It is with humility really unassumed—it is with a sentiment even of
awe—that I pen the opening sentence of this work: for of all conceivable
subjects I approach the reader with the most solemn—the most
comprehensive—the most difficult—the most august.
What terms shall I find sufficiently simple in their
sublimity—sufficiently sublime in their simplicity—for the mere
enunciation of my theme?
I design to speak of the _Physical, Metaphysical and Mathematical—of the
Material and Spiritual Universe:—of its Essence, its Origin, its
Creation, its Present Condition and its Destiny_. I shall be so rash,
moreover, as to challenge the conclusions, and thus, in effect, to
question the sagacity, of many of the greatest and most justly
reverenced of men.
In the beginning, let me as distinctly as possible announce—not the
theorem which I hope to demonstrate—for, whatever the mathematicians may
assert, there is, in this world at least, _no such thing_ as
demonstration—but the ruling idea which, throughout this volume, I shall
be continually endeavoring to suggest.
My general proposition, then, is this:—_In the Original Unity of the
First Thing lies the Secondary Cause of All Things, with the Germ of
their Inevitable Annihilation_.
In illustration of this idea, I propose to take such a survey of the
Universe that the mind may be able really to receive and to perceive an
individual impression.
He who from the top of Ætna casts his eyes leisurely around, is affected
chiefly by the _extent_ and _diversity_ of the scene. Only by a rapid
whirling on his heel could he hope to comprehend the panorama in the
sublimity of its _oneness_. But as, on the summit of Ætna, _no_ man has
thought of whirling on his heel, so no man has ever taken into his brain
the full uniqueness of the prospect; and so, again, whatever
considerations lie involved in this uniqueness, have as yet no practical
existence for mankind.
I do not know a treatise in which a survey of the _Universe_—using the
word in its most comprehensive and only legitimate acceptation—is taken
at all:—and it may be as well here to mention that by the term
“Universe,” wherever employed without qualification in this essay, I
mean to designate _the utmost conceivable expanse of space, with all
things, spiritual and material, that can be imagined to exist within the
compass of that expanse_. In speaking of what is ordinarily implied by
the expression, “Universe,” I shall take a phrase of limitation—“the
Universe of stars.” Why this distinction is considered necessary, will
be seen in the sequel.
But even of treatises on the really limited, although always assumed as
the _un_limited, Universe of _stars_, I know none in which a survey,
even of this limited Universe, is so taken as to warrant deductions from
its _individuality_. The nearest approach to such a work is made in the
“Cosmos” of Alexander Von Humboldt. He presents the subject, however,
_not_ in its individuality but in its generality. His theme, in its last
result, is the law of _each_ portion of the merely physical Universe, as
this law is related to the laws of _every other_ portion of this merely
physical Universe. His design is simply synœretical. In a word, he
discusses the universality of material relation, and discloses to the
eye of Philosophy whatever inferences have hitherto lain hidden _behind_
this universality. But however admirable be the succinctness with which
he has treated each particular point of his topic, the mere multiplicity
of these points occasions, necessarily, an amount of detail, and thus an
involution of idea, which precludes all _individuality_ of impression.
It seems to me that, in aiming at this latter effect, and, through it,
at the consequences—the conclusions—the suggestions—the speculations—or,
if nothing better offer itself the mere guesses which may result from
it—we require something like a mental gyration on the heel. We need so
rapid a revolution of all things about the central point of sight that,
while the minutiæ vanish altogether, even the more conspicuous objects
become blended into one. Among the vanishing minutiæ, in a survey of
this kind, would be all exclusively terrestrial matters. The Earth would
be considered in its planetary relations alone. A man, in this view,
becomes mankind; mankind a member of the cosmical family of
Intelligences.
And now, before proceeding to our subject proper, let me beg the
reader’s attention to an extract or two from a somewhat remarkable
letter, which appears to have been found corked in a bottle and floating
on the _Mare Tenebrarum_—an ocean well described by the Nubian
geographer, Ptolemy Hephestion, but little frequented in modern days
unless by the Transcendentalists and some other divers for crotchets.
The date of this letter, I confess, surprises me even more particularly
than its contents; for it seems to have been written in the year _two_
thousand eight hundred and forty-eight. As for the passages I am about
to transcribe, they, I fancy, will speak for themselves.
“Do you know, my dear friend,” says the writer, addressing, no doubt, a
contemporary—“Do you know that it is scarcely more than eight or nine
hundred years ago since the metaphysicians first consented to relieve
the people of the singular fancy that there exist _but two practicable
roads to Truth_? Believe it if you can! It appears, however, that long,
long ago, in the night of Time, there lived a Turkish philosopher called
Aries and surnamed Tottle.” [Here, possibly, the letter-writer means
Aristotle; the best names are wretchedly corrupted in two or three
thousand years.] “The fame of this great man depended mainly upon his
demonstration that sneezing is a natural provision, by means of which
over-profound thinkers are enabled to expel superfluous ideas through
the nose; but he obtained a scarcely less valuable celebrity as the
founder, or at all events as the principal propagator, of what was
termed the _de_ductive or _à priori_ philosophy. He started with what he
maintained to be axioms, or self-evident truths:—and the now well
understood fact that _no_ truths are _self_-evident, really does not
make in the slightest degree against his speculations:—it was sufficient
for his purpose that the truths in question were evident at all. From
axioms he proceeded, logically, to results. His most illustrious
disciples were one Tuclid, a geometrician,” [meaning Euclid] “and one
Kant, a Dutchman, the originator of that species of Transcendentalism
which, with the change merely of a C for a K, now bears his peculiar
name.
“Well, Aries Tottle flourished supreme, until the advent of one Hog,
surnamed ‘the Ettrick shepherd,’ who preached an entirely different
system, which he called the _à posteriori_ or _in_ductive. His plan
referred altogether to sensation. He proceeded by observing, analyzing,
and classifying facts—_instantiæ Naturæ_, as they were somewhat
affectedly called—and arranging them into general laws. In a word, while
the mode of Aries rested on _noumena_, that of Hog depended on
_phenomena_; and so great was the admiration excited by this latter
system that, at its first introduction, Aries fell into general
disrepute. Finally, however, he recovered ground, and was permitted to
divide the empire of Philosophy with his more modern rival:—the savans
contenting themselves with proscribing all _other_ competitors, past,
present, and to come; putting an end to all controversy on the topic by
the promulgation of a Median law, to the effect that the Aristotelian
and Baconian roads are, and of right ought to be, the solo possible
avenues to knowledge:—‘Baconian,’ you must know, my dear friend,” adds
the letter-writer at this point, “was an adjective invented as
equivalent to Hog-ian, and at the same time more dignified and
euphonious.
“Now I do assure you most positively”—proceeds the epistle—“that I
represent these matters fairly; and you can easily understand how
restrictions so absurd on their very face must have operated, in those
days, to retard the progress of true Science, which makes its most
important advances—as all History will show—by seemingly intuitive
_leaps_. These ancient ideas confined investigation to crawling; and I
need not suggest to you that crawling, among varieties of locomotion, is
a very capital thing of its kind;—but because the tortoise is sure of
foot, for this reason must we clip the wings of the eagles? For many
centuries, so great was the infatuation, about Hog especially, that a
virtual stop was put to all thinking, properly so called. No man dared
utter a truth for which he felt himself indebted to his soul alone. It
mattered not whether the truth was even demonstrably such; for the
dogmatizing philosophers of that epoch regarded only _the road_ by which
it professed to have been attained. The end, with them, was a point of
no moment, whatever:—‘the means!’ they vociferated—‘let us look at the
means!’—and if, on scrutiny of the means, it was found to come neither
under the category Hog, nor under the category Aries (which means ram),
why then the savans went no farther, but, calling the thinker a fool
and branding him a ‘theorist,’ would never, thenceforward, have any
thing to do either with _him_ or with his truths.
“Now, my dear friend,” continues the letter-writer, “it cannot be
maintained that by the crawling system, exclusively adopted, men would
arrive at the maximum amount of truth, even in any long series of ages;
for the repression of imagination was an evil not to be counterbalanced
even by _absolute_ certainty in the snail processes. But their certainty
was very far from absolute. The error of our progenitors was quite
analogous with that of the wiseacre who fancies he must necessarily see
an object the more distinctly, the more closely he holds it to his eyes.
They blinded themselves, too, with the impalpable, titillating Scotch
snuff of _detail_; and thus the boasted facts of the Hog-ites were by no
means always facts—a point of little importance but for the assumption
that they always _were_. The vital taint, however, in Baconianism—its
most lamentable fount of error—lay in its tendency to throw power and
consideration into the hands of merely perceptive men—of those
inter-Tritonic minnows, the microscopical savans—the diggers and pedlers
of minute _facts_, for the most part in physical science—facts all of
which they retailed at the same price upon the highway; their value
depending, it was supposed, simply upon the _fact of their fact_,
without reference to their applicability or inapplicability in the
development of those ultimate and only legitimate facts, called Law.
“Than the persons”—the letter goes on to say—“Than the persons thus
suddenly elevated by the Hog-ian philosophy into a station for which
they were unfitted—thus transferred from the sculleries into the parlors
of Science—from its pantries into its pulpits—than these individuals a
more intolerant—a more intolerable set of bigots and tyrants never
existed on the face of the earth. Their creed, their text and their
sermon were, alike, the one word ‘_fact_’—but, for the most part, even
of this one word, they knew not even the meaning. On those who ventured
to _disturb_ their facts with the view of putting them in order and to
use, the disciples of Hog had no mercy whatever. All attempts at
generalization were met at once by the words ‘theoretical,’ ‘theory,’
‘theorist’—all _thought_, to be brief, was very properly resented as a
personal affront to themselves. Cultivating the natural sciences to the
exclusion of Metaphysics, the Mathematics, and Logic, many of these
Bacon-engendered philosophers—one-idead, one-sided and lame of a
leg—were more wretchedly helpless—more miserably ignorant, in view of
all the comprehensible objects of knowledge, than the veriest unlettered
hind who proves that he knows something at least, in admitting that he
knows absolutely nothing.
“Nor had our forefathers any better right to talk about _certainty_,
when pursuing, in blind confidence, the _à priori_ path of axioms, or of
the Ram. At innumerable points this path was scarcely as straight as a
ram’s-horn. The simple truth is, that the Aristotelians erected their
castles upon a basis far less reliable than air; _for no such things as
axioms ever existed or can possibly exist at all_. This they must have
been very blind, indeed, not to see, or at least to suspect; for, even
in their own day, many of their long-admitted ‘axioms’ had been
abandoned:—‘_ex nihilo nihil fit_,’ for example, and a ‘thing cannot act
where it is not,’ and ‘there cannot be antipodes,’ and ‘darkness cannot
proceed from light.’ These and numerous similar propositions formerly
accepted, without hesitation, as axioms, or undeniable truths, were,
even at the period of which I speak, seen to be altogether
untenable:—how absurd in these people, then, to persist in relying upon
a basis, as immutable, whose mutability had become so repeatedly
manifest!
“But, even through evidence afforded by themselves against themselves,
it is easy to convict these _à priori_ reasoners of the grossest
unreason—it is easy to show the futility—the impalpability of their
axioms in general. I have now lying before me”—it will be observed that
we still proceed with the letter—“I have now lying before me a book
printed about a thousand years ago. Pundit assures me that it is
decidedly the cleverest ancient work on its topic, which is ‘Logic.’ The
author, who was much esteemed in his day, was one Miller, or Mill; and
we find it recorded of him, as a point of some importance, that he rode
a mill-horse whom he called Jeremy Bentham:—but let us glance at the
volume itself!
