arrangement of its heterogeneous materials, a constitution nearly
uniform, then this ring, _as_ such, would never have ceased revolving
about its primary; but, as might have been anticipated, there appears to
have been enough irregularity in the disposition of the materials, to
make them cluster about centres of superior solidity; and thus the
annular form was destroyed.[5] No doubt, the band was soon broken up
into several portions, and one of these portions, predominating in mass,
absorbed the others into itself; the whole settling, spherically, into a
planet. That this latter, _as_ a planet, continued the revolutionary
movement which characterized it while a ring, is sufficiently clear; and
that it took upon itself also, an additional movement in its new
condition of sphere, is readily explained. The ring being understood as
yet unbroken, we see that its exterior, while the whole revolves about
the parent body, moves more rapidly than its interior. When the rupture
occurred, then, some portion in each fragment must have been moving
with greater velocity than the others. The superior movement prevailing,
must have whirled each fragment round—that is to say, have caused it to
rotate; and the direction of the rotation must, of course, have been the
direction of the revolution whence it arose. _All_ the fragments having
become subject to the rotation described, must, in coalescing, have
imparted it to the one planet constituted by their coalescence.—This
planet was Neptune. Its material continuing to undergo condensation, and
the centrifugal force generated in its rotation getting, at length, the
better of the centripetal, as before in the case of the parent orb, a
ring was whirled also from the equatorial surface of this planet: this
ring, having been ununiform in its constitution, was broken up, and its
several fragments, being absorbed by the most massive, were collectively
spherified into a moon. Subsequently, the operation was repeated, and a
second moon was the result. We thus account for the planet Neptune, with
the two satellites which accompany him.
[5] Laplace assumed his nebulosity heterogeneous, merely that
he might be thus enabled to account for the breaking up of the
rings; for had the nebulosity been homogeneous, they would not
have broken. I reach the same result—heterogeneity of the
secondary masses immediately resulting from the atoms—purely
from an _à priori_ consideration of their general
design—_Relation_.
In throwing off a ring from its equator, the Sun re-established that
equilibrium between its centripetal and centrifugal forces which had
been disturbed in the process of condensation; but, as this condensation
still proceeded, the equilibrium was again immediately disturbed,
through the increase of rotation. By the time the mass had so far shrunk
that it occupied a spherical space just that circumscribed by the orbit
of Uranus, we are to understand that the centrifugal force had so far
obtained the ascendency that new relief was needed: a second equatorial
band was, consequently, thrown off, which, proving ununiform, was
broken up, as before in the case of Neptune; the fragments settling into
the planet Uranus; the velocity of whose actual revolution about the Sun
indicates, of course, the rotary speed of that Sun’s equatorial surface
at the moment of the separation. Uranus, adopting a rotation from the
collective rotations of the fragments composing it, as previously
explained, now threw off ring after ring; each of which, becoming broken
up, settled into a moon:—three moons, at different epochs, having been
formed, in this manner, by the rupture and general spherification of as
many distinct ununiform rings.
By the time the Sun had shrunk until it occupied a space just that
circumscribed by the orbit of Saturn, the balance, we are to suppose,
between its centripetal and centrifugal forces had again become so far
disturbed, through increase of rotary velocity, the result of
condensation, that a third effort at equilibrium became necessary; and
an annular band was therefore whirled off as twice before; which, on
rupture through ununiformity, became consolidated into the planet
Saturn. This latter threw off, in the first place, seven uniform bands,
which, on rupture, were spherified respectively into as many moons; but,
subsequently, it appears to have discharged, at three distinct but not
very distant epochs, three rings whose equability of constitution was,
by apparent accident, so considerable as to present no occasion for
their rupture; thus they continue to revolve as rings. I use the phrase
“_apparent_ accident;” for of accident in the ordinary sense there was,
of course, nothing:—the term is properly applied only to the result of
indistinguishable or not immediately traceable _law_.
Shrinking still farther, until it occupied just the space circumscribed
by the orbit of Jupiter, the Sun now found need of farther effort to
restore the counterbalance of its two forces, continually disarranged in
the still continued increase of rotation. Jupiter, accordingly, was now
thrown off; passing from the annular to the planetary condition; and, on
attaining this latter, threw off in its turn, at four different epochs,
four rings, which finally resolved themselves into so many moons.
Still shrinking, until its sphere occupied just the space defined by the
orbit of the Asteroids, the Sun now discarded a ring which appears to
have had _eight_ centres of superior solidity, and, on breaking up, to
have separated into eight fragments no one of which so far predominated
in mass as to absorb the others. All therefore, as distinct although
comparatively small planets, proceeded to revolve in orbits whose
distances, each from each, may be considered as in some degree the
measure of the force which drove them asunder:—all the orbits,
nevertheless, being so closely coincident as to admit of our calling
them _one_, in view of the other planetary orbits.
Continuing to shrink, the Sun, on becoming so small as just to fill the
orbit of Mars, now discharged this planet—of course by the process
repeatedly described. Having no moon, however, Mars could have thrown
off no ring. In fact, an epoch had now arrived in the career of the
parent body, the centre of the system. The _de_crease of its nebulosity,
which is the _in_crease of its density, and which again is the
_de_crease of its condensation, out of which latter arose the constant
disturbance of equilibrium—must, by this period, have attained a point
at which the efforts for restoration would have been more and more
ineffectual just in proportion as they were less frequently needed. Thus
the processes of which we have been speaking would everywhere show signs
of exhaustion—in the planets, first, and secondly, in the original mass.
We must not fall into the error of supposing the decrease of interval
observed among the planets as we approach the Sun, to be in any respect
indicative of an increase of frequency in the periods at which they were
discarded. Exactly the converse is to be understood. The longest
interval of time must have occurred between the discharges of the two
interior; the shortest, between those of the two exterior, planets. The
decrease of the interval of space is, nevertheless, the measure of the
density, and thus inversely of the condensation, of the Sun, throughout
the processes detailed.
Having shrunk, however, so far as to fill only the orbit of our Earth,
the parent sphere whirled from itself still one other body—the Earth—in
a condition so nebulous as to admit of this body’s discarding, in its
turn, yet another, which is our Moon;—but here terminated the lunar
formations.
Finally, subsiding to the orbits first of Venus and then of Mercury, the
Sun discarded these two interior planets; neither of which has given
birth to any moon.
Thus from his original bulk—or, to speak more accurately, from the
condition in which we first considered him—from a partially spherified
nebular mass, _certainly_ much more than 5,600 millions of miles in
diameter—the great central orb and origin of our solar-planetary-lunar
system, has gradually descended, by condensation, in obedience to the
law of Gravity, to a globe only 882,000 miles in diameter; but it by no
means follows, either that its condensation is yet complete, or that it
may not still possess the capacity of whirling from itself another
planet.
I have here given—in outline of course, but still with all the detail
necessary for distinctness—a view of the Nebular Theory as its author
himself conceived it. From whatever point we regard it, we shall find it
_beautifully true_. It is by far too beautiful, indeed, _not_ to possess
Truth as its essentiality—and here I am very profoundly serious in what
I say. In the revolution of the satellites of Uranus, there does appear
something seemingly inconsistent with the assumptions of Laplace; but
that _one_ inconsistency can invalidate a theory constructed from a
million of intricate consistencies, is a fancy fit only for the
fantastic. In prophecying, confidently, that the apparent anomaly to
which I refer, will, sooner or later, be found one of the strongest
possible corroborations of the general hypothesis, I pretend to no
especial spirit of divination. It is a matter which the only difficulty
seems _not_ to foresee.[6]
[6] I am prepared to show that the anomalous revolution of the
satellites of Uranus is a simply perspective anomaly arising
from the inclination of the axis of the planet.
The bodies whirled off in the processes described, would exchange, it
has been seen, the superficial _rotation_ of the orbs whence they
originated, for a _revolution_ of equal velocity about these orbs as
distant centres; and the revolution thus engendered must proceed, so
long as the centripetal force, or that with which the discarded body
gravitates toward its parent, is neither greater nor less than that by
which it was discarded; that is, than the centrifugal, or, far more
properly, than the tangential, velocity. From the unity, however, of the
origin of these two forces, we might have expected to find them as they
are found—the one accurately counterbalancing the other. It has been
shown, indeed, that the act of whirling-off is, in every case, merely an
act for the preservation of the counterbalance.
After referring, however, the centripetal force to the omniprevalent law
of Gravity, it has been the fashion with astronomical treatises, to seek
beyond the limits of mere Nature—that is to say, of _Secondary_ Cause—a
solution of the phænomenon of tangential velocity. This latter they
attribute directly to a _First_ Cause—to God. The force which carries a
stellar body around its primary they assert to have originated in an
impulse given immediately by the finger—this is the childish phraseology
employed—by the finger of Deity itself. In this view, the planets, fully
formed, are conceived to have been hurled from the Divine hand, to a
position in the vicinity of the suns, with an impetus mathematically
adapted to the masses, or attractive capacities, of the suns themselves.
An idea so grossly unphilosophical, although so supinely adopted, could
have arisen only from the difficulty of otherwise accounting for the
absolutely accurate adaptation, each to each, of two forces so seemingly
independent, one of the other, as are the gravitating and tangential.
But it should be remembered that, for a long time, the coincidence
between the moon’s rotation and her sidereal revolution—two matters
seemingly far more independent than those now considered—was looked
upon as positively miraculous; and there was a strong disposition, even
among astronomers, to attribute the marvel to the direct and continual
agency of God—who, in this case, it was said, had found it necessary to
interpose, specially, among his general laws, a set of subsidiary
regulations, for the purpose of forever concealing from mortal eyes the
glories, or perhaps the horrors, of the other side of the Moon—of that
mysterious hemisphere which has always avoided, and must perpetually
avoid, the telescopic scrutiny of mankind. The advance of Science,
however, soon demonstrated—what to the philosophical instinct needed
_no_ demonstration—that the one movement is but a portion—something
more, even, than a consequence—of the other.
For my part, I have no patience with fantasies at once so timorous, so
idle, and so awkward. They belong to the veriest _cowardice_ of thought.
