Johann Hieronymus SchrÖter was the Herschel of Germany. He did not, it is true, possess the more brilliant gifts of his rival. Herschel's piercing discernment, comprehensive intelligence, and inventive splendour were wanting to him. He was, nevertheless, the founder of descriptive astronomy in Germany, as Herschel was in England.

Born at Erfurt in 1745, he prosecuted legal studies at Göttingen, and there imbibed from Kästner a life-long devotion to science. From the law, however, he got the means of living, and, what was to the full as precious to him, the means of observing. Entering the sphere of Hanoverian officialism in 1788, he settled a few years later at Lilienthal near Bremen, as “Oberamtmann,” or chief magistrate. Here he built a small observatory, enriched in 1785 with a seven-foot reflector by Herschel, then one of the most powerful instruments to be found anywhere out of England. It was soon surpassed, through his exertions, by the first-fruits of native industry in that branch. Schrader of Kiel transferred his workshops to Lilienthal in 1792, and constructed there, under the superintendence and at the cost of the astronomical Oberamtmann, a thirteen-foot reflector, declared by Lalande to be the finest telescope in existence, and one twenty-seven feet in focal length, probably as inferior to its predecessor in real efficiency as it was superior in size.

The discovery of sun-spots in 1610 by Fabricius and Galileo first opened a way for inquiry into the solar constitution; but it was long before that way was followed with system or profit. The seeming irregularity of the phenomena discouraged continuous attention; casual observations were made the basis of arbitrary conjectures, and real knowledge received little or no increase. In 1620 we find Jean Tarde, canon of Sarlat, arguing that because the sun is “the eye of the world,” and the eye of the world cannot suffer from ophthalmia, therefore the appearances in question must be due, not to actual specks or stains on the bright solar disc, but to the transits of a number of small planets across it! To this new group of heavenly bodies he gave the name of “Borbonia Sidera,” and they were claimed in 1633 for the House of Hapsburg, under the title of “Austriaca Sidera,” by Father Malapertius, a Belgian Jesuit. A similar view was temporarily maintained against Galileo by the celebrated Father Scheiner of Ingolstadt, and later by William Gascoigne, the inventor of the micrometer; but most of those who were capable of thinking at all on such subjects (and they were but few) adhered either to the cloud theory or to the slag theory of sun-spots. The first was championed by Galileo, the second by Simon Marius, “astronomer and physician” to the brother Margraves of Brandenburg.

Newton showed that the bodies known as “comets,” or hirsute stars, obey the law of gravitation; but it was by no means certain that the individual of the species observed by him in 1680 formed a permanent member of the solar system. The velocity, in fact, of its rush round the sun was quite possibly sufficient to carry it off for ever into the depths of space, there to wander, a celestial casual, from star to star. With another comet, however, which appeared two years later, the case was different. Edmund Halley, who afterwards succeeded Flamsteed as Astronomer Royal, calculated its orbit on Newton's principles, and found it such as to give a period of revolution of about seventy-six years. He accordingly announced its probable identity with the comets observed by Peter Apian in 1531 and by Kepler in 1607, and fixed its return for 1758–59. The prediction was one of the test-questions put by Science to Nature, on the replies to which largely depend both the development of knowledge and the conviction of its reality. In the present instance, the answer afforded may be said to have laid the foundation of this branch of astronomy. Halley's comet punctually reappeared on Christmas Day, 1758, and effected its perihelion passage on the 12th of March following, thus proving beyond dispute that some at least of these erratic bodies are domesticated within our system, and strictly conform, if not to its unwritten customs (so to speak), at any rate to its fundamental laws.

The question of the sun's distance arises naturally from the consideration of his temperature, since the intensity of the radiations emitted as compared with those received and measured, depends upon it. But the knowledge of that distance has a value quite apart from its connection with solar physics. The semi-diameter of the earth's orbit is our standard measure for the universe. It is the great fundamental datum of astronomy–the unit of space, any error in the estimation of which is multiplied and repeated in a thousand different ways, both in the planetary and sidereal systems. Hence its determination has been called by Airy “the noblest problem in astronomy.” It is also one of the most difficult. The quantities dealt with are so minute that their sure grasp tasks all the resources of modern science. An observational inaccuracy which would set the moon nearer to, or farther from us than she really is by one hundred miles, would vitiate an estimate of the sun's distance to the extent of sixteen million! What is needed in order to attain knowledge of the desired exactness is no less than this: to measure an angle about equal to that subtended by a halfpenny 2000 feet from the eye, within a little more than a thousandth part of its value.