“Ah!—‘Ability or inability to conceive,’ says Mr. Mill very properly,
‘is _in no case_ to be received as a criterion of axiomatic truth.’ Now,
that this is a palpable truism no one in his senses will deny. _Not_ to
admit the proposition, is to insinuate a charge of variability in Truth
itself, whose very title is a synonym of the Steadfast. If ability to
conceive be taken as a criterion of Truth, then a truth to _David_ Hume
would very seldom be a truth to _Joe_; and ninety-nine hundredths of
what is undeniable in Heaven would be demonstrable falsity upon Earth.
The proposition of Mr. Mill, then, is sustained. I will not grant it to
be an _axiom_; and this merely because I am showing that _no_ axioms
exist; but, with a distinction which could not have been cavilled at
even by Mr. Mill himself, I am ready to grant that, _if_ an axiom _there
be_, then the proposition of which we speak has the fullest right to be
considered an axiom—that no _more_ absolute axiom _is_—and,
consequently, that any subsequent proposition which shall conflict with
this one primarily advanced, must be either a falsity in itself—that is
to say no axiom—or, if admitted axiomatic, must at once neutralize both
itself and its predecessor.
“And now, by the logic of their own propounder, let us proceed to test
any one of the axioms propounded. Let us give Mr. Mill the fairest of
play. We will bring the point to no ordinary issue. We will select for
investigation no common-place axiom—no axiom of what, not the less
preposterously because only impliedly, he terms his secondary class—as
if a positive truth by definition could be either more or less
positively a truth:—we will select, I say, no axiom of an
unquestionability so questionable as is to be found in Euclid. We will
not talk, for example, about such propositions as that two straight
lines cannot enclose a space, or that the whole is greater than any one
of its parts. We will afford the logician _every_ advantage. We will
come at once to a proposition which he regards as the acme of the
unquestionable—as the quintessence of axiomatic undeniability. Here it
is:—‘Contradictions cannot _both_ be true—that is, cannot cöexist in
nature.’ Here Mr. Mill means, for instance,—and I give the most forcible
instance conceivable—that a tree must be either a tree or _not_ a
tree—that it cannot be at the same time a tree _and_ not a tree:—all
which is quite reasonable of itself and will answer remarkably well as
an axiom, until we bring it into collation with an axiom insisted upon a
few pages before—in other words—words which I have previously
employed—until we test it by the logic of its own propounder. ‘A tree,’
Mr. Mill asserts, ‘must be either a tree or _not_ a tree.’ Very
well:—and now let me ask him, _why_. To this little query there is but
one response:—I defy any man living to invent a second. The sole answer
is this:—‘Because we find it _impossible to conceive_ that a tree can be
any thing else than a tree or not a tree.’ This, I repeat, is Mr. Mill’s
sole answer:—he will not _pretend_ to suggest another:—and yet, by his
own showing, his answer is clearly no answer at all; for has he not
already required us to admit, _as an axiom_, that ability or inability
to conceive is _in no case_ to be taken as a criterion of axiomatic
truth? Thus all—absolutely _all_ his argumentation is at sea without a
rudder. Let it not be urged that an exception from the general rule is
to be made, in cases where the ‘impossibility to conceive’ is so
peculiarly great as when we are called upon to conceive a tree _both_ a
tree and _not_ a tree. Let no attempt, I say, be made at urging this
sotticism; for, in the first place, there are no _degrees_ of
‘impossibility,’ and thus no one impossible conception can be _more_
peculiarly impossible than another impossible conception:—in the second
place, Mr. Mill himself, no doubt after thorough deliberation, has most
distinctly, and most rationally, excluded all opportunity for exception,
by the emphasis of his proposition, that, _in no case_, is ability or
inability to conceive, to be taken as a criterion of axiomatic
truth:—in the third place, even were exceptions admissible at all, it
remains to be shown how any exception is admissible _here_. That a tree
can be both a tree and not a tree, is an idea which the angels, or the
devils, _may_ entertain, and which no doubt many an earthly Bedlamite,
or Transcendentalist, _does_.
“Now I do not quarrel with these ancients,” continues the letter-writer,
“_so much_ on account of the transparent frivolity of their logic—which,
to be plain, was baseless, worthless and fantastic altogether—as on
account of their pompous and infatuate proscription of all _other_ roads
to Truth than the two narrow and crooked paths—the one of creeping and
the other of crawling—to which, in their ignorant perversity, they have
dared to confine the Soul—the Soul which loves nothing so well as to
soar in those regions of illimitable intuition which are utterly
incognizant of ‘_path_.’
“By the bye, my dear friend, is it not an evidence of the mental slavery
entailed upon those bigoted people by their Hogs and Rams, that in spite
of the eternal prating of their savans about _roads_ to Truth, none of
them fell, even by accident, into what we now so distinctly perceive to
be the broadest, the straightest and most available of all mere
roads—the great thoroughfare—the majestic highway of the _Consistent_?
Is it not wonderful that they should have failed to deduce from the
works of God the vitally momentous consideration that _a perfect
consistency can be nothing but an absolute truth_? How plain—how rapid
our progress since the late announcement of this proposition! By its
means, investigation has been taken out of the hands of the ground-moles,
and given as a duty, rather than as a task, to the true—to the _only_ true
thinkers—to the generally-educated men of ardent imagination. These
latter—our Keplers—our Laplaces—‘speculate’—‘theorize’—these are the
terms—can you not fancy the shout of scorn with which they would be
received by our progenitors, were it possible for them to be looking
over my shoulders as I write? The Keplers, I repeat, speculate—theorize—and
their theories are merely corrected—reduced—sifted—cleared, little by
little, of their chaff of inconsistency—until at length there stands
apparent an unencumbered _Consistency_—a consistency which the most
stolid admit—because it _is_ a consistency—to be an absolute and an
unquestionable _Truth_.
“I have often thought, my friend, that it must have puzzled these
dogmaticians of a thousand years ago, to determine, even, by which of
their two boasted roads it is that the cryptographist attains the
solution of the more complicate cyphers—or by which of them Champollion
guided mankind to those important and innumerable truths which, for so
many centuries, have lain entombed amid the phonetical hieroglyphics of
Egypt. In especial, would it not have given these bigots some trouble to
determine by which of their two roads was reached the most momentous and
sublime of _all_ their truths—the truth—the fact of _gravitation_?
Newton deduced it from the laws of Kepler. Kepler admitted that these
laws he _guessed_—these laws whose investigation disclosed to the
greatest of British astronomers that principle, the basis of all
(existing) physical principle, in going behind which we enter at once
the nebulous kingdom of Metaphysics. Yes!—these vital laws Kepler
_guessed_—that is to say, he _imagined_ them. Had he been asked to point
out either the _de_ductive or _in_ductive route by which he attained
them, his reply might have been—‘I know nothing about _routes_—but I
_do_ know the machinery of the Universe. Here it is. I grasped it with
_my soul_—I reached it through mere dint of _intuition_.’ Alas, poor
ignorant old man! Could not any metaphysician have told him that what he
called ‘intuition’ was but the conviction resulting from _de_ductions or
_in_ductions of which the processes were so shadowy as to have escaped
his consciousness, eluded his reason, or bidden defiance to his capacity
of expression? How great a pity it is that some ‘moral philosopher’ had
not enlightened him about all this! How it would have comforted him on
his death-bed to know that, instead of having gone intuitively and thus
unbecomingly, he had, in fact, proceeded decorously and
legitimately—that is to say Hog-ishly, or at least Ram-ishly—into the
vast halls where lay gleaming, untended, and hitherto untouched by
mortal hand—unseen by mortal eye—the imperishable and priceless secrets
of the Universe!
“Yes, Kepler was essentially a _theorist_; but this title, _now_ of so
much sanctity, was, in those ancient days, a designation of supreme
contempt. It is only _now_ that men begin to appreciate that divine old
man—to sympathize with the prophetical and poetical rhapsody of his
ever-memorable words. For _my_ part,” continues the unknown
correspondent, “I glow with a sacred fire when I even think of them, and
feel that I shall never grow weary of their repetition:—in concluding
this letter, let me have the real pleasure of transcribing them once
again:—‘_I care not whether my work be read now or by posterity. I can
afford to wait a century for readers when God himself has waited six
thousand years for an observer. I triumph. I have stolen the golden
secret of the Egyptians. I will indulge my sacred fury._’”
Here end my quotations from this very unaccountable and, perhaps,
somewhat impertinent epistle; and perhaps it would be folly to comment,
in any respect, upon the chimerical, not to say revolutionary, fancies
of the writer—whoever he is—fancies so radically at war with the
well-considered and well-settled opinions of this age. Let us proceed,
then, to our legitimate thesis, _The Universe_.
This thesis admits a choice between two modes of discussion:—We may
_as_cend or _de_scend. Beginning at our own point of view—at the Earth
on which we stand—we may pass to the other planets of our system—thence
to the Sun—thence to our system considered collectively—and thence,
through other systems, indefinitely outwards; or, commencing on high at
some point as definite as we can make it or conceive it, we may come
down to the habitation of Man. Usually—that is to say, in ordinary
essays on Astronomy—the first of these two modes is, with certain
reservation, adopted:—this for the obvious reason that astronomical
_facts_, merely, and principles, being the object, that object is best
fulfilled in stepping from the known because proximate, gradually onward
to the point where all certitude becomes lost in the remote. For my
present purpose, however,—that of enabling the mind to take in, as if
from afar and at one glance, a distinct conception of the _individual_
Universe—it is clear that a descent to small from great—to the outskirts
from the centre (if we could establish a centre)—to the end from the
beginning (if we could fancy a beginning) would be the preferable
course, but for the difficulty, if not impossibility, of presenting, in
this course, to the unastronomical, a picture at all comprehensible in
regard to such considerations as are involved in _quantity_—that is to
say, in number, magnitude and distance.
Now, distinctness—intelligibility, at all points, is a primary feature
in my general design. On important topics it is better to be a good deal
prolix than even a very little obscure. But abstruseness is a quality
appertaining to no subject _per se_. All are alike, in facility of
comprehension, to him who approaches them by properly graduated steps.
It is merely because a stepping-stone, here and there, is heedlessly
left unsupplied in our road to the Differential Calculus, that this
latter is not altogether as simple a thing as a sonnet by Mr. Solomon
Seesaw.
By way of admitting, then, no _chance_ for misapprehension, I think it
advisable to proceed as if even the more obvious facts of Astronomy were
unknown to the reader. In combining the two modes of discussion to which
I have referred, I propose to avail myself of the advantages peculiar to
each—and very especially of the _iteration in detail_ which will be
unavoidable as a consequence of the plan. Commencing with a descent, I
shall reserve for the return upwards those indispensable considerations
of _quantity_ to which allusion has already been made.
Let us begin, then, at once, with that merest of words, “Infinity.”
This, like “God,” “spirit,” and some other expressions of which the
equivalents exist in all languages, is by no means the expression of an
idea—but of an effort at one. It stands for the possible attempt at an
impossible conception. Man needed a term by which to point out the
_direction_ of this effort—the cloud behind which lay, forever
invisible, the _object_ of this attempt. A word, in fine, was demanded,
by means of which one human being might put himself in relation at once
with another human being and with a certain _tendency_ of the human
intellect. Out of this demand arose the word, “Infinity;” which is thus
the representative but of the _thought of a thought_.