That Nature and the God of Nature are distinct, no thinking being can
long doubt. By the former we imply merely the laws of the latter. But
with the very idea of God, omnipotent, omniscient, we entertain, also,
the idea of _the infallibility_ of his laws. With Him there being
neither Past nor Future—with Him all being _Now_—do we not insult him in
supposing his laws so contrived as not to provide for every possible
contingency?—or, rather, what idea _can_ we have of _any_ possible
contingency, except that it is at once a result and a manifestation of
his laws? He who, divesting himself of prejudice, shall have the rare
courage to think absolutely for himself, cannot fail to arrive, in the
end, at the condensation of _laws_ into _Law_—cannot fail of reaching
the conclusion that _each law of Nature is dependent at all points upon
all other laws_, and that all are but consequences of one primary
exercise of the Divine Volition. Such is the principle of the Cosmogony
which, with all necessary deference, I here venture to suggest and to
maintain.
In this view, it will be seen that, dismissing as frivolous, and even
impious, the fancy of the tangential force having been imparted to the
planets immediately by “the finger of God,” I consider this force as
originating in the rotation of the stars:—this rotation as brought about
by the in-rushing of the primary atoms, towards their respective centres
of aggregation:—this in-rushing as the consequence of the law of
Gravity:—this law as but the mode in which is necessarily manifested the
tendency of the atoms to return into imparticularity:—this tendency to
return as but the inevitable rëaction of the first and most sublime of
Acts—that act by which a God, self-existing and alone existing, became
all things at once, through dint of his volition, while all things were
thus constituted a portion of God.
The radical assumptions of this Discourse suggest to me, and in fact
imply, certain important _modifications_ of the Nebular Theory as given
by Laplace. The efforts of the repulsive power I have considered as made
for the purpose of preventing contact among the atoms, and thus as made
in the ratio of the approach to contact—that is to say, in the ratio of
condensation.[7] In other words, _Electricity_, with its involute
phænomena, heat, light and magnetism, is to be understood as proceeding
as condensation proceeds, and, of course, inversely as density proceeds,
or the _cessation to condense_. Thus the Sun, in the process of its
aggregation, must soon, in developing repulsion, have become excessively
heated—perhaps incandescent: and we can perceive how the operation of
discarding its rings must have been materially assisted by the slight
incrustation of its surface consequent on cooling. Any common experiment
shows us how readily a crust of the character suggested, is separated,
through heterogeneity, from the interior mass. But, on every successive
rejection of the crust, the new surface would appear incandescent as
before; and the period at which it would again become so far encrusted
as to be readily loosened and discharged, may well be imagined as
exactly coincident with that at which a new effort would be needed, by
the whole mass, to restore the equilibrium of its two forces,
disarranged through condensation. In other words:—by the time the
electric influence (Repulsion) has prepared the surface for rejection,
we are to understand that the gravitating influence (Attraction) is
precisely ready to reject it. Here, then, as everywhere, _the Body and
the Soul walk hand in hand_.
[7] See page 70.
These ideas are empirically confirmed at all points. Since condensation
can never, in any body, be considered as absolutely at an end, we are
warranted in anticipating that, whenever we have an opportunity of
testing the matter, we shall find indications of resident luminosity in
_all_ the stellar bodies—moons and planets as well as suns. That our
Moon is strongly self-luminous, we see at her every total eclipse, when,
if not so, she would disappear. On the dark part of the satellite, too,
during her phases, we often observe flashes like our own Auroras; and
that these latter, with our various other so-called electrical
phænomena, without reference to any more steady radiance, must give our
Earth a certain appearance of luminosity to an inhabitant of the Moon,
is quite evident. In fact, we should regard all the phænomena referred
to, as mere manifestations, in different moods and degrees, of the
Earth’s feebly-continued condensation.
If my views are tenable, we should be prepared to find the newer
planets—that is to say, those nearer the Sun—more luminous than those
older and more remote:—and the extreme brilliancy of Venus (on whose
dark portions, during her phases, the Auroras are frequently visible)
does not seem to be altogether accounted for by her mere proximity to
the central orb. She is no doubt vividly self-luminous, although less so
than Mercury: while the luminosity of Neptune may be comparatively
nothing.
Admitting what I have urged, it is clear that, from the moment of the
Sun’s discarding a ring, there must be a continuous diminution both of
his heat and light, on account of the continuous encrustation of his
surface; and that a period would arrive—the period immediately previous
to a new discharge—when a _very material_ decrease of both light and
heat, must become apparent. Now, we know that tokens of such changes are
distinctly recognizable. On the Melville islands—to adduce merely one
out of a hundred examples—we find traces of _ultra-tropical_
vegetation—of plants that never could have flourished without immensely
more light and heat than are at present afforded by our Sun to any
portion of the surface of the Earth. Is such vegetation referable to an
epoch immediately subsequent to the whirling-off of Venus? At this epoch
must have occurred to us our greatest access of solar influence; and,
in fact, this influence must then have attained its maximum:—leaving out
of view, of course, the period when the Earth itself was discarded—the
period of its mere organization.
Again:—we know that there exist _non-luminous suns_—that is to say, suns
whose existence we determine through the movements of others, but whose
luminosity is not sufficient to impress us. Are these suns invisible
merely on account of the length of time elapsed since their discharge of
a planet? And yet again:—may we not—at least in certain cases—account
for the sudden appearances of suns where none had been previously
suspected, by the hypothesis that, having rolled with encrusted surfaces
throughout the few thousand years of our astronomical history, each of
these suns, in whirling off a new secondary, has at length been enabled
to display the glories of its still incandescent interior?—To the
well-ascertained fact of the proportional increase of heat as we descend
into the Earth, I need of course, do nothing more than refer:—it comes
in the strongest possible corroboration of all that I have said on the
topic now at issue.
In speaking, not long ago, of the repulsive or electrical influence, I
remarked that “the important phænomena of vitality, consciousness, and
thought, whether we observe them generally or in detail, seem to proceed
_at least in the ratio of the heterogeneous_.”[8] I mentioned, too, that
I would recur to the suggestion:—and this is the proper point at which
to do so. Looking at the matter, first, in detail, we perceive that not
merely the _manifestation_ of vitality, but its importance, consequence,
and elevation of character, keep pace, very closely, with the
heterogeneity, or complexity, of the animal structure. Looking at the
question, now, in its generality, and referring to the first movements
of the atoms towards mass-constitution, we find that heterogeneousness,
brought about directly through condensation, is proportional with it
forever. We thus reach the proposition that _the importance of the
development of the terrestrial vitality proceeds equably with the
terrestrial condensation_.
[8] Page 36.
Now this is in precise accordance with what we know of the succession of
animals on the Earth. As it has proceeded in its condensation, superior
and still superior races have appeared. Is it impossible that the
successive geological revolutions which have attended, at least, if not
immediately caused, these successive elevations of vitalic character—is
it improbable that these revolutions have themselves been produced by
the successive planetary discharges from the Sun—in other words, by the
successive variations in the solar influence on the Earth? Were this
idea tenable, we should not be unwarranted in the fancy that the
discharge of yet a new planet, interior to Mercury, may give rise to yet
a new modification of the terrestrial surface—a modification from which
may spring a race both materially and spiritually superior to Man. These
thoughts impress me with all the force of truth—but I throw them out, of
course, merely in their obvious character of suggestion.
The Nebular Theory of Laplace has lately received far more confirmation
than it needed, at the hands of the philosopher, Compte. These two have
thus together shown—_not_, to be sure, that Matter at any period
actually existed as described, in a state of nebular diffusion, but
that, admitting it so to have existed throughout the space and much
beyond the space now occupied by our solar system, _and to have
commenced a movement towards a centre_—it must gradually have assumed
the various forms and motions which are now seen, in that system, to
obtain. A demonstration such as this—a dynamical and mathematical
demonstration, as far as demonstration can be—unquestionable and
unquestioned—unless, indeed, by that unprofitable and disreputable
tribe, the professional questioners—the mere madmen who deny the
Newtonian law of Gravity on which the results of the French
mathematicians are based—a demonstration, I say, such as this, would to
most intellects be conclusive—and I confess that it is so to mine—of the
validity of the nebular hypothesis upon which the demonstration depends.
That the demonstration does not _prove_ the hypothesis, according to the
common understanding of the word “proof,” I admit, of course. To show
that certain existing results—that certain established facts—may be,
even mathematically, accounted for by the assumption of a certain
hypothesis, is by no means to establish the hypothesis itself. In other
words:—to show that, certain data being given, a certain existing result
might, or even _must_, have ensued, will fail to prove that this result
_did_ ensue, _from the data_, until such time as it shall be also shown
that there are, _and can be_, no other data from which the result in
question might _equally_ have ensued. But, in the case now discussed,
although all must admit the deficiency of what we are in the habit of
terming “proof,” still there are many intellects, and those of the
loftiest order, to which _no_ proof could bring one iota of additional
_conviction_. Without going into details which might impinge upon the
Cloud-Land of Metaphysics, I may as well here observe that the force of
conviction, in cases such as this, will always, with the right-thinking,
be proportional to the amount of _complexity_ intervening between the
hypothesis and the result. To be less abstract:—The greatness of the
complexity found existing among cosmical conditions, by rendering great
in the same proportion the difficulty of accounting for all these
conditions _at once_, strengthens, also in the same proportion, our
faith in that hypothesis which does, in such manner, satisfactorily
account for them:—and as _no_ complexity can well be conceived greater
than that of the astronomical conditions, so no conviction can be
stronger—to _my_ mind at least—than that with which I am impressed by an
hypothesis that not only reconciles these conditions, with mathematical
accuracy, and reduces them into a consistent and intelligible whole, but
is, at the same time, the _sole_ hypothesis by means of which the human
intellect has been ever enabled to account for them _at all_.
A most unfounded opinion has become latterly current in gossiping and
even in scientific circles—the opinion that the so-called Nebular
Cosmogony has been overthrown. This fancy has arisen from the report of
late observations made, among what hitherto have been termed the
“nebulæ,” through the large telescope of Cincinnati, and the
world-renowned instrument of Lord Rosse. Certain spots in the firmament
which presented, even to the most powerful of the old telescopes, the
appearance of nebulosity, or haze, had been regarded for a long time as
confirming the theory of Laplace. They were looked upon as stars in that
very process of condensation which I have been attempting to describe.
