astronomy the constellations no longer have the importance
which once attached to them. They afford convenient means for naming the
stars, though I think many observers would prefer the less attractive
but more business-like methods adopted by Piazzi and others, according
to which a star rejoices in no more striking title than 'Piazzi XIIIh.
273,' or 'Struve, 2819.' They still serve, however, to teach beginners
the stars, and probably many years will pass before even exact astronomy
dismisses them altogether to the limbo of discarded symbolisms. It is,
indeed, somewhat singular that astronomers find it easier to introduce
new absurdities among the constellations than to get rid of these old
ones. The new and utterly absurd figures introduced by Bode still remain
in many charts despite such inconvenient names as _Honores Frederici_,
_Globum AErostaticum_ and _Machina Pneumatica_; and I have very little
doubt that a new constellation, if it only had a specially inconvenient
title, would be accepted. But when Francis Baily tried to simplify the
heavens by removing many of Bode's absurd constellations, he was abused
by many as violently as though he had proposed the rejection of the
Newtonian system. I myself tried a small measure of reform in the three
first editions of my 'Library Atlas,' but have found it desirable to
return to the old nomenclature in the fourth.
THE END.
_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
_Edinburgh and London_
FOOTNOTES:
[1] These reflections were suggested to Tacitus by the conduct of
Thrasyllus (chief astrologer of the Emperor Tiberius), when his skill
was tested by his imperial employer after a manner characteristic of
that agreeable monarch. The story runs thus (I follow Whewell's
version): 'Those who were brought to Tiberius on any important matter,
were admitted to an interview in an apartment situated on a lofty cliff
in the island of Capreae. They reached this place by a narrow path,
accompanied by a single freedman of great bodily strength; and on their
return, if the emperor had conceived any doubts of their
trustworthiness, a single blow buried the secret and its victim in the
ocean below. After Thrasyllus had, in this retreat, stated the results
of his art as they concerned the emperor, Tiberius asked him whether he
had calculated how long he himself had to live. The astrologer examined
the aspect of the stars, and while he did this showed hesitation, alarm,
increasing terror, and at last declared that "The present hour was for
him critical, perhaps fatal." Tiberius embraced him, and told him "he
was right in supposing he had been in danger, but that he should escape
it," and made him henceforward his confidential counsellor.' It is
evident, assuming the story to be true (as seems sufficiently probable),
that the emperor was no match for the charlatan in craft. It was a
natural thought on the former's part to test the skill of his astrologer
by laying for him a trap such as the story indicates--a thought so
natural, indeed, that it probably occurred to Thrasyllus himself long
before Tiberius put the plan into practice. Even if Thrasyllus had not
been already on the watch for such a trick, he would have been but a
poor trickster himself if he had not detected it the moment it was
attempted, or failed to see the sole safe course which was left open to
him. Probably, with a man of the temper of Tiberius, such a
counter-trick as Galeotti's in _Quentin Durward_ would have been unsafe.
[2] The belief in the influence of the stars and the planets on the
fortunes of the new-born child was still rife when Shakespeare made
Glendower boast:
At my nativity
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes
Of burning cressets; know, that at my birth
The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shook like a coward.
And Shakespeare showed himself dangerously tainted with freethought in
assigning (even to the fiery Hotspur) the reply:
So it would have done
At the same season, if your mother's cat
Had kittened, though yourself had ne'er been born.
In a similar vein Butler, in _Hudibras_ ridiculed the folly of those who
believe in horoscopes and nativities:
As if the planet's first aspect
The tender infant did infect
In soul and body, and instil
All future good and future ill;
Which in their dark fatalities lurking,
At destined periods fall a-working,
And break out, like the hidden seeds
Of long diseases, into deeds,
In friendships, enmities, and strife.
And all th' emergencies of life.
[3] Preface to the _Rudolphine Tables_.
[4] It is commonly stated that Bacon opposed the Copernican theory
because he disliked Gilbert, who had advocated it. 'Bacon,' says one of
his editors, 'was too jealous of Gilbert to entertain one moment any
doctrine that he advanced.' But, apart from the incredible littleness of
mind which this explanation imputes to Bacon, it would also have been an
incredible piece of folly on Bacon's part to advocate an inferior theory
while a rival was left to support a better theory. Bacon saw clearly
enough that men were on their way to the discovery of the true theory,
and, so far as in him lay, he indicated how they should proceed in order
most readily to reach the truth. It must, then, have been from
conviction, not out of mere contradiction, that Bacon declared himself
in favour of the Ptolemaic system. In fact, he speaks of the diurnal
motion of the earth as 'an opinion which we can demonstrate to be most
false;' doubtless having in his thoughts some such arguments as misled
Tycho Brahe.
[5] To Bacon's theological contemporaries this must have seemed a
dreadful heresy, and possibly in our own days the assertion would be
judged scarcely less harshly, seeing that the observance of the
(so-called) Sabbath depends directly upon the belief in quite another
origin of the week. Yet there can be little question that the week
really had its origin in astrological formulae.
[6] In Bohn's edition the word 'defective' is here used, entirely
changing the meaning of the sentence. Bacon registers an _Astrologia
Sana_ amongst the things needed for the advancement of learning, whereas
he is made to say that such an astrology must be registered as
defective.