As regards _that_ infinity now considered—the infinity of space—we often
hear it said that “its idea is admitted by the mind—is acquiesced in—is
entertained—on account of the greater difficulty which attends the
conception of a limit.” But this is merely one of those _phrases_ by
which even profound thinkers, time out of mind, have occasionally taken
pleasure in deceiving _themselves_. The quibble lies concealed in the
word “difficulty.” “The mind,” we are told, “entertains the idea of
_limitless_, through the greater _difficulty_ which it finds in
entertaining that of _limited_, space.” Now, were the proposition but
fairly _put_, its absurdity would become transparent at once. Clearly,
there is no mere _difficulty_ in the case. The assertion intended, if
presented _according_ to its intention and without sophistry, would run
thus:—“The mind admits the idea of limitless, through the greater
_impossibility_ of entertaining that of limited, space.”
It must be immediately seen that this is not a question of two
statements between whose respective credibilities—or of two arguments
between whose respective validities—the _reason_ is called upon to
decide:—it is a matter of two conceptions, directly conflicting, and
each avowedly impossible, one of which the _intellect_ is supposed to be
capable of entertaining, on account of the greater _impossibility_ of
entertaining the other. The choice is _not_ made between two
difficulties;—it is merely _fancied_ to be made between two
impossibilities. Now of the former, there _are_ degrees—but of the
latter, none:—just as our impertinent letter-writer has already
suggested. A task _may_ be more or less difficult; but it is either
possible or not possible:—there are no gradations. It _might_ be more
_difficult_ to overthrow the Andes than an ant-hill; but it _can_ be no
more _impossible_ to annihilate the matter of the one than the matter of
the other. A man may jump ten feet with less _difficulty_ than he can
jump twenty, but the _impossibility_ of his leaping to the moon is not a
whit less than that of his leaping to the dog-star.
Since all this is undeniable: since the choice of the mind is to be made
between _impossibilities_ of conception: since one impossibility cannot
be greater than another: and since, thus, one cannot be preferred to
another: the philosophers who not only maintain, on the grounds
mentioned, man’s _idea_ of infinity but, on account of such
supposititious idea, _infinity itself_—are plainly engaged in
demonstrating one impossible thing to be possible by showing how it is
that some one other thing—is impossible too. This, it will be said, is
nonsense; and perhaps it is:—indeed I think it very capital
nonsense—but forego all claim to it as nonsense of mine.
The readiest mode, however, of displaying the fallacy of the
philosophical argument on this question, is by simply adverting to a
_fact_ respecting it which has been hitherto quite overlooked—the fact
that the argument alluded to both proves and disproves its own
proposition. “The mind is impelled,” say the theologians and others, “to
admit a _First Cause_, by the superior difficulty it experiences in
conceiving cause beyond cause without end.” The quibble, as before, lies
in the word “difficulty”—but _here_ what is it employed to sustain? A
First Cause. And what is a First Cause? An ultimate termination of
causes. And what is an ultimate termination of causes? Finity—the
Finite. Thus the one quibble, in two processes, by God knows how many
philosophers, is made to support now Finity and now Infinity—could it
not be brought to support something besides? As for the
quibblers—_they_, at least, are insupportable. But—to dismiss them:—what
they prove in the one case is the identical nothing which they
demonstrate in the other.
Of course, no one will suppose that I here contend for the absolute
impossibility of _that_ which we attempt to convey in the word
“Infinity.” My purpose is but to show the folly of endeavoring to prove
Infinity itself or even our conception of it, by any such blundering
ratiocination as that which is ordinarily employed.
Nevertheless, as an individual, I may be permitted to say that _I
cannot_ conceive Infinity, and am convinced that no human being can. A
mind not thoroughly self-conscious—not accustomed to the introspective
analysis of its own operations—will, it is true, often deceive itself by
supposing that it _has_ entertained the conception of which we speak. In
the effort to entertain it, we proceed step beyond step—we fancy point
still beyond point; and so long as we _continue_ the effort, it may be
said, in fact, that we are _tending_ to the formation of the idea
designed; while the strength of the impression that we actually form or
have formed it, is in the ratio of the period during which we keep up
the mental endeavor. But it is in the act of discontinuing the
endeavor—of fulfilling (as we think) the idea—of putting the finishing
stroke (as we suppose) to the conception—that we overthrow at once the
whole fabric of our fancy by resting upon some one ultimate and
therefore definite point. This fact, however, we fail to perceive, on
account of the absolute coincidence, in time, between the settling down
upon the ultimate point and the act of cessation in thinking.—In
attempting, on the other hand, to frame the idea of a _limited_ space,
we merely converse the processes which involve the impossibility.
We _believe_ in a God. We may or may not _believe_ in finite or in
infinite space; but our belief, in such cases, is more properly
designated as _faith_, and is a matter quite distinct from that belief
proper—from that _intellectual_ belief—which presupposes the mental
conception.
The fact is, that, upon the enunciation of any one of that class of
terms to which “Infinity” belongs—the class representing _thoughts of
thought_—he who has a right to say that he thinks _at all_, feels
himself called upon, _not_ to entertain a conception, but simply to
direct his mental vision toward some given point, in the intellectual
firmament, where lies a nebula never to be resolved. To solve it,
indeed, he makes no effort; for with a rapid instinct he comprehends,
not only the impossibility, but, as regards all human purposes, the
_inessentiality_, of its solution. He perceives that the Deity has not
_designed_ it to be solved. He sees, at once, that it lies _out_ of the
brain of man, and even _how_, if not exactly _why_, it lies out of it.
There _are_ people, I am aware, who, busying themselves in attempts at
the unattainable, acquire very easily, by dint of the jargon they emit,
among those thinkers-that-they-think with whom darkness and depth are
synonymous, a kind of cuttle-fish reputation for profundity; but the
finest quality of Thought is its self-cognizance; and, with some little
equivocation, it may be said that no fog of the mind can well be greater
than that which, extending to the very boundaries of the mental domain,
shuts out even these boundaries themselves from comprehension.
It will now be understood that, in using the phrase, “Infinity of
Space,” I make no call upon the reader to entertain the impossible
conception of an _absolute_ infinity. I refer simply to the “_utmost
conceivable expanse_” of space—a shadowy and fluctuating domain, now
shrinking, now swelling, in accordance with the vacillating energies of
the imagination.
_Hitherto_, the Universe of stars has always been considered as
coincident with the Universe proper, as I have defined it in the
commencement of this Discourse. It has been always either directly or
indirectly assumed—at least since the dawn of intelligible
Astronomy—that, were it possible for us to attain any given point in
space, we should still find, on all sides of us, an interminable
succession of stars. This was the untenable idea of Pascal when making
perhaps the most successful attempt ever made, at periphrasing the
conception for which we struggle in the word “Universe.” “It is a
sphere,” he says, “of which the centre is everywhere, the circumference,
nowhere.” But although this intended definition is, in fact, _no_
definition of the Universe of _stars_, we may accept it, with some
mental reservation, as a definition (rigorous enough for all practical
purposes) of the Universe _proper_—that is to say, of the Universe of
_space_. This latter, then, let us regard as “_a sphere of which the
centre is everywhere, the circumference nowhere_.” In fact, while we
find it impossible to fancy an _end_ to space, we have no difficulty in
picturing to ourselves any one of an infinity of _beginnings_.
As our starting-point, then, let us adopt the _Godhead_. Of this
Godhead, _in itself_, he alone is not imbecile—he alone is not impious
who propounds—nothing. “_Nous ne connaissons rien_,” says the Baron de
Bielfeld—“_Nous ne connaissons rien de la nature ou de l’essence de
Dieu:—pour savoir ce qu’il est, il faut être Dieu même._”—“We know
absolutely _nothing_ of the nature or essence of God:—in order to
comprehend what he is, we should have to be God ourselves.”
“_We should have to be God ourselves!_”—With a phrase so startling as
this yet ringing in my ears, I nevertheless venture to demand if this
our present ignorance of the Deity is an ignorance to which the soul is
_everlastingly_ condemned.
By _Him_, however—_now_, at least, the Incomprehensible—by Him—assuming
him as _Spirit_—that is to say, as _not Matter_—a distinction which, for
all intelligible purposes, will stand well instead of a definition—by
Him, then, existing as Spirit, let us content ourselves, to-night, with
supposing to have been _created_, or made out of Nothing, by dint of his
Volition—at some point of Space which we will take as a centre—at some
period into which we do not pretend to inquire, but at all events
immensely remote—by Him, then again, let us suppose to have been
created——_what_? This is a vitally momentous epoch in our
considerations. _What_ is it that we are justified—that alone we are
justified in supposing to have been, primarily and solely, _created_?
We have attained a point where only _Intuition_ can aid us:—but now let
me recur to the idea which I have already suggested as that alone which
we can properly entertain of intuition. It is but _the conviction
arising from those inductions or deductions of which the processes are
so shadowy as to escape our consciousness, elude our reason, or defy our
capacity of expression_. With this understanding, I now assert—that an
intuition altogether irresistible, although inexpressible, forces me to
the conclusion that what God originally created—that that Matter which,
by dint of his Volition, he first made from his Spirit, or from
Nihility, _could_ have been nothing but Matter in its utmost conceivable
state of——what?—of _Simplicity_?
This will be found the sole absolute _assumption_ of my Discourse. I use
the word “assumption” in its ordinary sense; yet I maintain that even
this my primary proposition, is very, very far indeed, from being really
a mere assumption. Nothing was ever more certainly—no human conclusion
was ever, in fact, more regularly—more rigorously _de_duced:—but, alas!
the processes lie out of the human analysis—at all events are beyond the
utterance of the human tongue.
Let us now endeavor to conceive what Matter must be, when, or if, in its
absolute extreme of _Simplicity_. Here the Reason flies at once to
Imparticularity—to a particle—to _one_ particle—a particle of _one_
kind—of _one_ character—of _one_ nature—of _one size_—of one form—a
particle, therefore, “_without_ form and void”—a particle positively a
particle at all points—a particle absolutely unique, individual,
undivided, and not indivisible only because He who _created_ it, by dint
of his Will, can by an infinitely less energetic exercise of the same
Will, as a matter of course, divide it.
_Oneness_, then, is all that I predicate of the originally created
Matter; but I propose to show that this _Oneness is a principle
abundantly sufficient to account for the constitution, the existing
phænomena and the plainly inevitable annihilation of at least the
material Universe_.
The willing into being the primordial particle, has completed the act,
or more properly the _conception_, of Creation. We now proceed to the
ultimate purpose for which we are to suppose the Particle created—that
is to say, the ultimate purpose so far as our considerations _yet_
enable us to see it—the constitution of the Universe from it, the
Particle.
This constitution has been effected by _forcing_ the originally and
therefore normally _One_ into the abnormal condition of _Many_. An
action of this character implies rëaction. A diffusion from Unity, under
the conditions, involves a tendency to return into Unity—a tendency
ineradicable until satisfied. But on these points I will speak more
fully hereafter.
The assumption of absolute Unity in the primordial Particle includes
that of infinite divisibility. Let us conceive the Particle, then, to be
only not totally exhausted by diffusion into Space. From the one
Particle, as a centre, let us suppose to be irradiated spherically—in
all directions—to immeasurable but still to definite distances in the
previously vacant space—a certain inexpressibly great yet limited number
of unimaginably yet not infinitely minute atoms.