Thus it was supposed that we “had ocular evidence”—an evidence, by the
way, which has always been found very questionable—of the truth of the
hypothesis; and, although certain telescopic improvements, every now and
then, enabled us to perceive that a spot, here and there, which we had
been classing among the nebulæ, was, in fact, but a cluster of stars
deriving its nebular character only from its immensity of distance—still
it was thought that no doubt could exist as to the actual nebulosity of
numerous other masses, the strong-holds of the nebulists, bidding
defiance to every effort at segregation. Of these latter the most
interesting was the great “nebulæ” in the constellation Orion:—but this,
with innumerable other mis-called “nebulæ,” when viewed through the
magnificent modern telescopes, has become resolved into a simple
collection of stars. Now this fact has been very generally understood as
conclusive against the Nebular Hypothesis of Laplace; and, on
announcement of the discoveries in question, the most enthusiastic
defender and most eloquent popularizer of the theory, Dr. Nichol, went
so far as to “admit the necessity of abandoning” an idea which had
formed the material of his most praiseworthy book.[9]
[9] “_Views of the Architecture of the Heavens._” A letter,
purporting to be from Dr. Nichol to a friend in America, went
the rounds of our newspapers, about two years ago, I think,
admitting “the necessity” to which I refer. In a subsequent
Lecture, however, Dr. N. appears in some manner to have gotten
the better of the necessity, and does not quite _renounce_ the
theory, although he seems to wish that he could sneer at it as
“a purely hypothetical one.” What else was the Law of Gravity
before the Maskelyne experiments? and who questioned the Law of
Gravity, even then?
Many of my readers will no doubt be inclined to say that the result of
these new investigations _has_ at least a strong _tendency_ to overthrow
the hypothesis; while some of them, more thoughtful, will suggest that,
although the theory is by no means disproved through the segregation of
the particular “nebulæ,” alluded to, still a _failure_ to segregate
them, with such telescopes, might well have been understood as a
triumphant _corroboration_ of the theory:—and this latter class will be
surprised, perhaps, to hear me say that even with _them_ I disagree. If
the propositions of this Discourse have been comprehended, it will be
seen that, in my view, a failure to segregate the “nebulæ” would have
tended to the refutation, rather than to the confirmation, of the
Nebular Hypothesis.
Let me explain:—The Newtonian Law of Gravity we may, of course, assume
as demonstrated. This law, it will be remembered, I have referred to the
rëaction of the first Divine Act—to the rëaction of an exercise of the
Divine Volition temporarily overcoming a difficulty. This difficulty is
that of forcing the normal into the abnormal—of impelling that whose
originality, and therefore whose rightful condition, was _One_, to take
upon itself the wrongful condition of _Many_. It is only by conceiving
this difficulty as _temporarily_ overcome, that we can comprehend a
rëaction. There could have been no rëaction had the act been infinitely
continued. So long as the act _lasted_, no rëaction, of course, could
commence; in other words, no _gravitation_ could take place—for we have
considered the one as but the manifestation of the other. But
gravitation _has_ taken place; therefore the act of Creation has ceased:
and gravitation has long ago taken place; therefore the act of Creation
has long ago ceased. We can no more expect, then, to observe _the
primary processes_ of Creation; and to these primary processes the
condition of nebulosity has already been explained to belong.
Through what we know of the propagation of light, we have direct proof
that the more remote of the stars have existed, under the forms in which
we now see them, for an inconceivable number of years. So far back _at
least_, then, as the period when these stars underwent condensation,
must have been the epoch at which the mass-constitutive processes began.
That we may conceive these processes, then, as still going on in the
case of certain “nebulæ,” while in all other cases we find them
thoroughly at an end, we are forced into assumptions for which we have
really _no_ basis whatever—we have to thrust in, again, upon the
revolting Reason, the blasphemous idea of special interposition—we have
to suppose that, in the particular instances of these “nebulæ,” an
unerring God found it necessary to introduce certain supplementary
regulations—certain improvements of the general law—certain retouchings
and emendations, in a word, which had the effect of deferring the
completion of these individual stars for centuries of centuries beyond
the æra during which all the other stellar bodies had time, not only to
be fully constituted, but to grow hoary with an unspeakable old age.
Of course, it will be immediately objected that since the light by which
we recognize the nebulæ now, must be merely that which left their
surfaces a vast number of years ago, the processes at present observed,
or supposed to be observed, are, in fact, _not_ processes now actually
going on, but the phantoms of processes completed long in the Past—just
as I maintain all these mass-constitutive processes _must_ have been.
To this I reply that neither is the now-observed condition of the
condensed stars their actual condition, but a condition completed long
in the Past; so that my argument drawn from the _relative_ condition of
the stars and the “nebulæ,” is in no manner disturbed. Moreover, those
who maintain the existence of nebulæ, do _not_ refer the nebulosity to
extreme distance; they declare it a real and not merely a perspective
nebulosity. That we may conceive, indeed, a nebular mass as visible at
all, we must conceive it as _very near us_ in comparison with the
condensed stars brought into view by the modern telescopes. In
maintaining the appearances in question, then, to be really nebulous, we
maintain their comparative vicinity to our point of view. Thus, their
condition, as we see them now, must be referred to an epoch _far less
remote_ than that to which we may refer the now-observed condition of at
least the majority of the stars.—In a word, should Astronomy ever
demonstrate a “nebula,” in the sense at present intended, I should
consider the Nebular Cosmogony—_not_, indeed, as corroborated by the
demonstration—but as thereby irretrievably overthrown.
By way, however, of rendering unto Cæsar _no more_ than the things that
are Cæsar’s, let me here remark that the assumption of the hypothesis
which led him to so glorious a result, seems to have been suggested to
Laplace in great measure by a misconception—by the very misconception of
which we have just been speaking—by the generally prevalent
misunderstanding of the character of the nebulæ, so mis-named. These he
supposed to be, in reality, what their designation implies. The fact is,
this great man had, very properly, an inferior faith in his own merely
_perceptive_ powers. In respect, therefore, to the actual existence of
nebulæ—an existence so confidently maintained by his telescopic
contemporaries—he depended less upon what he saw than upon what he
heard.
It will be seen that the only valid objections to his theory, are those
made to its hypothesis _as_ such—to what suggested it—not to what it
suggests; to its propositions rather than to its results. His most
unwarranted assumption was that of giving the atoms a movement towards a
centre, in the very face of his evident understanding that these atoms,
in unlimited succession, extended throughout the Universal space. I have
already shown that, under such circumstances, there could have occurred
no movement at all; and Laplace, consequently, assumed one on no more
philosophical ground than that something of the kind was necessary for
the establishment of what he intended to establish.
His original idea seems to have been a compound of the true Epicurean
atoms with the false nebulæ of his contemporaries; and thus his theory
presents us with the singular anomaly of absolute truth deduced, as a
mathematical result, from a hybrid datum of ancient imagination
intertangled with modern inacumen. Laplace’s real strength lay, in fact,
in an almost miraculous mathematical instinct:—on this he relied; and in
no instance did it fail or deceive him:—in the case of the Nebular
Cosmogony, it led him, blindfolded, through a labyrinth of Error, into
one of the most luminous and stupendous temples of Truth.
Let us now fancy, for the moment, that the ring first thrown off by the
Sun—that is to say, the ring whose breaking-up constituted Neptune—did
not, in fact, break up until the throwing-off of the ring out of which
Uranus arose; that this latter ring, again, remained perfect until the
discharge of that out of which sprang Saturn; that this latter, again,
remained entire until the discharge of that from which originated
Jupiter—and so on. Let us imagine, in a word, that no dissolution
occurred among the rings until the final rejection of that which gave
birth to Mercury. We thus paint to the eye of the mind a series of
cöexistent concentric circles; and looking as well at _them_ as at the
processes by which, according to Laplace’s hypothesis, they were
constructed, we perceive at once a very singular analogy with the atomic
strata and the process of the original irradiation as I have described
it. Is it impossible that, on measuring the _forces_, respectively, by
which each successive planetary circle was thrown off—that is to say, on
measuring the successive excesses of rotation over gravitation which
occasioned the successive discharges—we should find the analogy in
question more decidedly confirmed? _Is it improbable that we should
discover these forces to have varied—as in the original
radiation—proportionally to the squares of the distances?_
Our solar system, consisting, in chief, of one sun, with sixteen planets
certainly, and possibly a few more, revolving about it at various
distances, and attended by seventeen moons assuredly, but _very_
probably by several others—is now to be considered as _an example_ of
the innumerable agglomerations which proceeded to take place throughout
the Universal Sphere of atoms on withdrawal of the Divine Volition. I
mean to say that our solar system is to be understood as affording a
_generic instance_ of these agglomerations, or, more correctly, of the
ulterior conditions at which they arrived. If we keep our attention
fixed on the idea of _the utmost possible Relation_ as the Omnipotent
design, and on the precautions taken to accomplish it through difference
of form, among the original atoms, and particular inequidistance, we
shall find it impossible to suppose for a moment that even any two of
the incipient agglomerations reached precisely the same result in the
end. We shall rather be inclined to think that _no two_ stellar bodies
in the Universe—whether suns, planets or moons—are particularly, while
_all_ are generally, similar. Still less, then, can we imagine any two
_assemblages_ of such bodies—any two “systems”—as having more than a
general resemblance.[10] Our telescopes, at this point, thoroughly
confirm our deductions. Taking our own solar system, then, as merely a
loose or general type of all, we have so far proceeded in our subject as
to survey the Universe under the aspect of a spherical space, throughout
which, dispersed with merely general equability, exist a number of but
generally similar _systems_.
[10] It is not _impossible_ that some unlooked-for optical
improvement may disclose to us, among innumerable varieties of
systems, a luminous sun, encircled by luminous and non-luminous
rings, within and without and between which, revolve luminous
and non-luminous planets, attended by moons having moons—and
even these latter again having moons.
Let us now, expanding our conceptions, look upon each of these systems
as in itself an atom; which in fact it is, when we consider it as but
one of the countless myriads of systems which constitute the Universe.