That a science of stellar chemistry should not only have become possible, but should already have made material advances, is assuredly one of the most amazing features in the swift progress of knowledge our age has witnessed. Custom can never blunt the wonder with which we must regard the achievement of compelling rays emanating from a source devoid of sensible magnitude through immeasurable distance, to reveal, by its peculiarities, the composition of that source. The discovery of revolving double stars assured us that the great governing force of the planetary movements, and of our own material existence, sways equally the courses of the farthest suns in space; the application of prismatic analysis certified to the presence in the stars of the familiar materials, no less of the earth we tread, than of the bodies built up out of its dust and circumambient vapours.

We have seen that, as early as 1823, Fraunhofer ascertained the generic participation of stellar light in the peculiarity by which sunlight, spread out by transmission through a prism, shows numerous transverse rulings of interrupting darkness. No sooner had Kirchhoff supplied the key to the hidden meaning of those ciphered characters, than it was eagerly turned to the interpretation of the dim scrolls unfolded in the spectra of the stars. Donati made at Florence, in 1860, the first efforts in this direction; but with little result, owing to the imperfections of the instrumental means at his command.

We cannot doubt that the solar system, as we see it, is the result of some process of growth–that, during innumerable ages, the forces of Nature were at work upon its materials, blindly modelling them into the shape appointed for them from the beginning by Omnipotent Wisdom. To set ourselves to inquire what that process was, may be an audacity, but it is a legitimate, nay, an inevitable one. For man's implanted instinct to “look before and after” does not apply to his own little life alone, but regards the whole history of creation, from the highest to the lowest–from the microscopic germ of an alga or a fungus to the visible frame and furniture of the heavens.

Kant considered that the inquiry into the mode of origin of the world was one of the easiest problems set by Nature; but it cannot be said that his own solution of it was a satisfactory one. He, however, struck out in 1755 a track which thought still pursues. In his Allgemeine Naturgeschichte the growth of sun and planets was traced from the cradle of a vast and formless mass of evenly diffused particles, and the uniformity of their movements was sought to be accounted for by the uniform action of attractive and repulsive forces, under the dominion of which their development was carried forwards.

“The analogy between Mars and the earth is perhaps by far the greatest in the whole solar system.” So Herschel wrote in 1783, and so it may safely be repeated to-day, after an additional hundred years of scrutiny. This circumstance lends a particular interest to inquiries into the physical habitudes of our exterior planetary neighbour.

Fontana was the first to catch glimpses, at Naples in 1636 and 1638, of dusky stains on the ruddy disc of Mars. They were next seen by Hooke and Cassini in 1666, and this time with sufficient distinctness to serve as indexes to the planet's rotation, determined by the latter as taking place in a period of twenty-four hours forty minutes. Increased confidence was given to this result through Maraldi's precise verification of it in 1719. Amongst the spots observed by him, he distinguished two as stable in position, though variable in size. They were of a peculiar character, showing as bright patches round the poles, and had already been noticed during sixty years back. A current conjecture of their snowy nature obtained validity when Herschel connected their fluctuations in extent with the progress of the Martian seasons. It was hard to resist the inference of frozen precipitations when once it was clearly perceived that the shining polar zones did actually diminish alternately and grow with the alternations of summer and winter in the corresponding hemisphere.

We can distinguish three kinds of astronomy, each with a different origin and history, but all mutually dependent, and composing, in their fundamental unity, one science. First in order of time came the art of observing the returns and measuring the places of the heavenly bodies. This was the sole astronomy of the Chinese and Chaldeans; but to it the vigorous Greek mind added a highly complex geometrical plan of their movements, for which Copernicus substituted a more harmonious system, without as yet any idea of a compelling cause. The planets revolved in circles because it was their nature to do so, just as laudanum sets to sleep because it possesses a virtus dormitiva. This first and oldest branch is known as “observational,” or “practical astronomy.” Its business is to note facts as accurately as possible; and it is essentially unconcerned with schemes for connecting those facts in a manner satisfactory to the reason.

The second kind of astronomy was founded by Newton. Its nature is best indicated by the term “gravitational;” but it is also called “theoretical astronomy.” It is based on the idea of cause; and the whole of its elaborate structure is reared according to the dictates of a single law, simple in itself, but the tangled web of whose consequences can be unravelled only by the subtle agency of an elaborate calculus.