Now, of these atoms, thus diffused, or upon diffusion, what conditions
are we permitted—not to assume, but to infer, from consideration as well
of their source as of the character of the design apparent in their
diffusion? _Unity_ being their source, and _difference from Unity_ the
character of the design manifested in their diffusion, we are warranted
in supposing this character to be at least _generally_ preserved
throughout the design, and to form a portion of the design itself:—that
is to say, we shall be warranted in conceiving continual differences at
all points from the uniquity and simplicity of the origin. But, for
these reasons, shall we be justified in imagining the atoms
heterogeneous, dissimilar, unequal, and inequidistant? More
explicitly—are we to consider no two atoms as, at their diffusion, of
the same nature, or of the same form, or of the same size?—and, after
fulfilment of their diffusion into Space, is absolute inequidistance,
each from each, to be understood of all of them? In such arrangement,
under such conditions, we most easily and immediately comprehend the
subsequent most feasible carrying out to completion of any such design
as that which I have suggested—the design of variety out of
unity—diversity out of sameness—heterogeneity out of
homogeneity—complexity out of simplicity—in a word, the utmost possible
multiplicity of _relation_ out of the emphatically irrelative _One_.
Undoubtedly, therefore, we _should_ be warranted in assuming all that
has been mentioned, but for the reflection, first, that supererogation
is not presumable of any Divine Act; and, secondly, that the object
supposed in view, appears as feasible when some of the conditions in
question are dispensed with, in the beginning, as when all are
understood immediately to exist. I mean to say that some are involved in
the rest, or so instantaneous a consequence of them as to make the
distinction inappreciable. Difference of _size_, for example, will at
once be brought about through the tendency of one atom to a second, in
preference to a third, on account of particular inequidistance; which is
to be comprehended as _particular inequidistances between centres of
quantity, in neighboring atoms of different form_—a matter not at all
interfering with the generally-equable distribution of the atoms.
Difference of _kind_, too, is easily conceived to be merely a result of
differences in size and form, taken more or less conjointly:—in fact,
since the _Unity_ of the Particle Proper implies absolute homogeneity,
we cannot imagine the atoms, at their diffusion, differing in kind,
without imagining, at the same time, a special exercise of the Divine
Will, at the emission of each atom, for the purpose of effecting, in
each, a change of its essential nature:—so fantastic an idea is the
less to be indulged, as the object proposed is seen to be thoroughly
attainable without such minute and elaborate interposition. We perceive,
therefore, upon the whole, that it would be supererogatory, and
consequently unphilosophical, to predicate of the atoms, in view of
their purposes, any thing more than _difference of form_ at their
dispersion, with particular inequidistance after it—all other
differences arising at once out of these, in the very first processes of
mass-constitution:—We thus establish the Universe on a purely
_geometrical_ basis. Of course, it is by no means necessary to assume
absolute difference, even of form, among _all_ the atoms irradiated—any
more than absolute particular inequidistance of each from each. We are
required to conceive merely that no _neighboring_ atoms are of similar
form—no atoms which can ever approximate, until their inevitable
rëunition at the end.
Although the immediate and perpetual _tendency_ of the disunited atoms
to return into their normal Unity, is implied, as I have said, in their
abnormal diffusion; still it is clear that this tendency will be without
consequence—a tendency and no more—until the diffusive energy, in
ceasing to be exerted, shall leave _it_, the tendency, free to seek its
satisfaction. The Divine Act, however, being considered as determinate,
and discontinued on fulfilment of the diffusion, we understand, at once,
a _rëaction_—in other words, a _satisfiable_ tendency of the disunited
atoms to return into _One_.
But the diffusive energy being withdrawn, and the rëaction having
commenced in furtherance of the ultimate design—_that of the utmost
possible Relation_—this design is now in danger of being frustrated, in
detail, by reason of that very tendency to return which is to effect its
accomplishment in general. _Multiplicity_ is the object; but there is
nothing to prevent proximate atoms, from lapsing _at once_, through the
now satisfiable tendency—_before_ the fulfilment of any ends proposed in
multiplicity—into absolute oneness among themselves:—there is nothing to
impede the aggregation of various _unique_ masses, at various points of
space:—in other words, nothing to interfere with the accumulation of
various masses, each absolutely One.
For the effectual and thorough completion of the general design, we thus
see the necessity for a repulsion of limited capacity—a separative
_something_ which, on withdrawal of the diffusive Volition, shall at the
same time allow the approach, and forbid the junction, of the atoms;
suffering them infinitely to approximate, while denying them positive
contact; in a word, having the power—_up to a certain epoch_—of
preventing their _coalition_, but no ability to interfere with their
_coalescence_ in any respect _or degree_. The repulsion, already
considered as so peculiarly limited in other regards, must be
understood, let me repeat, as having power to prevent absolute
coalition, _only up to a certain epoch_. Unless we are to conceive that
the appetite for Unity among the atoms is doomed to be satisfied
_never_;—unless we are to conceive that what had a beginning is to have
no end—a conception which cannot _really_ be entertained, however much
we may talk or dream of entertaining it—we are forced to conclude that
the repulsive influence imagined, will, finally—under pressure of the
_Unitendency collectively_ applied, but never and in no degree _until_,
on fulfilment of the Divine purposes, such collective application shall
be naturally made—yield to a force which, at that ultimate epoch, shall
be the superior force precisely to the extent required, and thus permit
the universal subsidence into the inevitable, because original and
therefore normal, _One_.—The conditions here to be reconciled are
difficult indeed:—we cannot even comprehend the possibility of their
conciliation;—nevertheless, the apparent impossibility is brilliantly
suggestive.
That the repulsive something actually exists, _we see_. Man neither
employs, nor knows, a force sufficient to bring two atoms into contact.
This is but the well-established proposition of the impenetrability of
matter. All Experiment proves—all Philosophy admits it. The _design_ of
the repulsion—the necessity for its existence—I have endeavored to show;
but from all attempt at investigating its nature have religiously
abstained; this on account of an intuitive conviction that the principle
at issue is strictly spiritual—lies in a recess impervious to our
present understanding—lies involved in a consideration of what now—in
our human state—is _not_ to be considered—in a consideration of _Spirit
in itself_. I feel, in a word, that here the God has interposed, and
here only, because here and here only the knot demanded the
interposition of the God.
In fact, while the tendency of the diffused atoms to return into Unity,
will be recognized, at once, as the principle of the Newtonian Gravity,
what I have spoken of as a repulsive influence prescribing limits to the
(immediate) satisfaction of the tendency, will be understood as _that_
which we have been in the practice of designating now as heat, now as
magnetism, now as _electricity_; displaying our ignorance of its awful
character in the vacillation of the phraseology with which we endeavor
to circumscribe it.
Calling it, merely for the moment, electricity, we know that all
experimental analysis of electricity has given, as an ultimate result,
the principle, or seeming principle, _heterogeneity_. _Only_ where
things differ is electricity apparent; and it is presumable that they
_never_ differ where it is not developed at least, if not apparent. Now,
this result is in the fullest keeping with that which I have reached
unempirically. The design of the repulsive influence I have maintained
to be that of preventing immediate Unity among the diffused atoms; and
these atoms are represented as different each from each. _Difference_ is
their character—their essentiality—just as _no-difference_ was the
essentiality of their source. When we say, then, that an attempt to
bring any two of these atoms together would induce an effort, on the
part of the repulsive influence, to prevent the contact, we may as well
use the strictly convertible sentence that an attempt to bring together
any two differences will result in a development of electricity. All
existing bodies, of course, are composed of these atoms in proximate
contact, and are therefore to be considered as mere assemblages of more
or fewer differences; and the resistance made by the repulsive spirit,
on bringing together any two such assemblages, would be in the ratio of
the two sums of the differences in each:—an expression which, when
reduced, is equivalent to this:—_The amount of electricity developed on
the approximation of two bodies, is proportional to the difference
between the respective sums of the atoms of which the bodies are
composed._ That _no_ two bodies are absolutely alike, is a simple
corollary from all that has been here said. Electricity, therefore,
existing always, is _developed_ whenever _any_ bodies, but _manifested_
only when bodies of appreciable difference, are brought into
approximation.
To electricity—so, for the present, continuing to call it—we _may_ not
be wrong in referring the various physical appearances of light, heat
and magnetism; but far less shall we be liable to err in attributing to
this strictly spiritual principle the more important phænomena of
vitality, consciousness and _Thought_. On this topic, however, I need
pause _here_ merely to suggest that these phænomena, whether observed
generally or in detail, seem to proceed _at least in the ratio of the
heterogeneous_.
Discarding now the two equivocal terms, “gravitation” and “electricity,”
let us adopt the more definite expressions, “_attraction_” and
“_repulsion_.” The former is the body; the latter the soul: the one is
the material; the other the spiritual, principle of the Universe. _No
other principles exist._ _All_ phænomena are referable to one, or to the
other, or to both combined. So rigorously is this the case—so thoroughly
demonstrable is it that attraction and repulsion are the _sole_
properties through which we perceive the Universe—in other words, by
which Matter is manifested to Mind—that, for all merely argumentative
purposes, we are fully justified in assuming that matter _exists_ only
as attraction and repulsion—that attraction and repulsion _are_
matter:—there being no conceivable case in which we may not employ the
term “matter” and the terms “attraction” and “repulsion,” taken
together, as equivalent, and therefore convertible, expressions in
Logic.
I said, just now, that what I have described as the tendency of the
diffused atoms to return into their original unity, would be understood
as the principle of the Newtonian law of gravity: and, in fact, there
can be little difficulty in such an understanding, if we look at the
Newtonian gravity in a merely general view, as a force impelling matter
to seek matter; that is to say, when we pay no attention to the known
_modus operandi_ of the Newtonian force. The general coincidence
satisfies us; but, upon looking closely, we see, in detail, much that
appears _in_coincident, and much in regard to which no coincidence, at
least, is established. For example; the Newtonian gravity, when we think
of it in certain moods, does _not_ seem to be a tendency to _oneness_ at
all, but rather a tendency of all bodies in all directions—a phrase
apparently expressive of a tendency to diffusion. Here, then, is an
_in_coincidence. Again; when we reflect on the mathematical _law_
governing the Newtonian tendency, we see clearly that no coincidence has
been made good, in respect of the _modus operandi_, at least, between
gravitation as known to exist and that seemingly simple and direct
tendency which I have assumed.
In fact, I have attained a point at which it will be advisable to
strengthen my position by reversing my processes. So far, we have gone
on _à priori_, from an abstract consideration of _Simplicity_, as that
quality most likely to have characterized the original action of God.
Let us now see whether the established facts of the Newtonian
Gravitation may not afford us, _à posteriori_, some legitimate
inductions.
What does the Newtonian law declare?—That all bodies attract each other
with forces proportional to their quantities of matter and inversely
proportional to the squares of their distances. Purposely, I have here
given, in the first place, the vulgar version of the law; and I confess
that in this, as in most other vulgar versions of great truths, we find
little of a suggestive character. Let us now adopt a more philosophical
phraseology:—_Every atom, of every body, attracts every other atom, both
of its own and of every other body, with a force which varies inversely
as the squares of the distances between the attracting and attracted
atom._—Here, indeed, a flood of suggestion bursts upon the mind.