Regarding all, then, as but colossal atoms, each with the same
ineradicable tendency to Unity which characterizes the actual atoms of
which it consists—we enter at once upon a new order of aggregations. The
smaller systems, in the vicinity of a larger one, would, inevitably, be
drawn into still closer vicinity. A thousand would assemble here; a
million there—perhaps here, again, even a billion—leaving, thus,
immeasurable vacancies in space. And if now, it be demanded why, in the
case of these systems—of these merely Titanic atoms—I speak, simply, of
an “assemblage,” and not, as in the case of the actual atoms, of a more
or less consolidated agglomeration:—if it be asked, for instance, why I
do not carry what I suggest to its legitimate conclusion, and describe,
at once, these assemblages of system-atoms as rushing to consolidation
in spheres—as each becoming condensed into one magnificent sun—my reply
is that μελλοντα ταυτα—I am but pausing, for a moment, on the awful
threshold of _the Future_. For the present, calling these assemblages
“clusters,” we see them in the incipient stages of their consolidation.
Their _absolute_ consolidation is _to come_.
We have now reached a point from which we behold the Universe as a
spherical space, interspersed, _unequably_, with _clusters_. It will be
noticed that I here prefer the adverb “unequably” to the phrase “with a
merely general equability,” employed before. It is evident, in fact,
that the equability of distribution will diminish in the ratio of the
agglomerative processes—that is to say, as the things distributed
diminish in number. Thus the increase of _in_-equability—an increase
which must continue until, sooner or later, an epoch will arrive at
which the largest agglomeration will absorb all the others—should be
viewed as, simply, a corroborative indication of the _tendency to One_.
And here, at length, it seems proper to inquire whether the ascertained
_facts_ of Astronomy confirm the general arrangement which I have thus,
deductively, assigned to the Heavens. Thoroughly, they _do_. Telescopic
observation, guided by the laws of perspective, enables us to understand
that the perceptible Universe exists as _a cluster of clusters,
irregularly disposed_.
The “clusters” of which this Universal “_cluster of clusters_” consists,
are merely what we have been in the practice of designating
“nebulæ”—and, of these “nebulæ,” _one_ is of paramount interest to
mankind. I allude to the Galaxy, or Milky Way. This interests us, first
and most obviously, on account of its great superiority in apparent
size, not only to any one other cluster in the firmament, but to all the
other clusters taken together. The largest of these latter occupies a
mere point, comparatively, and is distinctly seen only with the aid of a
telescope. The Galaxy sweeps throughout the Heaven and is brilliantly
visible to the naked eye. But it interests man chiefly, although less
immediately, on account of its being his home; the home of the Earth on
which he exists; the home of the Sun about which this Earth revolves;
the home of that “system” of orbs of which the Sun is the centre and
primary—the Earth one of sixteen secondaries, or planets—the Moon one of
seventeen tertiaries, or satellites. The Galaxy, let me repeat, is but
one of the _clusters_ which I have been describing—but one of the
mis-called “nebulæ” revealed to us—by the telescope alone, sometimes—as
faint hazy spots in various quarters of the sky. We have no reason to
suppose the Milky Way _really_ more extensive than the least of these
“nebulæ.” Its vast superiority in size is but an apparent superiority
arising from our position in regard to it—that is to say, from our
position in its midst. However strange the assertion may at first appear
to those unversed in Astronomy, still the astronomer himself has no
hesitation in asserting that we are _in the midst_ of that inconceivable
host of stars—of suns—of systems—which constitute the Galaxy. Moreover,
not only have _we_—not only has _our_ Sun a right to claim the Galaxy as
its own especial cluster, but, with slight reservation, it may be said
that all the distinctly visible stars of the firmament—all the stars
Visible to the naked eye—have equally a right to claim it as _their_
own.
There has been a great deal of misconception in respect to the _shape_
of the Galaxy; which, in nearly all our astronomical treatises, is said
to resemble that of a capital Y. The cluster in question has, in
reality, a certain general—_very_ general resemblance to the planet
Saturn, with its encompassing triple ring. Instead of the solid orb of
that planet, however, we must picture to ourselves a lenticular
star-island, or collection of stars; our Sun lying excentrically—near
the shore of the island—on that side of it which is nearest the
constellation of the Cross and farthest from that of Cassiopeia. The
surrounding ring, where it approaches our position, has in it a
longitudinal _gash_, which does, in fact, cause _the ring, in our
vicinity_, to assume, loosely, the appearance of a capital Y.
We must not fall into the error, however, of conceiving the somewhat
indefinite girdle as at all _remote_, comparatively speaking, from the
also indefinite lenticular cluster which it surrounds; and thus, for
mere purpose of explanation, we may speak of our Sun as actually
situated at that point of the Y where its three component lines unite;
and, conceiving this letter to be of a certain solidity—of a certain
thickness, very trivial in comparison with its length—we may even speak
of our position as _in the middle_ of this thickness. Fancying ourselves
thus placed, we shall no longer find difficulty in accounting for the
phænomena presented—which are perspective altogether. When we look
upward or downward—that is to say, when we cast our eyes in the
direction of the letter’s _thickness_—we look through fewer stars than
when we cast them in the direction of its _length_, or _along_ either of
the three component lines. Of course, in the former case, the stars
appear scattered—in the latter, crowded.—To reverse this explanation:—An
inhabitant of the Earth, when looking, as we commonly express ourselves,
_at_ the Galaxy, is then beholding it in some of the directions of its
length—is looking _along_ the lines of the Y—but when, looking out into
the general Heaven, he turns his eyes _from_ the Galaxy, he is then
surveying it in the direction of the letter’s thickness; and on this
account the stars seem to him scattered; while, in fact, they are as
close together, on an average, as in the mass of the cluster. _No_
consideration could be better adapted to convey an idea of this
cluster’s stupendous extent.
If, with a telescope of high space-penetrating power, we carefully
inspect the firmament, we shall become aware of _a belt of clusters_—of
what we have hitherto called “nebulæ”—a _band_, of varying breadth,
stretching from horizon to horizon, at right angles to the general
course of the Milky Way. This band is the ultimate _cluster of
clusters_. This belt is _The Universe_. Our Galaxy is but one, and
perhaps one of the most inconsiderable, of the clusters which go to the
constitution of this ultimate, Universal _belt_ or _band_. The
appearance of this cluster of clusters, to our eyes, _as_ a belt or
band, is altogether a perspective phænomenon of the same character as
that which causes us to behold our own individual and roughly-spherical
cluster, the Galaxy, under guise also of a belt, traversing the Heavens
at right angles to the Universal one. The shape of the all-inclusive
cluster is, of course _generally_, that of each individual cluster which
it includes. Just as the scattered stars which, on looking _from_ the
Galaxy, we see in the general sky, are, in fact, but a portion of that
Galaxy itself, and as closely intermingled with it as any of the
telescopic points in what seems the densest portion of its mass—so are
the scattered “nebulæ” which, on casting our eyes _from_ the Universal
_belt_, we perceive at all points of the firmament—so, I say, are these
scattered “nebulæ” to be understood as only perspectively scattered, and
as part and parcel of the one supreme and Universal _sphere_.
No astronomical fallacy is more untenable, and none has been more
pertinaciously adhered to, than that of the absolute _illimitation_ of
the Universe of Stars. The reasons for limitation, as I have already
assigned them, _à priori_, seem to me unanswerable; but, not to speak of
these, _observation_ assures us that there is, in numerous directions
around us, certainly, if not in all, a positive limit—or, at the very
least, affords us no basis whatever for thinking otherwise. Were the
succession of stars endless, then the background of the sky would
present us an uniform luminosity, like that displayed by the
Galaxy—_since there could be absolutely no point, in all that
background, at which would not exist a star._ The only mode, therefore,
in which, under such a state of affairs, we could comprehend the _voids_
which our telescopes find in innumerable directions, would be by
supposing the distance of the invisible background so immense that no
ray from it has yet been able to reach us at all. That this _may_ be so,
who shall venture to deny? I maintain, simply, that we have not even the
shadow of a reason for believing that it _is_ so.
When speaking of the vulgar propensity to regard all bodies on the Earth
as tending merely to the Earth’s centre, I observed that, “with certain
exceptions to be specified hereafter, every body on the Earth tended not
only to the Earth’s centre, but in every conceivable direction
besides.”[11] The “exceptions” refer to those frequent gaps in the
Heavens, where our utmost scrutiny can detect not only no stellar
bodies, but no indications of their existence:—where yawning chasms,
blacker than Erebus, seem to afford us glimpses, through the boundary
walls of the Universe of Stars, into the illimitable Universe of
Vacancy, beyond. Now as any body, existing on the Earth, chances to
pass, either through its own movement or the Earth’s, into a line with
any one of these voids, or cosmical abysses, it clearly is no longer
attracted _in the direction of that void_, and for the moment,
consequently, is “heavier” than at any period, either after or before.
Independently of the consideration of these voids, however, and looking
only at the generally unequable distribution of the stars, we see that
the absolute tendency of bodies on the Earth to the Earth’s centre, is
in a state of perpetual variation.
[11] Page 62.
We comprehend, then, the insulation of our Universe. We perceive the
isolation of _that_—of _all_ that which we grasp with the senses. We
know that there exists one _cluster of clusters_—a collection around
which, on all sides, extend the immeasurable wildernesses of a Space _to
all human perception_ untenanted. But _because_ upon the confines of
this Universe of Stars we are compelled to pause, through want of
farther evidence from the senses, is it right to conclude that, in fact,
there _is_ no material point beyond that which we have thus been
permitted to attain? Have we, or have we not, an analogical right to the
inference that this perceptible Universe—that this cluster of
clusters—is but one of _a series_ of clusters of clusters, the rest of
which are invisible through distance—through the diffusion of their
light being so excessive, ere it reaches us, as not to produce upon our
retinas a light-impression—or from there being no such emanation as
light at all, in these unspeakably distant worlds—or, lastly, from the
mere interval being so vast, that the electric tidings of their presence
in Space, have not yet—through the lapsing myriads of years—been enabled
to traverse that interval?
Have we any right to inferences—have we any ground whatever for visions
such as these? If we have a right to them in _any_ degree, we have a
right to their infinite extension.
The human brain has obviously a leaning to the “_Infinite_,” and fondles
the phantom of the idea. It seems to long with a passionate fervor for
this impossible conception, with the hope of intellectually believing it
when conceived. What is general among the whole race of Man, of course
no individual of that race can be warranted in considering abnormal;
nevertheless, there _may_ be a class of superior intelligences, to whom
the human bias alluded to may wear all the character of monomania.
