You wouldn’t have found two handsomer or finer young fellows on the
day of the boatrace, in all London, than the two who started in the
new dogcart, at ten o’clock, from the door of Harry Noel’s comfortable
chambers in a quaint old house in Duke Street, St James’s. And yet they
were very different in type; as widely different as it is possible
for any two young men to be, both of whom were quite unmistakable and
undeniable young Englishmen.
Harry Noel was heir of one of the oldest families in Lincolnshire;
but his face and figure were by no means those of the typical Danes
in that distinctively Danish-English county. Sir Walter, his father,
was tall and fair—a bluff, honest, hard-featured Lincolnshire man; but
Harry himself took rather after his mother, the famous Lady Noel, once
considered the most beautiful woman of her time in London society. He
was somewhat short and well knit; a very dark man, with black hair,
moustache, and beard; and his face was handsome with something of a
southern and fiery handsomeness, like his mother’s, reminding one at
times of the purest Italian or Castilian stocks. There was undeniable
pride about his upper lip and his eager flashing black eye; while
his customary nonchalance and coolness of air never completely hid
the hot and passionate southern temperament that underlay that false
exterior of Pall Mall cynicism. A man to avoid picking a quarrel with,
certainly, was Harry Noel, of the Inner Temple, and of Noel Hall, by
Boston, Lincolnshire, barrister-at-law.
Edward Hawthorn, on the other hand, was tall and slight, though
strongly built; a grand model of the pure Anglo-Saxon type of
manhood, with straight fair hair, nearer white almost than yellow,
and deep-blue eyes, that were none the less transparently true and
earnest because of their intense and unmixed blueness. His face
was clear-cut and delicately moulded; and the pale and singularly
straw-coloured moustache, which alone was allowed to hide any part of
its charming outline, did not prevent one from seeing at a glance the
almost faultless Greek regularity of his perfectly calm and statuesque
features. Harry Noel’s was, in short, the kind of face that women are
most likely to admire: Edward Hawthorn’s was the kind that an artist
would rather rejoice to paint, or that a sculptor would still more
eagerly wish to model.
‘Much better to go down by the road, you know, Teddy,’ quoth Harry as
they took their seats in the new dogcart. ‘All the cads in London are
going down by rail, of course. The whole riff-raff of our fellow-man
that you’re always talking about so sympathetically, with your absurd
notions, overflows to-day from its natural reservoirs in the third
class into the upper tanks of first and second. Impossible to travel on
the line this morning without getting one’s self jammed and elbowed by
all the tinkers and tailors, soldiers and sailors, butchers and bakers
and candlestick makers in the whole of London. Enough to cure even
you, I should think, of all your nonsensical rights-of-man and ideal
equality business.’
‘Have you ever travelled third yourself, to see what it was really
like, Harry? I have; and, for my part, I think the third-class people
are generally rather kinder and more unselfish than the first or
second.’
‘My dear fellow, on your recommendation I tried it last week.—But let
that pass, and tell me where are you going to look for your beautiful
young lady from Trinidad or Mauritius? You made her the ostensible
pretext, you know, for going to the boatrace.’
‘Oh, for that I trust entirely to the chapter of accidents. She said
she was going down to see the race from somebody’s lawn, facing the
river; and I shall force my way along the path as far as I can get
and quietly look out for her. If we see her, I mean to push boldly
for an introduction to the somebody unnamed who owns the lawn. Leave
the dogcart at some inn or other down, at Putney, stroll along the
river casually till you see a beautiful vision of sweet nineteen or
thereabout, walk in quietly as if the place belonged to you, and there
you are.’
They drove on to Putney through the crowded roads, and put the dogcart
up at the _Coach and Horses_. Then Harry and Edward took to the still
more crowded bank, and began to push their way among the densely packed
masses of nondescript humanity in the direction of Barnes Bridge.
‘Stand out of the way there, can’t you,’ cried Noel, elbowing aside a
sturdy London rough as he spoke with a dexterous application of his
gold-tipped umbrella. ‘Why do you get in people’s way and block the
road up, my good fellow?’
‘Where are you a-pushin’ to?’ the rough answered, not without reason,
crowding in upon him sturdily in defence of his natural rights of
standing-room, and bringing his heavy foot down plump on Harry Noel’s
neatly fitting walking-shoe. ‘An’ who are you, I should like to know,
a-shovin’ other people aside permiscuous like, as if you was acthally
the Prince of Wales or the Dook of Edinboro? I’d like to hear you call
me a fellow again, I should!’