But let us see distinctly what it was that Newton _proved_—according to
the grossly irrational definitions of _proof_ prescribed by the
metaphysical schools. He was forced to content himself with showing how
thoroughly the motions of an imaginary Universe, composed of attracting
and attracted atoms obedient to the law he announced, coincide with
those of the actually existing Universe so far as it comes under our
observation. This was the amount of his _demonstration_—that is to say,
this was the amount of it, according to the conventional cant of the
“philosophies.” His successes added proof multiplied by proof—such proof
as a sound intellect admits—but the _demonstration_ of the law itself,
persist the metaphysicians, had not been strengthened in any degree.
“_Ocular_, _physical_ proof,” however, of attraction, here upon Earth,
in accordance with the Newtonian theory, was, at length, much to the
satisfaction of some intellectual grovellers, afforded. This proof arose
collaterally and incidentally (as nearly all important truths have
arisen) out of an attempt to ascertain the mean density of the Earth. In
the famous Maskelyne, Cavendish and Bailly experiments for this purpose,
the attraction of the mass of a mountain was seen, felt, measured, and
found to be mathematically consistent with the immortal theory of the
British astronomer.
But in spite of this confirmation of that which needed none—in spite of
the so-called corroboration of the “theory” by the so-called “ocular and
physical proof”—in spite of the _character_ of this corroboration—the
ideas which even really philosophical men cannot help imbibing of
gravity—and, especially, the ideas of it which ordinary men get and
contentedly maintain, are _seen_ to have been derived, for the most
part, from a consideration of the principle as they find it
developed—_merely in the planet upon which they stand_.
Now, to what does so partial a consideration tend—to what species of
error does it give rise? On the Earth we _see_ and _feel_, only that
gravity impels all bodies towards the _centre_ of the Earth. No man in
the common walks of life could be _made_ to see or to feel anything
else—could be made to perceive that anything, anywhere, has a perpetual,
gravitating tendency in any _other_ direction than to the centre of the
Earth; yet (with an exception hereafter to be specified) it is a fact
that every earthly thing (not to speak now of every heavenly thing) has
a tendency not _only_ to the Earth’s centre but in every conceivable
direction besides.
Now, although the philosophic cannot be said to _err with_ the vulgar in
this matter, they nevertheless permit themselves to be influenced,
without knowing it, by the _sentiment_ of the vulgar idea. “Although the
Pagan fables are not believed,” says Bryant, in his very erudite
“Mythology,” “yet we forget ourselves continually and make inferences
from them as from existing realities.” I mean to assert that the merely
_sensitive perception_ of gravity as we experience it on Earth, beguiles
mankind into the fancy of _concentralization_ or _especiality_
respecting it—has been continually biasing towards this fancy even the
mightiest intellects—perpetually, although imperceptibly, leading them
away from the real characteristics of the principle; thus preventing
them, up to this date, from ever getting a glimpse of that vital truth
which lies in a diametrically opposite direction—behind the principle’s
_essential_ characteristics—those, _not_ of concentralization or
especiality—but of _universality_ and _diffusion_. This “vital truth” is
_Unity_ as the _source_ of the phænomenon.
Let me now repeat the definition of gravity:—_Every atom, of every body,
attracts every other atom, both of its own and of every other body_,
with a force which varies inversely as the squares of the distances of
the attracting and attracted atom.
Here let the reader pause with me, for a moment, in contemplation of the
miraculous—of the ineffable—of the altogether unimaginable complexity of
relation involved in the fact that _each atom attracts every other
atom_—involved merely in this fact of the attraction, without reference
to the law or mode in which the attraction is manifested—involved
_merely_ in the fact that each atom attracts every other atom _at all_,
in a wilderness of atoms so numerous that those which go to the
composition of a cannon-ball, exceed, probably, in mere point of number,
all the stars which go to the constitution of the Universe.
Had we discovered, simply, that each atom tended to some one favorite
point—to some especially attractive atom—we should still have fallen
upon a discovery which, in itself, would have sufficed to overwhelm the
mind:—but what is it that we are actually called upon to comprehend?
That each atom attracts—sympathizes with the most delicate movements of
every other atom, and with each and with all at the same time, and
forever, and according to a determinate law of which the complexity,
even considered by itself solely, is utterly beyond the grasp of the
imagination of man. If I propose to ascertain the influence of one mote
in a sunbeam upon its neighboring mote, I cannot accomplish my purpose
without first counting and weighing all the atoms in the Universe and
defining the precise positions of all at one particular moment. If I
venture to displace, by even the billionth part of an inch, the
microscopical speck of dust which lies now upon the point of my finger,
what is the character of that act upon which I have adventured? I have
done a deed which shakes the Moon in her path, which causes the Sun to
be no longer the Sun, and which alters forever the destiny of the
multitudinous myriads of stars that roll and glow in the majestic
presence of their Creator.
_These_ ideas—conceptions such as _these_—unthoughtlike
thoughts—soul-reveries rather than conclusions or even considerations
of the intellect:—ideas, I repeat, such as these, are such as we can
alone hope profitably to entertain in any effort at grasping the great
principle, _Attraction_.
But now,—_with_ such ideas—with such a _vision_ of the marvellous
complexity of Attraction fairly in his mind—let any person competent of
thought on such topics as these, set himself to the task of imagining a
_principle_ for the phænomena observed—a condition from which they
sprang.
Does not so evident a brotherhood among the atoms point to a common
parentage? Does not a sympathy so omniprevalent, so ineradicable, and so
thoroughly irrespective, suggest a common paternity as its source? Does
not one extreme impel the reason to the other? Does not the infinitude
of division refer to the utterness of individuality? Does not the
entireness of the complex hint at the perfection of the simple? It is
_not_ that the atoms, as we see them, are divided or that they are
complex in their relations—but that they are inconceivably divided and
unutterably complex:—it is the extremeness of the conditions to which I
now allude, rather than to the conditions themselves. In a word, is it
not because the atoms were, at some remote epoch of time, even _more
than together_—is it not because originally, and therefore normally,
they were _One_—that now, in all circumstances—at all points—in all
directions—by all modes of approach—in all relations and through all
conditions—they struggle _back_ to this absolutely, this irrelatively,
this unconditionally _one_?
Some person may here demand:—“Why—since it is to the _One_ that the
atoms struggle back—do we not find and define Attraction ‘a merely
general tendency to a centre?’—why, in especial, do not _your_
atoms—the atoms which you describe as having been irradiated from a
centre—proceed at once, rectilinearly, back to the central point of
their origin?”
I reply that _they do_; as will be distinctly shown; but that the cause
of their so doing is quite irrespective of the centre _as such_. They
all tend rectilinearly towards a centre, because of the sphereicity with
which they have been irradiated into space. Each atom, forming one of a
generally uniform globe of atoms, finds more atoms in the direction of
the centre, of course, than in any other, and in that direction,
therefore, is impelled—but is _not_ thus impelled because the centre is
_the point of its origin_. It is not to any _point_ that the atoms are
allied. It is not any _locality_, either in the concrete or in the
abstract, to which I suppose them bound. Nothing like _location_ was
conceived as their origin. Their source lies in the principle, _Unity_.
_This_ is their lost parent. _This_ they seek always—immediately—in all
directions—wherever it is even partially to be found; thus appeasing, in
some measure, the ineradicable tendency, while on the way to its
absolute satisfaction in the end. It follows from all this, that any
principle which shall be adequate to account for the _law_, or _modus
operandi_, of the attractive force in general, will account for this law
in particular:—that is to say, any principle which will show why the
atoms should tend to their _general centre of irradiation_ with forces
inversely proportional to the squares of the distances, will be admitted
as satisfactorily accounting, at the same time, for the tendency,
according to the same law, of these atoms each to each:—_for_ the
tendency to the centre _is_ merely the tendency each to each, and not
any tendency to a centre as such.—Thus it will be seen, also, that the
establishment of my propositions would involve no _necessity_ of
modification in the terms of the Newtonian definition of Gravity, which
declares that each atom attracts each other atom and so forth, and
declares this merely; but (always under the supposition that what I
propose be, in the end, admitted) it seems clear that some error might
occasionally be avoided, in the future processes of Science, were a more
ample phraseology adopted:—for instance:—“Each atom tends to every other
atom &c. with a force &c.: _the general result being a tendency of all,
with a similar force, to a general centre_.”
The reversal of our processes has thus brought us to an identical
result; but, while in the one process _intuition_ was the
starting-point, in the other it was the goal. In commencing the former
journey I could only say that, with an irresistible intuition, I _felt_
Simplicity to have been the characteristic of the original action of
God:—in ending the latter I can only declare that, with an irresistible
intuition, I perceive Unity to have been the source of the observed
phænomena of the Newtonian gravitation. Thus, according to the schools,
I _prove_ nothing. So be it:—I design but to suggest—and to _convince_
through the suggestion. I am proudly aware that there exist many of the
most profound and cautiously discriminative human intellects which
cannot _help_ being abundantly content with my—suggestions. To these
intellects—as to my own—there is no mathematical demonstration which
_could_ bring the least additional _true proof_ of the great _Truth_
which I have advanced—_the truth of Original Unity as the source—as the
principle of the Universal Phænomena_. For my part, I am not so sure
that I speak and see—I am not so sure that my heart beats and that my
soul lives:—of the rising of to-morrow’s sun—a probability that as yet
lies in the Future—I do not pretend to be one thousandth part as sure—as
I am of the irretrievably by-gone _Fact_ that All Things and All
Thoughts of Things, with all their ineffable Multiplicity of Relation,
sprang at once into being from the primordial and irrelative _One_.
Referring to the Newtonian Gravity, Dr. Nichol, the eloquent author of
“The Architecture of the Heavens,” says:—“In truth we have no reason to
suppose this great Law, as now revealed, to be the ultimate or simplest,
and therefore the universal and all-comprehensive, form of a great
Ordinance. The mode in which its intensity diminishes with the element
of distance, has not the aspect of an ultimate _principle_; which always
assumes the simplicity and self-evidence of those axioms which
constitute the basis of Geometry.”
Now, it is quite true that “ultimate principles,” in the common
understanding of the words, always assume the simplicity of geometrical
axioms—(as for “self-evidence,” there is no such thing)—but these
principles are clearly _not_ “ultimate;” in other terms what we are in
the habit of calling principles are no principles, properly
speaking—since there can be but one _principle_, the Volition of God. We
have no right to assume, then, from what we observe in rules that we
choose foolishly to name “principles,” anything at all in respect to the
characteristics of a principle proper. The “ultimate principles” of
which Dr. Nichol speaks as having geometrical simplicity, may and do
have this geometrical turn, as being part and parcel of a vast
geometrical system, and thus a system of simplicity itself—in which,
nevertheless, the _truly_ ultimate principle is, _as we know_, the
consummation of the complex—that is to say, of the unintelligible—for is
it not the Spiritual Capacity of God?
I quoted Dr. Nichol’s remark, however, not so much to question its
philosophy, as by way of calling attention to the fact that, while all
men have admitted _some_ principle as existing behind the Law of
Gravity, no attempt has been yet made to point out what this principle
in particular _is_:—if we except, perhaps, occasional fantastic efforts
at referring it to Magnetism, or Mesmerism, or Swedenborgianism, or
Transcendentalism, or some other equally delicious _ism_ of the same
species, and invariably patronized by one and the same species of
people. The great mind of Newton, while boldly grasping the Law itself,
shrank from the principle of the Law. The more fluent and comprehensive
at least, if not the more patient and profound, sagacity of Laplace, had
not the courage to attack it. But hesitation on the part of these two
astronomers it is, perhaps, not so very difficult to understand. They,
as well as all the first class of mathematicians, were mathematicians
_solely_:—their intellect, at least, had a firmly-pronounced
mathematico-physical tone. What lay not distinctly within the domain of
Physics, or of Mathematics, seemed to them either Non-Entity or Shadow.