My question, however, remains unanswered:—Have we any right to infer—let
us say, rather, to imagine—an interminable succession of the “clusters
of clusters,” or of “Universes” more or less similar?
I reply that the “right,” in a case such as this, depends absolutely
upon the hardihood of that imagination which ventures to claim the
right. Let me declare, only, that, as an individual, I myself feel
impelled to the _fancy_—without daring to call it more—that there _does_
exist a _limitless_ succession of Universes, more or less similar to
that of which we have cognizance—to that of which _alone_ we shall ever
have cognizance—at the very least until the return of our own particular
Universe into Unity. _If_ such clusters of clusters exist, however—_and
they do_—it is abundantly clear that, having had no part in our origin,
they have no portion in our laws. They neither attract us, nor we them.
Their material—their spirit is not ours—is not that which obtains in any
part of our Universe. They could not impress our senses or our souls.
Among them and us—considering all, for the moment, collectively—there
are no influences in common. Each exists, apart and independently, _in
the bosom of its proper and particular God_.
In the conduct of this Discourse, I am aiming less at physical than at
metaphysical order. The clearness with which even material phænomena are
presented to the understanding, depends very little, I have long since
learned to perceive, upon a merely natural, and almost altogether upon a
moral, arrangement. If then I seem to step somewhat too discursively
from point to point of my topic, let me suggest that I do so in the hope
of thus the better keeping unbroken that chain of _graduated impression_
by which alone the intellect of Man can expect to encompass the
grandeurs of which I speak, and, in their majestic totality, to
comprehend them.
So far, our attention has been directed, almost exclusively, to a
general and relative grouping of the stellar bodies in space. Of
specification there has been little; and whatever ideas of _quantity_
have been conveyed—that is to say, of number, magnitude, and
distance—have been conveyed incidentally and by way of preparation for
more definitive conceptions. These latter let us now attempt to
entertain.
Our solar system, as has been already mentioned, consists, in chief, of
one sun and sixteen planets certainly, but in all probability a few
others, revolving around it as a centre, and attended by seventeen moons
of which we know, with possibly several more of which as yet we know
nothing. These various bodies are not true spheres, but oblate
spheroids—spheres flattened at the poles of the imaginary axes about
which they rotate:—the flattening being a consequence of the rotation.
Neither is the Sun absolutely the centre of the system; for this Sun
itself, with all the planets, revolves about a perpetually shifting
point of space, which is the system’s general centre of gravity. Neither
are we to consider the paths through which these different spheroids
move—the moons about the planets, the planets about the Sun, or the Sun
about the common centre—as circles in an accurate sense. They are, in
fact, _ellipses—one of the foci being the point about which the
revolution is made_. An ellipse is a curve, returning into itself, one
of whose diameters is longer than the other. In the longer diameter are
two points, equidistant from the middle of the line, and so situated
otherwise that if, from each of them a straight line be drawn to any one
point of the curve, the two lines, taken together, will be equal to the
longer diameter itself. Now let us conceive such an ellipse. At one of
the points mentioned, which are the _foci_, let us fasten an orange. By
an elastic thread let us connect this orange with a pea; and let us
place this latter on the circumference of the ellipse. Let us now move
the pea continuously around the orange—keeping always on the
circumference of the ellipse. The elastic thread, which, of course,
varies in length as we move the pea, will form what in geometry is
called a _radius vector_. Now, if the orange be understood as the Sun,
and the pea as a planet revolving about it, then the revolution should
be made at such a rate—with a velocity so varying—that the _radius
vector_ may pass over _equal areas of space in equal times_. The
progress of the pea _should be_—in other words, the progress of the
planet _is_, of course,—slow in proportion to its distance from the
Sun—swift in proportion to its proximity. Those planets, moreover, move
the more slowly which are the farther from the Sun; _the squares of
their periods of revolution having the same proportion to each other, as
have to each other the cubes of their mean distances from the Sun_.
The wonderfully complex laws of revolution here described, however, are
not to be understood as obtaining in our system alone. They _everywhere_
prevail where Attraction prevails. They control _the Universe_. Every
shining speck in the firmament is, no doubt, a luminous sun, resembling
our own, at least in its general features, and having in attendance upon
it a greater or less number of planets, greater or less, whose still
lingering luminosity is not sufficient to render them visible to us at
so vast a distance, but which, nevertheless, revolve, moon-attended,
about their starry centres, in obedience to the principles just
detailed—in obedience to the three omniprevalent laws of revolution—the
three immortal laws _guessed_ by the imaginative Kepler, and but
subsequently demonstrated and accounted for by the patient and
mathematical Newton. Among a tribe of philosophers who pride themselves
excessively upon matter-of-fact, it is far too fashionable to sneer at
all speculation under the comprehensive _sobriquet_, “guess-work.” The
point to be considered is, _who_ guesses. In guessing with Plato, we
spend our time to better purpose, now and then, than in hearkening to a
demonstration by Alcmæon.
In many works on Astronomy I find it distinctly stated that the laws of
Kepler are _the basis_ of the great principle, Gravitation. This idea
must have arisen from the fact that the suggestion of these laws by
Kepler, and his proving them _à posteriori_ to have an actual existence,
led Newton to account for them by the hypothesis of Gravitation, and,
finally, to demonstrate them _à priori_, as necessary consequences of
the hypothetical principle. Thus so far from the laws of Kepler being
the basis of Gravity, Gravity is the basis of these laws—as it is,
indeed, of all the laws of the material Universe which are not referable
to Repulsion alone.
The mean distance of the Earth from the Moon—that is to say, from the
heavenly body in our closest vicinity—is 237,000 miles. Mercury, the
planet nearest the Sun, is distant from him 37 millions of miles. Venus,
the next, revolves at a distance of 68 millions:—the Earth, which comes
next, at a distance of 95 millions:—Mars, then, at a distance of 144
millions. Now come the eight Asteroids (Ceres, Juno, Vesta, Pallas,
Astræa, Flora, Iris, and Hebe) at an average distance of about 250
millions. Then we have Jupiter, distant 490 millions; then Saturn, 900
millions; then Uranus, 19 hundred millions; finally Neptune, lately
discovered, and revolving at a distance, say of 28 hundred millions.
Leaving Neptune out of the account—of which as yet we know little
accurately and which is, possibly, one of a system of Asteroids—it will
be seen that, within certain limits, there exists an _order of interval_
among the planets. Speaking loosely, we may say that each outer planet
is twice as far from the Sun as is the next inner one. May not the
_order_ here mentioned—_may not the law of Bode—be deduced from
consideration of the analogy suggested by me as having place between the
solar discharge of rings and the mode of the atomic irradiation_?
The numbers hurriedly mentioned in this summary of distance, it is folly
to attempt comprehending, unless in the light of abstract arithmetical
facts. They are not practically tangible ones. They convey no precise
ideas. I have stated that Neptune, the planet farthest from the Sun,
revolves about him at a distance of 28 hundred millions of miles. So far
good:—I have stated a mathematical fact; and, without comprehending it
in the least, we may put it to use—mathematically. But in mentioning,
even, that the Moon revolves about the Earth at the comparatively
trifling distance of 237,000 miles, I entertained no expectation of
giving any one to understand—to know—to feel—how far from the Earth the
Moon actually _is_. 237,000 _miles_! There are, perhaps, few of my
readers who have not crossed the Atlantic ocean; yet how many of them
have a distinct idea of even the 3,000 miles intervening between shore
and shore? I doubt, indeed, whether the man lives who can force into his
brain the most remote conception of the interval between one milestone
and its next neighbor upon the turnpike. We are in some measure aided,
however, in our consideration of distance, by combining this
consideration with the kindred one of velocity. Sound passes through
1100 feet of space in a second of time. Now were it possible for an
inhabitant of the Earth to see the flash of a cannon discharged in the
Moon, and to hear the report, he would have to wait, after perceiving
the former, more than 13 entire days and nights before getting any
intimation of the latter.
However feeble be the impression, even thus conveyed, of the Moon’s real
distance from the Earth, it will, nevertheless, effect a good object in
enabling us more clearly to see the futility of attempting to grasp such
intervals as that of the 28 hundred millions of miles between our Sun
and Neptune; or even that of the 95 millions between the Sun and the
Earth we inhabit. A cannon-ball, flying at the greatest velocity with
which such a ball has ever been known to fly, could not traverse the
latter interval in less than 20 years; while for the former it would
require 590.
Our Moon’s real diameter is 2160 miles; yet she is comparatively so
trifling an object that it would take nearly 50 such orbs to compose one
as great as the Earth.
The diameter of our own globe is 7912 miles—but from the enunciation of
these numbers what positive idea do we derive?
If we ascend an ordinary mountain and look around us from its summit, we
behold a landscape stretching, say 40 miles, in every direction; forming
a circle 250 miles in circumference; and including an area of 5000
square miles. The extent of such a prospect, on account of the
_successiveness_ with which its portions necessarily present themselves
to view, can be only very feebly and very partially appreciated:—yet the
entire panorama would comprehend no more than one 40,000th part of the
mere _surface_ of our globe. Were this panorama, then, to be succeeded,
after the lapse of an hour, by another of equal extent; this again by a
third, after the lapse of another hour; this again by a fourth after
lapse of another hour—and so on, until the scenery of the whole Earth
were exhausted; and were we to be engaged in examining these various
panoramas for twelve hours of every day; we should nevertheless, be 9
years and 48 days in completing the general survey.
But if the mere surface of the Earth eludes the grasp of the
imagination, what are we to think of its cubical contents? It embraces a
mass of matter equal in weight to at least 2 sextillions, 200
quintillions of tons. Let us suppose it in a state of quiescence; and
now let us endeavor to conceive a mechanical force sufficient to set it
in motion! Not the strength of all the myriads of beings whom we may
conclude to inhabit the planetary worlds of our system—not the combined
physical strength of _all_ these beings—even admitting all to be more
powerful than man—would avail to stir the ponderous mass _a single inch_
from its position.