‘Appears to be some confusion in the man’s mind,’ said Noel, pushing
past him angrily, ‘between a fellow and a felon. I haven’t got an
etymological dictionary handy in my pocket, I regret to say, but I
venture to believe, my good friend, that your philology is quite as
much at fault in this matter as your English grammar.’
‘My dear Noel,’ Hawthorn put in, ‘please don’t add insult to injury.
The man’s quite within his right in objecting to your pushing him out
of a place he took up before you came here. Possession’s nine points
of the law, you know—ten in the matter of occupancy, indeed—and surely
he’s the prior occupant.’
‘Oh, if you’re going to hold a brief for the defendant, my dear boy,
why, of course I throw the case up.—Besides, there she is, Teddy. By
Jove, there she is. That’s her. Over yonder on the lawn there—the very
pretty girl by the edge of the wall overhanging the path here.’
‘What, the one in blue?’
‘The one in blue! Gracious goodness, no. The other one—the very pretty
girl; the one in the pink dress, as fresh as a daisy. Did you ever see
anybody prettier?’
‘Oh, her,’ Edward answered, looking across at the lady in pink
carelessly. ‘Yes, yes; I see now. Pretty enough, as you say, Harry.’
‘Pretty enough! Is that all you’ve got to say about her! You block
of ice! you lump of marble! Why, my dear fellow, she’s absolute
perfection. That’s the worst, now, of a man’s being engaged. He loses
his eye entirely for female beauty.’
‘What did you say her name was?’
‘Miss Dupuy. I’ll introduce you in a minute.’
‘But, my dear Harry, where are you going? We don’t even know the
people.’
‘Nothing easier, then. We’ll proceed to make their acquaintance. See
what a lot of cads climbing up and sitting on the wall, obstructing the
view there! First, seat yourself firmly on the top the same as they
do; then, proceed to knock off the other intruders, as if you belonged
to the party by invitation; finally, slip over quietly inside, and
mix with the lot exactly as if you really knew them. There is such
a precious crowd of people inside, that nobody’ll ever find out you
weren’t invited. I’ve long observed that nobody ever does know who’s
who at a garden-party. The father always thinks his son knows you; and
the son always fancies indefinitely you’re particular friends of his
father and mother.’
As Harry spoke, he had already clambered up to the top of the wall,
which was steep and high on the side towards the river, but stood only
about two feet above the bank on the inner side; and Edward, seeing
nothing else to do but follow his example, had taken with shame a
convenient seat beside him. In a minute more, Harry was busily engaged
in clearing off the other unauthorised squatters, like an invited
guest; and two minutes later, he had transferred his legs to the inner
side of the wall, and was quietly identifying himself with the party
of spectators on the lawn and garden. Edward, who was blessed with
less audacity in social matters than his easy-going friend, could only
admire without wholly imitating his ready adaptiveness.
‘Miss Dupuy! How delightful! This is indeed lucky. How very fortunate I
should happen to have dropped down upon you so unexpectedly.’
Nora Dupuy smiled a delicious smile of frank and innocent girlish
welcome, and held out her hand to Harry half timidly. ‘Why, Mr Noel,’
she said, ‘I hadn’t the very slightest idea you knew our good friends
the Boddingtons.’
‘_Mr_ Boddington?’ Harry Noel asked with a marked emphasis on the
dubious _Mr_.
‘No; Colonel Boddington, of the Bengal Staff Corps. Why, how on earth
do you happen not to know their name even?—You have a friend with you,
I perceive.’
‘Exactly,’ Harry said, turning to Edward, who was speechless with
surprise. ‘Allow me to introduce him. My friend, Mr Hawthorn, a shining
light of the Utter Bar.—By the way, didn’t you say you came from
Trinidad or Mauritius or Ceylon or somewhere? I remember distinctly you
left upon me a general impression of tropical fragrance, though I can’t
say I recollect precisely the particular habitat.’
‘Trinidad,’ she answered, looking down as she spoke.—‘Why, Mr Noel,
what about it?’
‘Why, my friend Hawthorn here comes from Trinidad too, so you ought to
be neighbours; though, as he hasn’t been there himself for a great many
years, I daresay you won’t know one another.’
‘Oh, everybody in Trinidad knows everybody else, of course,’ Nora
answered, half turning to Edward. ‘It’s such a little pocket colony,
you know, that we’re all first-cousins to one another through all the
island. I’m not acquainted with all the people in Trinidad myself,
naturally, because I haven’t been there since I was a baby, almost;
but my father would be perfectly sure to know him, at anyrate,
I’m confident. I don’t think I ever heard the name of Hawthorn
before—connected with Trinidad, I mean; in fact, I’m sure not.—Do your
people live out there still, Mr Hawthorn, or have they settled in
England?’