Nevertheless, we may well wonder that Leibnitz, who was a marked
exception to the general rule in these respects, and whose mental
temperament was a singular admixture of the mathematical with the
physico-metaphysical, did not at once investigate and establish the
point at issue. Either Newton or Laplace, seeking a principle and
discovering none _physical_, would have rested contentedly in the
conclusion that there was absolutely none; but it is almost impossible
to fancy, of Leibnitz, that, having exhausted in his search the physical
dominions, he would not have stepped at once, boldly and hopefully, amid
his old familiar haunts in the kingdom of Metaphysics. Here, indeed, it
is clear that he _must_ have adventured in search of the treasure:—that
he did not find it after all, was, perhaps, because his fairy guide,
Imagination, was not sufficiently well-grown, or well-educated, to
direct him aright.
I observed, just now, that, in fact, there had been certain vague
attempts at referring Gravity to some very uncertain _isms_. These
attempts, however, although considered bold and justly so considered,
looked no farther than to the generality—the merest generality—of the
Newtonian Law. Its _modus operandi_ has never, to my knowledge, been
approached in the way of an effort at explanation. It is, therefore,
with no unwarranted fear of being taken for a madman at the outset, and
before I can bring my propositions fairly to the eye of those who alone
are competent to decide upon them, that I here declare the _modus
operandi_ of the Law of Gravity to be an exceedingly simple and
perfectly explicable thing—that is to say, when we make our advances
towards it in just gradations and in the true direction—when we regard
it from the proper point of view.
Whether we reach the idea of absolute _Unity_ as the source of All
Things, from a consideration of Simplicity as the most probable
characteristic of the original action of God;—whether we arrive at it
from an inspection of the universality of relation in the gravitating
phænomena;—or whether we attain it as a result of the mutual
corroboration afforded by both processes;—still, the idea itself, if
entertained at all, is entertained in inseparable connection with
another idea—that of the condition of the Universe of stars as we _now_
perceive it—that is to say, a condition of immeasurable _diffusion_
through space. Now a connection between these two ideas—unity and
diffusion—cannot be established unless through the entertainment of a
third idea—that of _irradiation_. Absolute Unity being taken as a
centre, then the existing Universe of stars is the result of
_irradiation_ from that centre.
Now, the laws of irradiation are _known_. They are part and parcel of
the _sphere_. They belong to the class of _indisputable geometrical
properties_. We say of them, “they are true—they are evident.” To demand
_why_ they are true, would be to demand why the axioms are true upon
which their demonstration is based. _Nothing_ is demonstrable, strictly
speaking; but _if_ anything _be_, then the properties—the laws in
question are demonstrated.
But these laws—what do they declare? Irradiation—how—by what steps does
it proceed outwardly from a centre?
From a _luminous_ centre, _Light_ issues by irradiation; and the
quantities of light received upon any given plane, supposed to be
shifting its position so as to be now nearer the centre and now farther
from it, will be diminished in the same proportion as the squares of the
distances of the plane from the luminous body, are increased; and will
be increased in the same proportion as these squares are diminished.
The expression of the law may be thus generalized:—the number of
light-particles (or, if the phrase be preferred, the number of
light-impressions) received upon the shifting plane, will be _inversely_
proportional with the squares of the distances of the plane.
Generalizing yet again, we may say that the diffusion—the scattering—the
irradiation, in a word—is _directly_ proportional with the squares of
the distances.
[Illustration]
For example: at the distance B, from the luminous centre A, a certain
number of particles are so diffused as to occupy the surface B. Then at
double the distance—that is to say at C—they will be so much farther
diffused as to occupy four such surfaces:—at treble the distance, or at
D, they will be so much farther separated as to occupy nine such
surfaces:—while, at quadruple the distance, or at E, they will have
become so scattered as to spread themselves over sixteen such
surfaces—and so on forever.
In saying, generally, that the irradiation proceeds in direct proportion
with the squares of the distances, we use the term irradiation to
express _the degree of the diffusion_ as we proceed outwardly from the
centre. Conversing the idea, and employing the word “concentralization”
to express _the degree of the drawing together_ as we come back toward
the centre from an outward position, we may say that concentralization
proceeds _inversely_ as the squares of the distances. In other words, we
have reached the conclusion that, on the hypothesis that matter was
originally irradiated from a centre and is now returning to it, the
concentralization, in the return, proceeds _exactly as we know the force
of gravitation to proceed_.
Now here, if we could be permitted to assume that concentralization
exactly represented the _force of the tendency to the centre_—that the
one was exactly proportional to the other, and that the two proceeded
together—we should have shown all that is required. The sole difficulty
existing, then, is to establish a direct proportion between
“concentralization” and the _force_ of concentralization; and this is
done, of course, if we establish such proportion between “irradiation”
and the _force_ of irradiation.
A very slight inspection of the Heavens assures us that the stars have a
certain general uniformity, equability, or equidistance, of distribution
through that region of space in which, collectively, and in a roughly
globular form, they are situated:—this species of very general, rather
than absolute, equability, being in full keeping with my deduction of
inequidistance, within certain limits, among the originally diffused
atoms, as a corollary from the evident design of infinite complexity of
relation out of irrelation. I started, it will be remembered, with the
idea of a generally uniform but particularly _un_uniform distribution of
the atoms;—an idea, I repeat, which an inspection of the stars, as they
exist, confirms.
But even in the merely general equability of distribution, as regards
the atoms, there appears a difficulty which, no doubt, has already
suggested itself to those among my readers who have borne in mind that I
suppose this equability of distribution effected through _irradiation
from a centre_. The very first glance at the idea, irradiation, forces
us to the entertainment of the hitherto unseparated and seemingly
inseparable idea of agglomeration about a centre, with dispersion as we
recede from it—the idea, in a word, of _in_equability of distribution in
respect to the matter irradiated.
Now, I have elsewhere[1] observed that it is by just such difficulties
as the one now in question—such roughnesses—such peculiarities—such
protuberances above the plane of the ordinary—that Reason feels her way,
if at all, in her search for the True. By the difficulty—the
“peculiarity”—now presented, I leap at once to _the_ secret—a secret
which I might never have attained _but_ for the peculiarity and the
inferences which, _in its mere character of peculiarity_, it affords me.
[1] “_Murders in the Rue Morgue_”—p. 133.
The process of thought, at this point, may be thus roughly sketched:—I
say to myself—“Unity, as I have explained it, is a truth—I feel it.
Diffusion is a truth—I see it. Irradiation, by which alone these two
truths are reconciled, is a consequent truth—I perceive it. _Equability_
of diffusion, first deduced _à priori_ and then corroborated by the
inspection of phænomena, is also a truth—I fully admit it. So far all is
clear around me:—there are no clouds behind which _the_ secret—the great
secret of the gravitating _modus operandi_—can possibly lie hidden;—but
this secret lies _hereabouts_, most assuredly; and _were_ there but a
cloud in view, I should be driven to suspicion of that cloud.” And now,
just as I say this, there actually comes a cloud into view. This cloud
is the seeming impossibility of reconciling my truth, _irradiation_,
with my truth, _equability of diffusion_. I say now:—“Behind this
_seeming_ impossibility is to be found what I desire.” I do not say
“_real_ impossibility;” for invincible faith in my truths assures me
that it is a mere difficulty after all—but I go on to say, with
unflinching confidence, that, _when_ this _difficulty_ shall be solved,
we shall find, _wrapped up in the process of solution_, the key to the
secret at which we aim. Moreover—I _feel_ that we shall discover _but
one_ possible solution of the difficulty; this for the reason that, were
there two, one would be supererogatory—would be fruitless—would be
empty—would contain no key—since no duplicate key can be needed to any
secret of Nature.
And now, let us see:—Our usual notions of irradiation—in fact _all_ our
distinct notions of it—are caught merely from the process as we see it
exemplified in _Light_. Here there is a _continuous_ outpouring of
_ray-streams_, and _with a force which we have at least no right to
suppose varies at all_. Now, in any such irradiation _as
this_—continuous and of unvarying force—the regions nearer the centre
must _inevitably_ be always more crowded with the irradiated matter than
the regions more remote. But I have assumed _no_ such irradiation _as
this_. I assumed no _continuous_ irradiation; and for the simple reason
that such an assumption would have involved, first, the necessity of
entertaining a conception which I have shown no man _can_ entertain, and
which (as I will more fully explain hereafter) all observation of the
firmament refutes—the conception of the absolute infinity of the
Universe of stars—and would have involved, secondly, the impossibility
of understanding a rëaction—that is, gravitation—as existing now—since,
while an act is continued, no rëaction, of course, can take place. My
assumption, then, or rather my inevitable deduction from just
premises—was that of a _determinate_ irradiation—one finally
_dis_continued.
Let me now describe the sole possible mode in which it is conceivable
that matter could have been diffused through space, so as to fulfil the
conditions at once of irradiation and of generally equable distribution.
For convenience of illustration, let us imagine, in the first place, a
hollow sphere of glass, or of anything else, occupying the space
throughout which the universal matter is to be thus equally diffused, by
means of irradiation, from the absolute, irrelative, unconditional
particle, placed in the centre of the sphere.
Now, a certain exertion of the diffusive power (presumed to be the
Divine Volition)—in other words, a certain _force_—whose measure is the
quantity of matter—that is to say, the number of atoms—emitted; emits,
by irradiation, this certain number of atoms; forcing them in all
directions outwardly from the centre—their proximity to each other
diminishing as they proceed—until, finally, they are distributed,
loosely, over the interior surface of the sphere.
When these atoms have attained this position, or while proceeding to
attain it, a second and inferior exercise of the same force—or a second
and inferior force of the same character—emits, in the same manner—that
is to say, by irradiation as before—a second stratum of atoms which
proceeds to deposit itself upon the first; the number of atoms, in this
case as in the former, being of course the measure of the force which
emitted them; in other words the force being precisely adapted to the
purpose it effects—the force and the number of atoms sent out by the
force, being _directly proportional_.
When this second stratum has reached its destined position—or while
approaching it—a third still inferior exertion of the force, or a third
inferior force of a similar character—the number of atoms emitted being
in _all_ cases the measure of the force—proceeds to deposit a third
stratum upon the second:—and so on, until these concentric strata,
growing gradually less and less, come down at length to the central
point; and the diffusive matter, simultaneously with the diffusive
force, is exhausted.
We have now the sphere filled, through means of irradiation, with atoms
equably diffused. The two necessary conditions—those of irradiation and
of equable diffusion—are satisfied; and by the _sole_ process in which
the possibility of their simultaneous satisfaction is conceivable. For
this reason, I confidently expect to find, lurking in the present
condition of the atoms as distributed throughout the sphere, the secret
of which I am in search—the all-important principle of the _modus
operandi_ of the Newtonian law. Let us examine, then, the actual
condition of the atoms.
They lie in a series of concentric strata. They are equably diffused
throughout the sphere. They have been irradiated into these states.
The atoms being _equably_ distributed, the greater the superficial
extent of any of these concentric strata, or spheres, the more atoms
will lie upon it. In other words, the number of atoms lying upon the
surface of any one of the concentric spheres, is directly proportional
with the extent of that surface.