What are we to understand, then, of the force, which under similar
circumstances, would be required to move the _largest_ of our planets,
Jupiter? This is 86,000 miles in diameter, and would include within its
periphery more than a thousand orbs of the magnitude of our own. Yet
this stupendous body is actually flying around the Sun at the rate of
29,000 miles an hour—that is to say, with a velocity 40 times greater
than that of a cannon-ball! The thought of such a phænomenon cannot well
be said to _startle_ the mind:—it palsies and appals it. Not
unfrequently we task our imagination in picturing the capacities of an
angel. Let us fancy such a being at a distance of some hundred miles
from Jupiter—a close eye-witness of this planet as it speeds on its
annual revolution. Now _can_ we, I demand, fashion for ourselves any
conception so distinct of this ideal being’s spiritual exaltation, as
_that_ involved in the supposition that, even by this immeasurable mass
of matter, whirled immediately before his eyes, with a velocity so
unutterable, he—an angel—angelic though he be—is not at once struck into
nothingness and overwhelmed?
At this point, however, it seems proper to suggest that, in fact, we
have been speaking of comparative trifles. Our Sun, the central and
controlling orb of the system to which Jupiter belongs, is not only
greater than Jupiter, but greater by far than all the planets of the
system taken together. This fact is an essential condition, indeed, of
the stability of the system itself. The diameter of Jupiter has been
mentioned:—it is 86,000 miles:—that of the Sun is 882,000 miles. An
inhabitant of the latter, travelling 90 miles a day, would be more than
80 years in going round a great circle of its circumference. It occupies
a cubical space of 681 quadrillions, 472 trillions of miles. The Moon,
as has been stated, revolves about the Earth at a distance of 237,000
miles—in an orbit, consequently, of nearly a million and a half. Now,
were the Sun placed upon the Earth, centre over centre, the body of the
former would extend, in every direction, not only to the line of the
Moon’s orbit, but beyond it, a distance of 200,000 miles.
And here, once again, let me suggest that, in fact, we have _still_ been
speaking of comparative trifles. The distance of the planet Neptune from
the Sun has been stated:—it is 28 hundred millions of miles; the
circumference of its orbit, therefore, is about 17 billions. Let this be
borne in mind while we glance at some one of the brightest stars.
Between this and the star of _our_ system, (the Sun,) there is a gulf of
space, to convey any idea of which we should need the tongue of an
archangel. From _our_ system, then, and from _our_ Sun, or star, the
star at which we suppose ourselves glancing is a thing altogether
apart:—still, for the moment, let us imagine it placed upon our Sun,
centre over centre, as we just now imagined this Sun itself placed upon
the Earth. Let us now conceive the particular star we have in mind,
extending, in every direction, beyond the orbit of Mercury—of Venus—of
the Earth:—still _on_, beyond the orbit of Mars—of Jupiter—of
Uranus—until, finally, we fancy it filling the circle—17 _billions of
miles in circumference_—which is described by the revolution of
Leverrier’s planet. When we have conceived all this, we shall have
entertained no extravagant conception. There is the very best reason for
believing that many of the stars are even far larger than the one we
have imagined. I mean to say that we have the very best _empirical_
basis for such belief:—and, in looking back at the original, atomic
arrangements for _diversity_, which have been assumed as a part of the
Divine plan in the constitution of the Universe, we shall be enabled
easily to understand, and to credit, the existence of even far vaster
disproportions in stellar size than any to which I have hitherto
alluded. The largest orbs, of course, we must expect to find rolling
through the widest vacancies of Space.
I remarked, just now, that to convey an idea of the interval between our
Sun and any one of the other stars, we should require the eloquence of
an archangel. In so saying, I should not be accused of exaggeration;
for, in simple truth, these are topics on which it is scarcely possible
to exaggerate. But let us bring the matter more distinctly before the
eye of the mind.
In the first place, we may get a general, _relative_ conception of the
interval referred to, by comparing it with the inter-planetary spaces.
If, for example, we suppose the Earth, which is, in reality, 95 millions
of miles from the Sun, to be only _one foot_ from that luminary; then
Neptune would be 40 feet distant; _and the star Alpha Lyræ, at the very
least_, 159.
Now I presume that, in the termination of my last sentence, few of my
readers have noticed anything especially objectionable—particularly
wrong. I said that the distance of the Earth from the Sun being taken at
_one foot_, the distance of Neptune would be 40 feet, and that of Alpha
Lyræ, 159. The proportion between one foot and 159 has appeared,
perhaps, to convey a sufficiently definite impression of the proportion
between the two intervals—that of the Earth from the Sun and that of
Alpha Lyræ from the same luminary. But my account of the matter should,
in reality, have run thus:—The distance of the Earth from the Sun being
taken at one foot, the distance of Neptune would be 40 feet, and that of
Alpha Lyræ, 159——_miles_:—that is to say, I had assigned to Alpha Lyræ,
in my first statement of the case, only the 5280_th_ _part_ of that
distance which is the _least distance possible_ at which it can actually
lie.
To proceed:—However distant a mere _planet_ is, yet when we look at it
through a telescope, we see it under a certain form—of a certain
appreciable size. Now I have already hinted at the probable bulk of many
of the stars; nevertheless, when we view any one of them, even through
the most powerful telescope, it is found to present us with _no form_,
and consequently with _no magnitude_ whatever. We see it as a point and
nothing more.
Again;—Let us suppose ourselves walking, at night, on a highway. In a
field on one side of the road, is a line of tall objects, say trees, the
figures of which are distinctly defined against the background of the
sky. This line of objects extends at right angles to the road, and from
the road to the horizon. Now, as we proceed along the road, we see these
objects changing their positions, respectively, in relation to a certain
fixed point in that portion of the firmament which forms the background
of the view. Let us suppose this fixed point—sufficiently fixed for our
purpose—to be the rising moon. We become aware, at once, that while the
tree nearest us so far alters its position in respect to the moon, as to
seem flying behind us, the tree in the extreme distance has scarcely
changed at all its relative position with the satellite. We then go on
to perceive that the farther the objects are from us, the less they
alter their positions; and the converse. Then we begin, unwittingly, to
estimate the distances of individual trees by the degrees in which they
evince the relative alteration. Finally, we come to understand how it
might be possible to ascertain the actual distance of any given tree in
the line, by using the amount of relative alteration as a basis in a
simple geometrical problem. Now this relative alteration is what we call
“parallax;” and by parallax we calculate the distances of the heavenly
bodies. Applying the principle to the trees in question, we should, of
course, be very much at a loss to comprehend the distance of _that_
tree, which, however far we proceeded along the road, should evince _no_
parallax at all. This, in the case described, is a thing impossible; but
impossible only because all distances on our Earth are trivial
indeed:—in comparison with the vast cosmical quantities, we may speak of
them as absolutely nothing.
Now, let us suppose the star Alpha Lyræ directly overhead; and let us
imagine that, instead of standing on the Earth, we stand at one end of a
straight road stretching through Space to a distance equalling the
diameter of the Earth’s orbit—that is to say, to a distance of 190
_millions of miles_. Having observed, by means of the most delicate
micrometrical instruments, the exact position of the star, let us now
pass along this inconceivable road, until we reach its other extremity.
Now, once again, let us look at the star. It is _precisely_ where we
left it. Our instruments, however delicate, assure us that its relative
position is absolutely—is identically the same as at the commencement of
our unutterable journey. _No_ parallax—none whatever—has been found.
The fact is, that, in regard to the distance of the fixed stars—of any
one of the myriads of suns glistening on the farther side of that awful
chasm which separates our system from its brothers in the cluster to
which it belongs—astronomical science, until very lately, could speak
only with a negative certainty. Assuming the brightest as the nearest,
we could say, even of _them_, only that there is a certain
incomprehensible distance on the _hither_ side of which they cannot
be:—how far they are beyond it we had in no case been able to ascertain.
We perceived, for example, that Alpha Lyræ cannot be nearer to us than
19 trillions, 200 billions of miles; but, for all we knew, and indeed
for all we now know, it may be distant from us the square, or the cube,
or any other power of the number mentioned. By dint, however, of
wonderfully minute and cautious observations, continued, with novel
instruments, for many laborious years, _Bessel_, not long ago deceased,
has lately succeeded in determining the distance of six or seven stars;
among others, that of the star numbered 61 in the constellation of the
Swan. The distance in this latter instance ascertained, is 670,000 times
that of the Sun; which last it will be remembered, is 95 millions of
miles. The star 61 Cygni, then, is nearly 64 trillions of miles from
us—or more than three times the distance assigned, _as the least
possible_, for Alpha Lyræ.
In attempting to appreciate this interval by the aid of any
considerations of _velocity_, as we did in endeavoring to estimate the
distance of the moon, we must leave out of sight, altogether, such
nothings as the speed of a cannon-ball, or of sound. Light, however,
according to the latest calculations of Struve, proceeds at the rate of
167,000 miles in a second. Thought itself cannot pass through this
interval more speedily—if, indeed, thought can traverse it at all. Yet,
in coming from 61 Cygni to us, even at this inconceivable rate, light
occupies more than _ten years_; and, consequently, were the star this
moment blotted out from the Universe, still, _for ten years_, would it
continue to sparkle on, undimmed in its paradoxical glory.
Keeping now in mind whatever feeble conception we may have attained of
the interval between our Sun and 61 Cygni, let us remember that this
interval, however unutterably vast, we are permitted to consider as but
the _average_ interval among the countless host of stars composing that
cluster, or “nebula,” to which our system, as well as that of 61 Cygni,
belongs. I have, in fact, stated the case with great moderation:—we have
excellent reason for believing 61 Cygni to be one of the _nearest_
stars, and thus for concluding, at least for the present, that its
distance from us is _less_ than the average distance between star and
star in the magnificent cluster of the Milky Way.
And here, once again and finally, it seems proper to suggest that even
as yet we have been speaking of trifles. Ceasing to wonder at the space
between star and star in our own or in any particular cluster, let us
rather turn our thoughts to the intervals between cluster and cluster,
in the all comprehensive cluster of the Universe.