‘My father and mother are still in the island,’ Edward answered, a
little uncomfortably. ‘My father is Mr James Hawthorn, of Agualta
Estate, a place at the north side of Trinidad.’
‘Agualta Estate,’ Nora replied, turning the name over with herself once
more dubiously, ‘Agualta Estate. I’ve certainly heard the name of the
place, I’m sure; but never of your people until this minute. How very
strange.’
‘It’s a long time since you’ve been in the island, you say,’ Noel put
in suggestively, ‘and no doubt you’ve forgotten Mr Hawthorn’s father’s
name. He must be pretty well known in Trinidad, I should think, for
he’s an Honourable, you know, and a member of the local Legislative
Council.’
Nora looked decidedly puzzled. ‘A member of the Legislative Council,’
she said in some surprise. ‘That makes it stranger still. My papa’s
a member of Council too, and he knows everybody in the place, you
know—that is to say, of course, everybody who’s anybody; and poor mamma
used always to write me home the chattiest letters, all about everybody
and everybody’s wife and daughters, and all the society gossip of the
colony; and then I see so many Trinidad people when they come home; and
altogether, I really thought I knew, by name at least, absolutely every
one in the whole island.’
‘And this proves you must be mistaken, Miss Dupuy,’ Noel put in
carelessly; for he was half jealous that his own special and peculiar
discovery in pretty girls should take so much interest in Edward
Hawthorn. ‘But anyhow, you’ll know all about him before very long, I’ve
no doubt, for Mr Hawthorn is going to take a judgeship in the uttermost
parts of the earth, even Trinidad. He’ll be going out there, no doubt,
from what he tells me, in a month or so from now.’
‘Going out there!’ Nora cried. ‘Oh, how nice. Why, I shall be going
out, too, in the end of June. How delightful, if we should both happen
to sail in the same steamer together!’
‘I should envy him the voyage immensely,’ said Harry. ‘But you don’t
mean to say, Miss Dupuy, you’re really going to bury yourself alive in
the West Indies?’
‘Oh, I don’t call it burying alive, Mr Noel; it’s perfectly delightful,
I believe, from what I remember. Summer all the year round, and
dancing, with all the doors and windows open, from September to April.’
‘Pray, inform me which is Colonel Boddington,’ Harry exclaimed eagerly
at this particular moment, as an old gentleman of military aspect
strolled up casually to speak to Nora. ‘Point me out mine host, for
mercy’s sake, or else he’ll be bringing a summary action for ejectment
against us both as rogues and vagabonds.’
‘This is he,’ Nora said, as the military gentleman approached nearer.
‘Don’t you know him? Perhaps I’d better introduce you. Colonel
Boddington—Mr Noel, Mr Hawthorn.’
‘And I’d better make a clean breast of it at once,’ Harry Noel
continued, smiling gracefully with his pleasant easy smile—Edward
would have sunk bodily into the earth alive, rather than make the
ridiculous confession. ‘The fact is, we’re intruders into your domain,
sir—unauthorised intruders. We took our seats on the top of your wall
to watch the race; and when we got there, we found a number of roughs
were obstructing the view for the ladies of your party; and we assisted
the gentlemen of your set in clearing the ground; and then, as I saw
my friend Miss Dupuy was here, I made bold to jump over and come to
speak to her, feeling sure that a previous acquaintance with her would
be a sufficient introduction into your pleasant society here.—What a
delightful place, sir, you’ve got on the river here.’
Colonel Boddington bowed stiffly. ‘Any friend of Miss Dupuy’s is quite
welcome here,’ he said with some chilly severity.—‘Did I understand
Miss Dupuy to say your name was Rowell?’
‘Noel,’ Harry corrected, smiling benignly. ‘You may possibly know my
father, Sir Walter Noel, of Noel Hall, near Boston, Lincolnshire.’
Colonel Boddington unbent visibly. ‘I’m very glad of this opportunity,
I’m sure, Mr Noel,’ he said with his most gracious manner. ‘As I
remarked before, Miss Dupuy’s friends will always be welcome with us.
Since you’ve dropped in so unexpectedly, perhaps you and Mr—I didn’t
catch the name—will stay to lunch with us. Our friends mean to join us
at lunch after the race is over.’
‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ Harry answered, quite truthfully. Nothing
could have pleased him better than this opportunity. ‘Here they
come—here they come! Round the corner! Cambridge heads the race.
Cambridge, Cambridge!’ And for five minutes there was a fluttering of
handkerchiefs and straining of eyes and confused sound of shouts and
laughter, which left no time for Harry or any one else to indulge in
rational conversation.
After the boats had passed out of sight, and the company had returned
to the paths of sanity once more, Miss Dupuy turned round to Edward and
asked curiously: ‘Do you happen to know any people of the name of Ord,
Mr Hawthorn?’
Edward smiled as he answered: ‘General Ord’s family? O yes, I know them
very well indeed—quite intimately, in fact.’
‘Ah, then,’ she said gaily—‘then you _are_ the Mr Hawthorn who is
engaged to dear Marian. I felt sure you must be, the moment I heard
your name. Oh, I do so hope, then, you’ll get this vacant Trinidad
appointment.’
‘Get it! He’ll get it as sure as fate,’ Harry said, intervening. ‘But
why are you so anxious he should take it?’
‘Why, because, then, Marian would get married, of course, and come out
with him to live in Trinidad. Wouldn’t that be charming!’
‘If they do,’ Harry said quietly, ‘and if you’re going to be there,
too, Miss Dupuy, I declare I shall come out myself on purpose to visit
them.’
DESERT DUST.
The visitor to the Egyptian Pyramids who gazes in wonder on those
colossal structures which remain to attest the activity of races long
since passed away, little dreams, perhaps, that in the dust which he
treads beneath his feet, or which whirls in wind-tossed eddies round
his head, there exist particles of so great antiquity, that the vast
age of the Pyramids shrinks into littleness beside it. Such particles
also may be found by the traveller in the snows which cover the higher
slopes of Mont Blanc, and on other parts of the earth’s surface.
The question arises, What are these particles which thus lie unnoticed
in the dust beneath our feet, and which are fraught with such interest
to mankind? Dust from the Sahara Desert, or from the upper slopes of
Mont Blanc, is found to contain an appreciable quantity of magnetic
iron particles. Examination by the microscope reveals the fact that
the greater part of these are angular in shape, and there can be no
doubt that they are simply the debris of terrestrial magnetic rocks.
But here and there are found mingled with the other particles small but
perfect spheres of iron, their spherical condition pointing to the fact
that they have at some time been in a state of fusion. In speculating
concerning their origin we are at the outset reduced to three
possibilities—they may be of volcanic origin, or the product of fusion
in terrestrial fires, or they may have a non-terrestrial origin, and be
meteoric. A comparison with dust known to be volcanic discovers that
these particles have little or no affinity with volcanic ejections. But
the smoke which issues from the chimneys of our manufacturing districts
contains iron particles similar in appearance to these iron particles
of the Sahara and Mont Blanc; and although these latter are found far
from any of the terrestrial sources which could give them birth, yet
these light particles may be wafted by wind-currents to such immense
distances, that this argument does not come with much strength to
support the contention of their non-terrestrial origin.
The most crucial test is that of comparative chemical analysis; and
its application to various of these iron particles reveals the fact,
that whilst those known to be of terrestrial origin contained neither
nickel nor cobalt, both these metals are found present in the magnetic
particles collected at the observatory of Saint Marie du Mont, on Mont
Blanc; and a meteoric origin has therefore been assigned to the latter.
Nor is other proof wanting to support this presumption. In addition
to these particles of cosmic dust, larger masses forming meteorites
are not unfrequently found. Their general appearance is that of a dull
black, but occasionally shining black, irregular exterior, forming
a thin crust, which is totally different from the main mass within.
Examined microscopically, the crust, which is usually one-hundredth,
but may occasionally rise to one-eightieth, of an inch in thickness,
is found to be a true black glass, filled with small bubbles, sharply
divided from the interior—facts which indicate that the crust is due
to igneous action, under conditions which have little or no influence
within the mass. The interior usually consists of a stony mass formed
of broken or angular particles. Here we have two alternatives—either it
has been formed by aqueous deposition, or it has had an igneous origin.