_But, in any series of concentric spheres, the surfaces are directly
proportional with the squares of the distances from the centre._[2]
[2] Succinctly—The surfaces of spheres are as the squares of
their radii.
Therefore the number of atoms in any stratum is directly proportional
with the square of that stratum’s distance from the centre.
But the number of atoms in any stratum is the measure of the force which
emitted that stratum—that is to say, is _directly proportional_ with the
force.
Therefore the force which irradiated any stratum is directly
proportional with the square of that stratum’s distance from the
centre:—or, generally,
_The force of the irradiation has been directly proportional with the
squares of the distances._
Now, Rëaction, as far as we know anything of it, is Action conversed.
The _general_ principle of Gravity being, in the first place, understood
as the rëaction of an act—as the expression of a desire on the part of
Matter, while existing in a state of diffusion, to return into the Unity
whence it was diffused; and, in the second place, the mind being called
upon to determine the _character_ of the desire—the manner in which it
would, naturally, be manifested; in other words, being called upon to
conceive a probable law, or _modus operandi_, for the return; could not
well help arriving at the conclusion that this law of return would be
precisely the converse of the law of departure. That such would be the
case, any one, at least, would be abundantly justified in taking for
granted, until such time as some person should suggest something like a
plausible reason why it should _not_ be the case—until such period as a
law of return shall be imagined which the intellect can consider as
preferable.
Matter, then, irradiated into space with a force varying as the squares
of the distances, might, _à priori_, be supposed to return towards its
centre of irradiation with a force varying _inversely_ as the squares of
the distances: and I have already shown[3] that any principle which will
explain why the atoms should tend, according to any law, to the general
centre, must be admitted as satisfactorily explaining, at the same time,
why, according to the same law, they should tend each to each. For, in
fact, the tendency to the general centre is not to a centre as such, but
because of its being a point in tending towards which each atom tends
most directly to its real and essential centre, _Unity_—the absolute
and final Union of all.
[3] Page 44.
The consideration here involved presents to my own mind no embarrassment
whatever—but this fact does not blind me to the possibility of its being
obscure to those who may have been less in the habit of dealing with
abstractions:—and, upon the whole, it may be as well to look at the
matter from one or two other points of view.
The absolute, irrelative particle primarily created by the Volition of
God, must have been in a condition of positive _normality_, or
rightfulness—for wrongfulness implies _relation_. Right is positive;
wrong is negative—is merely the negation of right; as cold is the
negation of heat—darkness of light. That a thing may be wrong, it is
necessary that there be some other thing in _relation_ to which it _is_
wrong—some condition which it fails to satisfy; some law which it
violates; some being whom it aggrieves. If there be no such being, law,
or condition, in respect to which the thing is wrong—and, still more
especially, if no beings, laws, or conditions exist at all—then the
thing can_not_ be wrong and consequently must be _right_. Any deviation
from normality involves a tendency to return into it. A difference from
the normal—from the right—from the just—can be understood as effected
only by the overcoming a difficulty; and if the force which overcomes
the difficulty be not infinitely continued, the ineradicable tendency to
return will at length be permitted to act for its own satisfaction. Upon
withdrawal of the force, the tendency acts. This is the principle of
rëaction as the inevitable consequence of finite action. Employing a
phraseology of which the seeming affectation will be pardoned for its
expressiveness, we may say that Rëaction is the return from the
condition of _as it is and ought not to be_ into the condition of _as it
was, originally, and therefore ought to be_:—and let me add here that
the _absolute_ force of Rëaction would no doubt be always found in
direct proportion with the reality—the truth—the absoluteness—of the
_originality_—if ever it were possible to measure this latter:—and,
consequently, the greatest of all conceivable reactions must be that
produced by the tendency which we now discuss—the tendency to return
into the _absolutely original_—into the _supremely_ primitive. Gravity,
then, _must be the strongest of forces_—an idea reached _à priori_ and
abundantly confirmed by induction. What use I make of the idea, will be
seen in the sequel.
The atoms, now, having been diffused from their normal condition of
Unity, seek to return to——what? Not to any particular _point_,
certainly; for it is clear that if, upon the diffusion, the whole
Universe of matter had been projected, collectively, to a distance from
the point of irradiation, the atomic tendency to the general centre of
the sphere would not have been disturbed in the least:—the atoms would
not have sought the point _in absolute space_ from which they were
originally impelled. It is merely the _condition_, and not the point or
locality at which this condition took its rise, that these atoms seek to
re-establish;—it is merely _that condition which is their normality_,
that they desire. “But they seek a centre,” it will be said, “and a
centre is a point.” True; but they seek this point not in its character
of point—(for, were the whole sphere moved from its position, they would
seek, equally, the centre; and the centre _then_ would be a _new_
point)—but because it so happens, on account of the form in which they
collectively exist—(that of the sphere)—that only _through_ the point in
question—the sphere’s centre—they can attain their true object, Unity.
In the direction of the centre each atom perceives more atoms than in
any other direction. Each atom is impelled towards the centre because
along the straight line joining it and the centre and passing on to the
circumference beyond, there lie a greater number of atoms than along any
other straight line—a greater number of objects that seek it, the
individual atom—a greater number of tendencies to Unity—a greater number
of satisfactions for its own tendency to Unity—in a word, because in the
direction of the centre lies the utmost possibility of satisfaction,
generally, for its own individual appetite. To be brief, the
_condition_, Unity, is all that is really sought; and if the atoms
_seem_ to seek the centre of the sphere, it is only impliedly, through
implication—because such centre happens to imply, to include, or to
involve, the only essential centre, Unity. But _on account of_ this
implication or involution, there is no possibility of practically
separating the tendency to Unity in the abstract, from the tendency to
the concrete centre. Thus the tendency of the atoms to the general
centre _is_, to all practical intents and for all logical purposes, the
tendency each to each; and the tendency each to each _is_ the tendency
to the centre; and the one tendency may be assumed _as_ the other;
whatever will apply to the one must be thoroughly applicable to the
other; and, in conclusion, whatever principle will satisfactorily
explain the one, cannot be questioned as an explanation of the other.
In looking carefully around me for rational objection to what I have
advanced, I am able to discover _nothing_;—but of that class of
objections usually urged by the doubters for Doubt’s sake, I very
readily perceive _three_; and proceed to dispose of them in order.
It may be said, first: “The proof that the force of irradiation (in the
case described) is directly proportional to the squares of the
distances, depends upon an unwarranted assumption—that of the number of
atoms in each stratum being the measure of the force with which they are
emitted.”
I reply, not only that I am warranted in such assumption, but that I
should be utterly _un_warranted in any other. What I assume is, simply,
that an effect is the measure of its cause—that every exercise of the
Divine Will will be proportional to that which demands the exertion—that
the means of Omnipotence, or of Omniscience, will be exactly adapted to
its purposes. Neither can a deficiency nor an excess of cause bring to
pass any effect. Had the force which irradiated any stratum to its
position, been either more or less than was needed for the purpose—that
is to say, not _directly proportional_ to the purpose—then to its
position that stratum could not have been irradiated. Had the force
which, with a view to general equability of distribution, emitted the
proper number of atoms for each stratum, been not _directly
proportional_ to the number, then the number would _not_ have been the
number demanded for the equable distribution.
The second supposable objection is somewhat better entitled to an
answer.
It is an admitted principle in Dynamics that every body, on receiving an
impulse, or disposition to move, will move onward in a straight line, in
the direction imparted by the impelling force, until deflected, or
stopped, by some other force. How then, it may be asked, is my first or
external stratum of atoms to be understood as discontinuing their
movement at the circumference of the imaginary glass sphere, when no
second force, of more than an imaginary character, appears, to account
for the discontinuance?
I reply that the objection, in this case, actually does arise out of “an
unwarranted assumption”—on the part of the objector—the assumption of a
principle, in Dynamics, at an epoch when _no_ “principles,” in
_anything_, exist:—I use the word “principle,” of course, in the
objector’s understanding of the word.
“In the beginning” we can admit—indeed we can comprehend—but one _First
Cause_—the truly ultimate _Principle_—the Volition of God. The primary
_act_—that of Irradiation from Unity—must have been independent of all
that which the world now calls “principle”—because all that we so
designate is but a consequence of the rëaction of that primary act:—I
say “_primary_” act; for the creation of the absolute material particle
is more properly to be regarded as a _conception_ than as an “_act_” in
the ordinary meaning of the term. Thus, we must regard the primary act
as an act for the establishment of what we now call “principles.” But
this primary act itself is to be considered as _continuous Volition_.
The Thought of God is to be understood as originating the Diffusion—as
proceeding with it—as regulating it—and, finally, as being withdrawn
from it upon its completion. _Then_ commences Rëaction, and through
Rëaction, “Principle,” as we employ the word. It will be advisable,
however, to limit the application of this word to the two _immediate_
results of the discontinuance of the Divine Volition—that is, to the two
agents, _Attraction_ and _Repulsion_. Every other Natural agent depends,
either more or less immediately, upon these two, and therefore would be
more conveniently designated as _sub_-principle.
It may be objected, thirdly, that, in general, the peculiar mode of
distribution which I have suggested for the atoms, is “an hypothesis and
nothing more.”
Now, I am aware that the word hypothesis is a ponderous sledge-hammer,
grasped immediately, if not lifted, by all very diminutive thinkers,
upon the first appearance of any proposition wearing, in any particular,
the garb of _a theory_. But “hypothesis” cannot be wielded _here_ to any
good purpose, even by those who succeed in lifting it—little men or
great.
I maintain, first, that _only_ in the mode described is it conceivable
that Matter could have been diffused so as to fulfil at once the
conditions of irradiation and of generally equable distribution. I
maintain, secondly, that these conditions themselves have been imposed
upon me, as necessities, in a train of ratiocination _as rigorously
logical as that which establishes any demonstration in Euclid_; and I
maintain, thirdly, that even if the charge of “hypothesis” were as fully
sustained as it is, in fact, unsustained and untenable, still the
validity and indisputability of my result would not, even in the
slightest particular, be disturbed.
To explain:—The Newtonian Gravity—a law of Nature—a law whose existence
as such no one out of Bedlam questions—a law whose admission as such
enables us to account for nine-tenths of the Universal phænomena—a law
which, merely because it does so enable us to account for these
phænomena, we are perfectly willing, without reference to any other
considerations, to admit, and cannot help admitting, as a law—a law,
nevertheless, of which neither the principle nor the _modus operandi_ of
the principle, has ever yet been traced by the human analysis—a law, in
short, which, neither in its detail nor in its generality, has been
found susceptible of explanation _at all_—is at length seen to be at
every point thoroughly explicable, provided only we yield our assent
to——what? To an hypothesis? Why _if_ an hypothesis—if the merest
hypothesis—if an hypothesis for whose assumption—as in the case of that
_pure_ hypothesis the Newtonian law itself—no shadow of _à priori_
reason could be assigned—if an hypothesis, even so absolute as all this
implies, would enable us to perceive a principle for the Newtonian
law—would enable us to understand as satisfied, conditions so
miraculously—so ineffably complex and seemingly irreconcileable as those
involved in the relations of which Gravity tells us,—what rational being
_could_ so expose his fatuity as to call even this absolute hypothesis
an hypothesis any longer—unless, indeed, he were to persist in so
calling it, with the understanding that he did so, simply for the sake
of consistency _in words_?