I have already said that light proceeds at the rate of 167,000 miles in
a second—that is, about 10 millions of miles in a minute, or about 600
millions of miles in an hour:—yet so far removed from us are some of
the “nebulæ” that even light, speeding with this velocity, could not
and does not reach us, from those mysterious regions, in less than 3
_millions of years_. This calculation, moreover, is made by the elder
Herschell, and in reference merely to those comparatively proximate
clusters within the scope of his own telescope. There _are_ “nebulæ,”
however, which, through the magical tube of Lord Rosse, are this instant
whispering in our ears the secrets of _a million of ages_ by-gone. In a
word, the events which we behold now—at this moment—in those worlds—are
the identical events which interested their inhabitants _ten hundred
thousand centuries ago_. In intervals—in distances such as this
suggestion forces upon the _soul_—rather than upon the mind—we find, at
length, a fitting climax to all hitherto frivolous considerations of
_quantity_.
Our fancies thus occupied with the cosmical distances, let us take the
opportunity of referring to the difficulty which we have so often
experienced, while pursuing _the beaten path_ of astronomical
reflection, _in accounting_ for the immeasurable voids alluded to—in
comprehending why chasms so totally unoccupied and therefore apparently
so needless, have been made to intervene between star and star—between
cluster and cluster—in understanding, to be brief, a sufficient reason
for the Titanic scale, in respect of mere _Space_, on which the Universe
is seen to be constructed. A rational cause for the phænomenon, I
maintain that Astronomy has palpably failed to assign:—but the
considerations through which, in this Essay, we have proceeded step by
step, enable us clearly and immediately to perceive that _Space and
Duration are one_. That the Universe might _endure_ throughout an æra
at all commensurate with the grandeur of its component material portions
and with the high majesty of its spiritual purposes, it was necessary
that the original atomic diffusion be made to so inconceivable an extent
as to be only not infinite. It was required, in a word, that the stars
should be gathered into visibility from invisible nebulosity—proceed
from nebulosity to consolidation—and so grow grey in giving birth and
death to unspeakably numerous and complex variations of vitalic
development:—it was required that the stars should do all this—should
have time thoroughly to accomplish all these Divine purposes—_during the
period_ in which all things were effecting their return into Unity with
a velocity accumulating in the inverse proportion of the squares of the
distances at which lay the inevitable End.
Throughout all this we have no difficulty in understanding the absolute
accuracy of the Divine _adaptation_. The density of the stars,
respectively, proceeds, of course, as their condensation diminishes;
condensation and heterogeneity keep pace with each other; through the
latter, which is the index of the former, we estimate the vitalic and
spiritual development. Thus, in the density of the globes, we have the
measure in which their purposes are fulfilled. _As_ density
proceeds—_as_ the divine intentions _are_ accomplished—_as_ less and
still less remains _to be_ accomplished—so—in the same ratio—should we
expect to find an acceleration of _the End_:—and thus the philosophical
mind will easily comprehend that the Divine designs in constituting the
stars, advance _mathematically_ to their fulfilment:—and more; it will
readily give the advance a mathematical expression; it will decide that
this advance is inversely proportional with the squares of the distances
of all created things from the starting-point and goal of their
creation.
Not only is this Divine adaptation, however, mathematically accurate,
but there is that about it which stamps it _as divine_, in distinction
from that which is merely the work of human constructiveness. I allude
to the complete _mutuality_ of adaptation. For example; in human
constructions a particular cause has a particular effect; a particular
intention brings to pass a particular object; but this is all; we see no
reciprocity. The effect does not re-act upon the cause; the intention
does not change relations with the object. In Divine constructions the
object is either design or object as we choose to regard it—and we may
take at any time a cause for an effect, or the converse—so that we can
never absolutely decide which is which.
To give an instance:—In polar climates the human frame, to maintain its
animal heat, requires, for combustion in the capillary system, an
abundant supply of highly azotized food, such as train-oil. But
again:—in polar climates nearly the sole food afforded man is the oil of
abundant seals and whales. Now, whether is oil at hand because
imperatively demanded, or the only thing demanded because the only thing
to be obtained? It is impossible to decide. There is an absolute
_reciprocity of adaptation_.
The pleasure which we derive from any display of human ingenuity is in
the ratio of _the approach_ to this species of reciprocity. In the
construction of _plot_, for example, in fictitious literature, we
should aim at so arranging the incidents that we shall not be able to
determine, of any one of them, whether it depends from any one other or
upholds it. In this sense, of course, _perfection_ of _plot_ is really,
or practically, unattainable—but only because it is a finite
intelligence that constructs. The plots of God are perfect. The Universe
is a plot of God.
And now we have reached a point at which the intellect is forced, again,
to struggle against its propensity for analogical inference—against its
monomaniac grasping at the infinite. Moons have been seen _revolving_
about planets; planets about stars; and the poetical instinct of
humanity—its instinct of the symmetrical, if the symmetry be but a
symmetry of surface:—this _instinct_, which the Soul, not only of Man
but of all created beings, took up, in the beginning, from the
_geometrical_ basis of the Universal irradiation—impels us to the fancy
of an endless extension of this system of _cycles_. Closing our eyes
equally to _de_duction and _in_duction, we insist upon imagining a
_revolution_ of all the orbs of the Galaxy about some gigantic globe
which we take to be the central pivot of the whole. Each cluster in the
great cluster of clusters is imagined, of course, to be similarly
supplied and constructed; while, that the “analogy” may be wanting at no
point, we go on to conceive these clusters themselves, again, as
_revolving_ about some still more august sphere;—this latter, still
again, _with_ its encircling clusters, as but one of a yet more
magnificent series of agglomerations, _gyrating_ about yet another orb
central _to them_—some orb still more unspeakably sublime—some orb, let
us rather say, of infinite sublimity endlessly multiplied by the
infinitely sublime. Such are the conditions, continued in perpetuity,
which the voice of what some people term “analogy” calls upon the Fancy
to depict and the Reason to contemplate, if possible, without becoming
dissatisfied with the picture. Such, _in general_, are the interminable
gyrations beyond gyration which we have been instructed by Philosophy to
comprehend and to account for, at least in the best manner we can. Now
and then, however, a philosopher proper—one whose phrenzy takes a very
determinate turn—whose genius, to speak more reverentially, has a
strongly-pronounced washerwomanish bias, doing every thing up by the
dozen—enables us to see _precisely_ that point out of sight, at which
the revolutionary processes in question do, and of right ought to, come
to an end.
It is hardly worth while, perhaps, even to sneer at the reveries of
Fourrier:—but much has been said, latterly, of the hypothesis of
Mädler—that there exists, in the centre of the Galaxy, a stupendous
globe about which all the systems of the cluster revolve. The _period_
of our own, indeed, has been stated—117 millions of years.
That our Sun has a motion in space, independently of its rotation, and
revolution about the system’s centre of gravity, has long been
suspected. This motion, granting it to exist, would be manifested
perspectively. The stars in that firmamental region which we were
leaving behind us, would, in a very long series of years, become
crowded; those in the opposite quarter, scattered. Now, by means of
astronomical History, we ascertain, cloudily, that some such phænomena
have occurred. On this ground it has been declared that our system is
moving to a point in the heavens diametrically opposite the star Zeta
Herculis:—but this inference is, perhaps, the maximum to which we have
any logical right. Mädler, however, has gone so far as to designate a
particular star, Alcyone in the Pleiades, as being at or about the very
spot around which a general _revolution_ is performed.
Now, since by “analogy” we are led, in the first instance, to these
dreams, it is no more than proper that we should abide by analogy, at
least in some measure, during their development; and that analogy which
suggests the revolution, suggests at the same time a central orb about
which it should be performed:—so far the astronomer was consistent. This
central orb, however, should, dynamically, be greater than all the orbs,
taken together, which surround it. Of these there are about 100
millions. “Why, then,” it was of course demanded, “do we not _see_ this
vast central sun—_at least equal_ in mass to 100 millions of such suns
as ours—why do we not _see_ it—_we_, especially, who occupy the mid
region of the cluster—the very locality _near_ which, at all events,
must be situated this incomparable star?” The reply was ready—“It must
be non-luminous, as are our planets.” Here, then, to suit a purpose,
analogy is suddenly let fall. “Not so,” it may be said—“we know that
non-luminous suns actually exist.” It is true that we have reason at
least for supposing so; but we have certainly no reason whatever for
supposing that the non-luminous suns in question are encircled by
_luminous_ suns, while these again are surrounded by non-luminous
planets:—and it is precisely all this with which Mädler is called upon
to find any thing analogous in the heavens—for it is precisely all this
which he imagines in the case of the Galaxy. Admitting the thing to be
so, we cannot help here picturing to ourselves how sad a puzzle the _why
it is so_ must prove to all _à priori_ philosophers.
But granting, in the very teeth of analogy and of every thing else, the
non-luminosity of the vast central orb, we may still inquire how this
orb, so enormous, could fail of being rendered visible by the flood of
light thrown upon it from the 100 millions of glorious suns glaring in
all directions about it. Upon the urging of this question, the idea of
an actually solid central sun appears, in some measure, to have been
abandoned; and speculation proceeded to assert that the systems of the
cluster perform their revolutions merely about an immaterial centre of
gravity common to all. Here again then, to suit a purpose, analogy is
let fall. The planets of our system revolve, it is true, about a common
centre of gravity; but they do this in connexion with, and in
consequence of, a material sun whose mass more than counterbalances the
rest of the system.
The mathematical circle is a curve composed of an infinity of straight
lines. But this idea of the circle—an idea which, in view of all
ordinary geometry, is merely the mathematical, as contradistinguished
from the practical, idea—is, in sober fact, the _practical_ conception
which alone we have any right to entertain in regard to the majestic
circle with which we have to deal, at least in fancy, when we suppose
our system revolving about a point in the centre of the Galaxy. Let the
most vigorous of human imaginations attempt but to take a single step
towards the comprehension of a sweep so ineffable! It would scarcely be
paradoxical to say that a flash of lightning itself, travelling
_forever_ upon the circumference of this unutterable circle, would
still, _forever_, be travelling in a straight line. That the path of our
Sun in such an orbit would, to any human perception, deviate in the
slightest degree from a straight line, even in a million of years, is a
proposition not to be entertained:—yet we are required to believe that a
curvature has become apparent during the brief period of our
astronomical history—during a mere point—during the utter nothingness of
two or three thousand years.
It may be said that Mädler _has_ really ascertained a curvature in the
direction of our system’s now well-established progress through Space.