The latter, or fiery, origin is again believed to be the true one,
for the reason, that certain microscopic characters always present in
water-deposited crystalline masses are not seen in these meteorites;
and an igneous _non_-terrestrial, rather than an igneous terrestrial,
origin is assigned to them, because the glassy spherical structure
found in meteorites can only be produced terrestrially by a combination
of conditions very rarely found co-existent. The only instance known
where such a combination obtains is in the crater of Kilauea, where
the volcanic production known as Pele’s Hair somewhat resembles the
glassy structure of meteorites. Nor is this all; for, knowing as we do
that meteors occasionally reach the earth in the form of substantial
masses, the suggestion has been ventured that they fall in sufficient
numbers to affect its bulk in the course of ages; and assuming, as we
are entitled to assume, that these masses, to which we are unable to
assign definitely a meteoric origin, are indeed meteorites, the link
connecting them with cosmic (non-terrestrial) dust has then been found.
M. Tissandier examining dust which he detached from the surface of a
Bohemian meteorite, found its microscopic characters to resemble those
of the dust-particles of Mont Blanc; and even more proof is not wanting
to vindicate its non-terrestrial origin.
The connection between cosmic dust and meteors having been thus traced,
we may now proceed to a brief consideration of their history ere they
find a grave in the earth.
On a calm clear night, when above us gleams
The sky
With all its bright sublimity of stars,
with their eternal suggestions of peace and immortality, there comes
ever and anon from out the darkness a light darting across the heavens
with increasing brightness. Sometimes the meteor will traverse a large
portion of the heavens, travelling perhaps the entire vault, and then
disappearing, while still bright, below the horizon. Occasionally,
they may be seen to fall to earth; but more commonly, after a short
course, the meteoric gleam dies away, leaving us to gaze again at the
calm fixed brightness of the familiar constellations. The differences
between these various classes of meteors are those of degree, and not
of kind. Omitting for a moment the consideration of their origin, it
is obvious that these bodies, no matter how they first originate, come
within the attractive force of the earth, and enter its atmosphere in
obedience to that attraction. The intense rapidity with which they
fall generates an ever-increasing amount of heat, under the influence
of which they become luminous, and begin to be consumed. A continuance
of this process gradually diminishes their bulk, the smaller ones
being entirely consumed high above the earth, and constituting the
shooting-stars whose passage is as evanescent as a gleam of light. It
is the dust formed as they are consumed, which, slowly settling to
earth, constitutes the cosmic particles to which reference has been
made.
But whilst on almost any clear night some few meteors may be seen
to flash across the sky, observation has revealed the fact, that in
certain months of the year, and on certain dates in those months,
shooting-stars are much more numerous than in other months and on
ordinary nights. Herr Schwabe, referring to the discovery of the
sun-spot period as the result of continuous observation undertaken for
the sake of recording phenomena, says: ‘I went out like Saul to find
my father’s asses, and lo! I found a kingdom.’ The remark might be
echoed by those who made this discovery of the periodicity of these
shooting-stars, leading, as it has done, to the discovery of facts
hitherto unsuspected, and pointing to a connection and commonness of
origin between phenomena apparently very widely divergent. At first,
the meteor-streams of August 10 and November 14 were alone recognised.
Soon it was discovered that the month of April was one in which a
very large number of meteors were visible, and the 20th was fixed
as the date for the maximum shower. But not only was it found that
these evenings were characterised by large showers of meteors, but
the further fact was ascertained, that all the meteors on any given
evening emanated from one quarter of the heavens. Thus, in the shower
which occurs on the 20th of April—although the shower has not been
very marked of late years—the radiant point for the meteors is in the
constellation Lyra; hence it is termed the Lyriad shower. In like
manner, the August train has its radiant point in Perseus; and that of
November 14 in Leo. It was still, however, thought that the meteors of
ordinary nights had no connection of this kind; but later observations
revealed the fact that they also are controlled by similar laws; and
the further discovery was made that some, notably the mid-November
swarm, vary in intensity from year to year, in obedience to regular
laws, the entire cycle in that instance requiring thirty-three and a
quarter years for its completion.
But although the life-history of the cosmic dust-particles of the
Sahara has thus been traced back until they are found to be component
parts of meteor-swarms, whose movements are controlled and dominated
by definite laws, there yet remains the question of their origin, the
explanation of the annual periodicity, and why this secular cycle
should exist. Meteors being thus found to occur in these streams, it
became possible to calculate their orbits, and M. Schiaparelli did this
with the August swarm. A connection had begun to be suspected between
meteors and comets, and it was found that the orbit of the August
meteors, as calculated by the Italian physicist, coincided with that
of a known comet. More life being thus given to the hypothesis, the
orbit of the November stream was similarly calculated. It was found
to be almost identical with the independently ascertained orbit of
Tempel’s comet. Other corroborative elements soon followed. The April
meteors perform their journey in space along the orbit of the comet
of 1861, while many other meteor-streams have been discovered to be
similarly related to other comets. With the knowledge of the connection
between comets and meteor-swarms, and our knowledge of the constitution
of meteorites themselves, the vexed question as to the constitution
of comets would seem to be rendered more easy of solution; but the
subject is beset with many difficulties, and comets well situated for
observation do not too often visit our skies.