But what is the true state of our present case? What is _the fact_? Not
only that it is _not_ an hypothesis which we are required _to adopt_,
in order to admit the principle at issue explained, but that it _is_ a
logical conclusion which we are requested _not_ to adopt if we can avoid
it—which we are simply invited to _deny if we can_:—a conclusion of so
accurate a logicality that to dispute it would be the effort—to doubt
its validity beyond our power:—a conclusion from which we see no mode of
escape, turn as we will; a result which confronts us either at the end
of an _in_ductive journey from the phænomena of the very Law discussed,
or at the close of a _de_ductive career from the most rigorously simple
of all conceivable assumptions—_the assumption, in a word, of Simplicity
itself_.
And if here, for the mere sake of cavilling, it be urged, that although
my starting-point is, as I assert, the assumption of absolute
Simplicity, yet Simplicity, considered merely in itself, is no axiom;
and that only deductions from axioms are indisputable—it is thus that I
reply:—
Every other science than Logic is the science of certain concrete
relations. Arithmetic, for example, is the science of the relations of
number—Geometry, of the relations of form—Mathematics in general, of the
relations of quantity in general—of whatever can be increased or
diminished. Logic, however, is the science of Relation in the
abstract—of absolute Relation—of Relation considered solely in itself.
An axiom in any particular science other than Logic is, thus, merely a
proposition announcing certain concrete relations which seem to be too
obvious for dispute—as when we say, for instance, that the whole is
greater than its part:—and, thus again, the principle of the _Logical_
axiom—in other words, of an axiom in the abstract—is, simply,
_obviousness of relation_. Now, it is clear, not only that what is
obvious to one mind may not be obvious to another, but that what is
obvious to one mind at one epoch, may be anything but obvious, at
another epoch, to the same mind. It is clear, moreover, that what,
to-day, is obvious even to the majority of mankind, or to the majority
of the best intellects of mankind, may to-morrow be, to either majority,
more or less obvious, or in no respect obvious at all. It is seen, then,
that the _axiomatic principle_ itself is susceptible of variation, and
of course that axioms are susceptible of similar change. Being mutable,
the “truths” which grow out of them are necessarily mutable too; or, in
other words, are never to be positively depended upon as truths at
all—since Truth and Immutability are one.
It will now be readily understood that no axiomatic idea—no idea founded
in the fluctuating principle, obviousness of relation—can possibly be so
secure—so reliable a basis for any structure erected by the Reason, as
_that_ idea—(whatever it is, wherever we can find it, or _if_ it be
practicable to find it anywhere)—which is _ir_relative altogether—which
not only presents to the understanding _no obviousness_ of relation,
either greater or less, to be considered, but subjects the intellect,
not in the slightest degree, to the necessity of even looking at _any
relation at all_. If such an idea be not what we too heedlessly term “an
axiom,” it is at least preferable, as a Logical basis, to any axiom ever
propounded, or to all imaginable axioms combined:—and such, precisely,
is the idea with which my deductive process, so thoroughly corroborated
by induction, commences. My _particle proper_ is but _absolute
Irrelation_. To sum up what has been here advanced:—As a starting point
I have taken it for granted, simply, that the Beginning had nothing
behind it or before it—that it was a Beginning in fact—that it was a
beginning and nothing different from a beginning—in short that this
Beginning was——_that which it was_. If this be a “mere assumption” then
a “mere assumption” let it be.
To conclude this branch of the subject:—I am fully warranted in
announcing that _the Law which we have been in the habit of calling
Gravity exists on account of Matter’s having been irradiated, at its
origin, atomically, into a limited[4] sphere of Space, from one,
individual, unconditional, irrelative, and absolute Particle Proper, by
the sole process in which it was possible to satisfy, at the same time,
the two conditions, irradiation, and generally-equable distribution
throughout the sphere—that is to say, by a force varying in direct
proportion with the squares of the distances between the irradiated
atoms, respectively, and the Particular centre of Irradiation_.
[4] Limited sphere—A sphere is _necessarily_ limited. I prefer
tautology to a chance of misconception.
I have already given my reasons for presuming Matter to have been
diffused by a determinate rather than by a continuous or infinitely
continued force. Supposing a continuous force, we should be unable, in
the first place, to comprehend a rëaction at all; and we should be
required, in the second place, to entertain the impossible conception of
an infinite extension of Matter. Not to dwell upon the impossibility of
the conception, the infinite extension of Matter is an idea which, if
not positively disproved, is at least not in any respect warranted by
telescopic observation of the stars—a point to be explained more fully
hereafter; and this empirical reason for believing in the original
finity of Matter is unempirically confirmed. For example:—Admitting, for
the moment, the possibility of understanding Space _filled_ with the
irradiated atoms—that is to say, admitting, as well as we can, for
argument’s sake, that the succession of the irradiated atoms had
absolutely _no end_—then it is abundantly clear that, even when the
Volition of God had been withdrawn from them, and thus the tendency to
return into Unity permitted (abstractly) to be satisfied, this
permission would have been nugatory and invalid—practically valueless
and of no effect whatever. No Rëaction could have taken place; no
movement toward Unity could have been made; no Law of Gravity could have
obtained.
To explain:—Grant the _abstract_ tendency of any one atom to any one
other as the inevitable result of diffusion from the normal Unity:—or,
what is the same thing, admit any given atom as _proposing_ to move in
any given direction—it is clear that, since there is an _infinity_ of
atoms on all sides of the atom proposing to move, it never can actually
move toward the satisfaction of its tendency in the direction given, on
account of a precisely equal and counterbalancing tendency in the
direction diametrically opposite. In other words, exactly as many
tendencies to Unity are behind the hesitating atom as before it; for it
is a mere sotticism to say that one infinite line is longer or shorter
than another infinite line, or that one infinite number is greater or
less than another number that is infinite. Thus the atom in question
must remain stationary forever. Under the impossible circumstances which
we have been merely endeavoring to conceive for argument’s sake, there
could have been no aggregation of Matter—no stars—no worlds—nothing but
a perpetually atomic and inconsequential Universe. In fact, view it as
we will, the whole idea of unlimited Matter is not only untenable, but
impossible and preposterous.
With the understanding of a _sphere_ of atoms, however, we perceive, at
once, a _satisfiable_ tendency to union. The general result of the
tendency each to each, being a tendency of all to the centre, the
_general_ process of condensation, or approximation, commences
immediately, by a common and simultaneous movement, on withdrawal of the
Divine Volition; the _individual_ approximations, or coalescences—_not_
cöalitions—of atom with atom, being subject to almost infinite
variations of time, degree, and condition, on account of the excessive
multiplicity of relation, arising from the differences of form assumed
as characterizing the atoms at the moment of their quitting the Particle
Proper; as well as from the subsequent particular inequidistance, each
from each.
What I wish to impress upon the reader is the certainty of there
arising, at once, (on withdrawal of the diffusive force, or Divine
Volition,) out of the condition of the atoms as described, at
innumerable points throughout the Universal sphere, innumerable
agglomerations, characterized by innumerable specific differences of
form, size, essential nature, and distance each from each. The
development of Repulsion (Electricity) must have commenced, of course,
with the very earliest particular efforts at Unity, and must have
proceeded constantly in the ratio of Coalescence—that is to say, _in
that of Condensation_, or, again, of Heterogeneity.
Thus the two Principles Proper, _Attraction_ and _Repulsion_—the
Material and the Spiritual—accompany each other, in the strictest
fellowship, forever. Thus _The Body and The Soul walk hand in hand_.
If now, in fancy, we select _any one_ of the agglomerations considered
as in their primary stages throughout the Universal sphere, and suppose
this incipient agglomeration to be taking place at that point where the
centre of our Sun exists—or rather where it _did_ exist originally; for
the Sun is perpetually shifting his position—we shall find ourselves
met, and borne onward for a time at least, by the most magnificent of
theories—by the Nebular Cosmogony of Laplace:—although “Cosmogony” is
far too comprehensive a term for what he really discusses—which is the
constitution of our solar system alone—of one among the myriad of
similar systems which make up the Universe Proper—that Universal
sphere—that all-inclusive and absolute _Kosmos_ which forms the subject
of my present Discourse.
Confining himself to an _obviously limited_ region—that of our solar
system with its comparatively immediate vicinity—and _merely_
assuming—that is to say, assuming without any basis whatever, either
deductive or inductive—_much_ of what I have been just endeavoring to
place upon a more stable basis than assumption; assuming, for example,
matter as diffused (without pretending to account for the diffusion)
throughout, and somewhat beyond, the space occupied by our
system—diffused in a state of heterogeneous nebulosity and obedient to
that omniprevalent law of Gravity at whose principle he ventured to make
no guess;—assuming all this (which is quite true, although he had no
logical right to its assumption) Laplace has shown, dynamically and
mathematically, that the results in such case necessarily ensuing, are
those and those alone which we find manifested in the actually existing
condition of the system itself.
To explain:—Let us conceive _that_ particular agglomeration of which we
have just spoken—the one at the point designated by our Sun’s centre—to
have so far proceeded that a vast quantity of nebulous matter has here
assumed a roughly globular form; its centre being, of course, coincident
with what is now, or rather was originally, the centre of our Sun; and
its periphery extending out beyond the orbit of Neptune, the most remote
of our planets:—in other words, let us suppose the diameter of this
rough sphere to be some 6000 millions of miles. For ages, this mass of
matter has been undergoing condensation, until at length it has become
reduced into the bulk we imagine; having proceeded gradually, of course,
from its atomic and imperceptible state, into what we understand of
visible, palpable, or otherwise appreciable nebulosity.
Now, the condition of this mass implies a rotation about an imaginary
axis—a rotation which, commencing with the absolute incipiency of the
aggregation, has been ever since acquiring velocity. The very first two
atoms which met, approaching each other from points not diametrically
opposite, would, in rushing partially past each other, form a nucleus
for the rotary movement described. How this would increase in velocity,
is readily seen. The two atoms are joined by others:—an aggregation is
formed. The mass continues to rotate while condensing. But any atom at
the circumference has, of course, a more rapid motion than one nearer
the centre. The outer atom, however, with its superior velocity,
approaches the centre; carrying this superior velocity with it as it
goes. Thus every atom, proceeding inwardly, and finally attaching itself
to the condensed centre, adds something to the original velocity of that
centre—that is to say, increases the rotary movement of the mass.
Let us now suppose this mass so far condensed that it occupies
_precisely_ the space circumscribed by the orbit of Neptune, and that
the velocity with which the surface of the mass moves, in the general
rotation, is precisely that velocity with which Neptune now revolves
about the Sun. At this epoch, then, we are to understand that the
constantly increasing centrifugal force, having gotten the better of the
non-increasing centripetal, loosened and separated the exterior and
least condensed stratum, or a few of the exterior and least condensed
strata, at the equator of the sphere, where the tangential velocity
predominated; so that these strata formed about the main body an
independent ring encircling the equatorial regions:—just as the exterior
portion thrown off, by excessive velocity of rotation, from a
grindstone, would form a ring about the grindstone, but for the solidity
of the superficial material: were this caoutchouc, or anything similar
in consistency, precisely the phænomenon I describe would be presented.
The ring thus whirled from the nebulous mass, _revolved_, of course,
_as_ a separate ring, with just that velocity with which, while the
surface of the mass, it _rotated_. In the meantime, condensation still
proceeding, the interval between the discharged ring and the main body
continued to increase, until the former was left at a vast distance from
the latter.