Having traced back the history of the desert dust-particles until they
have been found to be intimately bound up, if indeed not themselves
forming bodies whose motions have laws ‘as fixed as planets have,’ it
now remains to take yet another step back into the history of things,
and endeavour to form some idea as to their first origin, and the part
they have played, or play, in the economy of nature. Many and strange
are the hypotheses which have from time to time been put forth. Some
have held meteors to be the scattered remnants of an exploded planet,
‘battered by the shocks of doom.’ Other speculators have thought that
this dust of space originated in ejections from volcanic vents when the
volcanoes which stud the surface of our satellite were in energy. But
for this to be true, it seems somewhat, though not entirely necessary
that the moon’s volcanoes should yet be active; whilst the question
arises as to the possibility of the eruptive forces on the moon to
have expelled matter beyond the influence of its attraction; and
those who give most weight to these objections have themselves been
inclined to believe that the true origin of meteors is to be found in
eruption from one of the minor planets whose attractive force would
be less than the moon; but when it is remembered how slight would be
the chance of any such matter crossing the earth’s path, such a theory
loses all probability. There have not been wanting, either, those who,
having in mind the brecciated structure of meteorites and the fewness
of the characters in which they differ from terrestrial rocks, have
boldly proclaimed for them a terrestrial origin, imagining them to have
been erupted from volcanic vents at an early period of the world’s
history—a view of course not open to the very serious objections which
surround the minor planets’ hypothesis. Yet another class of theorists
hold that the sun itself is the source of these wandering streams, they
being continually sent far into space by those mighty eruptions with
which we know that orb to be continually convulsed. It is, however,
probable that none of these theories of an eruptive origin, whether
from satellite, planet, or sun, is the true one—it being more likely
that meteors are the residue of nebulous matter not gathered into
planets when the different members of the solar system began to exist
independently, but which each hour, day, and year is being slowly
gathered in by the earth and the other planets as these bodies come
within the sphere of their gravitative influences. Thus much as to the
origin of these meteoric swarms.
The final question now arises as to whether they play any part in
the economy of nature. The aggregate weight of these small scattered
streams must be beyond comprehension, and is probably to be estimated
by billions of tons. These small masses are constantly falling towards
the earth, some reaching its actual surface. So it must be with the
moon, and with the other planets and satellites which compose the solar
system; and this continual impact of meteors, however inappreciable its
influence on the earth, cannot be without its heat-producing effects on
the larger bodies of our system. If this be so, how much greater must
be the result produced by the enormous number of these bodies which,
from a variety of causes, would be incessantly precipitated upon the
sun’s surface; and the suggestion has been put forward that we may
find in this a sufficient explanation of the apparently inexhaustible
emission of light and heat which the sun is ever radiating into
infinite space.
And if it be true that these meteors have had their origin in solar
eruptions, we are brought to the strange reflection, that the matter
which in the yesterday of ages was hurled with awful energy from the
sun’s surface, is being partly returned to it in the present age, as
the energy and matter of to-day will be partly returned to feed its
fires in the ages of to-morrow. Should these speculations be correct,
then our meteor-systems do indeed play an important part in the economy
of nature. All forms of force on earth, the energies of man himself,
have their physical source in the centre of our system; and if it be
that the energy of that source is being ever renewed by the physical
impact of meteoric masses, they have an equal title with the sun to be
regarded as the source of energy, although it must not be forgotten
that the rain of meteors on the sun’s surface is itself due to the
attractive force inherent in the sun itself.
Will the continual gathering in by the sun, the earth, and other
planets, gradually lead up to the time when these meteoric swarms shall
have ceased to be, and the sun grow cold and dull? Who shall say? There
are many causes to delay this end. As the sun, together with the solar
system, sweeps through space, it will pass through regions now rich,
now poor, in meteoric aggregations, and the total amount of matter
which it will gather in will, therefore, vary from century to century,
from epoch to epoch. Such are the thoughts up to which we are led in
pursuing the history of our particles of dust. But whether or not these
speculations be true, the study of this subject teaches many a theme of
interest for the leisure hours of our workaday world.
A GOLDEN ARGOSY.
_A NOVELETTE._
BY FRED. M. WHITE.