Admitting, if necessary, this fact to be in reality such, I maintain
that nothing is thereby shown except the reality of this fact—the fact
of a curvature. For its _thorough_ determination, ages will be required;
and, when determined, it will be found indicative of some binary or
other multiple relation between our Sun and some one or more of the
proximate stars. I hazard nothing however, in predicting, that, after
the lapse of many centuries, all efforts at determining the path of our
Sun through Space, will be abandoned as fruitless. This is easily
conceivable when we look at the infinity of perturbation it must
experience, from its perpetually-shifting relations with other orbs, in
the common approach of all to the nucleus of the Galaxy.
But in examining other “nebulæ” than that of the Milky Way—in surveying,
generally, the clusters which overspread the heavens—do we or do we not
find confirmation of Mädler’s hypothesis? We do _not_. The forms of the
clusters are exceedingly diverse when casually viewed; but on close
inspection, through powerful telescopes, we recognize the sphere, very
distinctly, as at least the proximate form of all:—their constitution,
in general, being at variance with the idea of revolution about a common
centre.
“It is difficult,” says Sir John Herschell, “to form any conception of
the dynamical state of such systems. On one hand, without a rotary
motion and a centrifugal force, it is hardly possible not to regard them
as in a state of _progressive collapse_. On the other, granting such a
motion and such a force, we find it no less difficult to reconcile their
forms with the rotation of the whole system [meaning cluster] around any
single axis, without which internal collision would appear to be
inevitable.”
Some remarks lately made about the “nebulæ” by Dr. Nichol, in taking
quite a different view of the cosmical conditions from any taken in this
Discourse—have a very peculiar applicability to the point now at issue.
He says:
“When our greatest telescopes are brought to bear upon them, we find
that those which were thought to be irregular, are not so; they approach
nearer to a globe. Here is one that looked oval; but Lord Rosse’s
telescope brought it into a circle.... Now there occurs a very
remarkable circumstance in reference to these comparatively sweeping
circular masses of nebulæ. We find they are not entirely circular, but
the reverse; and that all around them, on every side, there are volumes
of stars, _stretching out apparently as if they were rushing towards a
great central mass in consequence of the action of some great
power_.”[12]
[12] I must be understood as denying, _especially_, only the
_revolutionary_ portion of Mädler’s hypothesis. Of course, if
no great central orb exists _now_ in our cluster, such will
exist hereafter. Whenever existing, it will be merely the
_nucleus_ of the consolidation.
Were I to describe, in my own words, what must necessarily be the
existing condition of each nebula on the hypothesis that all matter is,
as I suggest, now returning to its original Unity, I should simply be
going over, nearly verbatim, the language here employed by Dr. Nichol,
without the faintest suspicion of that stupendous truth which is the key
to these nebular phænomena.
And here let me fortify my position still farther, by the voice of a
greater than Mädler—of one, moreover, to whom all the data of Mädler
have long been familiar things, carefully and thoroughly considered.
Referring to the elaborate calculations of Argelander—the very
researches which form Mädler’s basis—_Humboldt_, whose generalizing
powers have never, perhaps been equalled, has the following observation:
“When we regard the real, proper, or non-perspective motions of the
stars, we find _many groups of them moving in opposite directions_; and
the data as yet in hand render it not necessary, at least, to conceive
that the systems composing the Milky Way, or the clusters, generally,
composing the Universe, are revolving about any particular centre
unknown, whether luminous or non-luminous. It is but Man’s longing for a
fundamental First Cause, that impels both his intellect and his fancy
to the adoption of such an hypothesis.”[13]
[13] Betrachtet man die nicht perspectivischen eigenen
Bewegungen der Sterne, so scheinen viele gruppenweise in ihrer
Richtung entgegengesetzt; und die bisher gesammelten Thatsachen
machen es auf’s wenigste nicht nothwendig, anzunehmen, dass
alle Theile unserer Sternenschicht oder gar der gesammten
Sterneninseln, welche den Weltraum füllen, sich um einen
grossen, unbekannten, leuchtenden oder dunkeln Centralkörper
bewegen. Das Streben nach den letzten und höchsten
Grundursachen macht freilich die reflectirende Thätigkeit des
Menschen, wie seine Phantasie, zu einer solchen Annahme
geneigt.
The phænomenon here alluded to—that of “many groups moving in opposite
directions”—is quite inexplicable by Mädler’s idea; but arises, as a
necessary consequence, from that which forms the basis of this
Discourse. While the _merely general direction_ of each atom—of each
moon, planet, star, or cluster—would, on my hypothesis, be, of course,
absolutely rectilinear; while the _general_ path of all bodies would be
a right line leading to the centre of all; it is clear, nevertheless,
that this general rectilinearity would be compounded of what, with
scarcely any exaggeration, we may term an infinity of particular
curves—an infinity of local deviations from rectilinearity—the result of
continuous differences of relative position among the multitudinous
masses, as each proceeded on its own proper journey to the End.
I quoted, just now, from Sir John Herschell, the following words, used
in reference to the clusters:—“On one hand, without a rotary motion and
a centrifugal force, it is hardly possible not to regard them as in a
state of _progressive collapse_.” The fact is, that, in surveying the
“nebulæ” with a telescope of high power, we shall find it quite
impossible, having once conceived this idea of “collapse,” not to
gather, at all points, corroboration of the idea. A nucleus is always
apparent, in the direction of which the stars seem to be precipitating
themselves; nor can these nuclei be mistaken for merely perspective
phænomena:—the clusters are _really_ denser near the centre—sparser in
the regions more remote from it. In a word, we see every thing as we
_should_ see it were a collapse taking place; but, in general, it may be
said of these clusters, that we can fairly entertain, while looking at
them, the idea of _orbitual movement about a centre_, only by admitting
the _possible_ existence, in the distant domains of space, of dynamical
laws with which _we_ are unacquainted.
On the part of Herschell, however, there is evidently _a reluctance_ to
regard the nebulæ as in “a state of progressive collapse.” But if
facts—if even appearances justify the supposition of their being in this
state, _why_, it may well be demanded, is he disinclined to admit it?
Simply on account of a prejudice;—merely because the supposition is at
war with a preconceived and utterly baseless notion—that of the
endlessness—that of the eternal stability of the Universe.
If the propositions of this Discourse are tenable, the “state of
progressive collapse” is _precisely_ that state in which alone we are
warranted in considering All Things; and, with due humility, let me here
confess that, for my part, I am at a loss to conceive how any _other_
understanding of the existing condition of affairs, could ever have made
its way into the human brain. “The tendency to collapse” and “the
attraction of gravitation” are convertible phrases. In using either, we
speak of the rëaction of the First Act. Never was necessity less obvious
than that of supposing Matter imbued with an ineradicable _quality_
forming part of its material nature—a quality, or instinct, _forever_
inseparable from it, and by dint of which inalienable principle every
atom is _perpetually_ impelled to seek its fellow-atom. Never was
necessity less obvious than that of entertaining this unphilosophical
idea. Going boldly behind the vulgar thought, we have to conceive,
metaphysically, that the gravitating principle appertains to Matter
_temporarily_—only while diffused—only while existing as Many instead of
as One—appertains to it by virtue of its state of irradiation
alone—appertains, in a word, altogether to its _condition_, and not in
the slightest degree to _itself_. In this view, when the irradiation
shall have returned into its source—when the rëaction shall be
completed—the gravitating principle will no longer exist. And, in fact,
astronomers, without at any time reaching the idea here suggested, seem
to have been approximating it, in the assertion that “if there were but
one body in the Universe, it would be impossible to understand how the
principle, Gravity, could obtain:”—that is to say, from a consideration
of Matter as they find it, they reach a conclusion at which I
deductively arrive. That so pregnant a suggestion as the one just quoted
should have been permitted to remain so long unfruitful, is,
nevertheless, a mystery which I find it difficult to fathom.
It is, perhaps, in no little degree, however, our propensity for the
continuous—for the analogical—in the present case more particularly for
the symmetrical—which has been leading us astray. And, in fact, the
sense of the symmetrical is an instinct which may be depended upon with
an almost blindfold reliance. It is the poetical essence of the
Universe—_of the Universe_ which, in the supremeness of its symmetry, is
but the most sublime of poems. Now symmetry and consistency are
convertible terms:—thus Poetry and Truth are one. A thing is consistent
in the ratio of its truth—true in the ratio of its consistency. _A
perfect consistency, I repeat, can be nothing but an absolute truth._ We
may take it for granted, then, that Man cannot long or widely err, if he
suffer himself to be guided by his poetical, which I have maintained to
be his truthful, in being his symmetrical, instinct. He must have a
care, however, lest, in pursuing too heedlessly the superficial symmetry
of forms and motions, he leave out of sight the really essential
symmetry of the principles which determine and control them.
That the stellar bodies would finally be merged in one—that, at last,
all would be drawn into the substance of _one stupendous central orb
already existing_—is an idea which, for some time past, seems, vaguely
and indeterminately, to have held possession of the fancy of mankind. It
is an idea, in fact, which belongs to the class of the _excessively
obvious_. It springs, instantly, from a superficial observation of the
cyclic and seemingly _gyrating_, or _vorticial_ movements of those
individual portions of the Universe which come most immediately and most
closely under our observation. There is not, perhaps, a human being, of
ordinary education and of average reflective capacity, to whom, at some
period, the fancy in question has not occurred, as if spontaneously, or
intuitively, and wearing all the character of a very profound and very
original conception. This conception, however, so commonly entertained,
has never, within my knowledge, arisen out of any abstract
considerations. Being, on the contrary, always suggested, as I say, by
the vorticial movements about centres, a reason for it, also,—a _cause_
for the ingathering of all the orbs into one, _imagined to be already
existing_, was naturally sought in the same direction—among these cyclic
movements themselves.
Thus it happened that, on announcement of the gradual and perfectly
regular decrease observed in the orbit of Enck’s comet, at every
successive revolution about our Sun, astronomers were nearly unanimous
in the opinion that the cause in question was found—that a principle was
discovered sufficient to account, physically, for that final, universal
agglomeration which, I repeat, the analogical, symmetrical or poetical
instinct of Man had predetermined to understand as something more than a
simple hypothesis.
This cause—this sufficient reason for the final ingathering—was declared
to exist in an exceedingly rare but still material medium pervading
space; which medium, by retarding, in some degree, the progress of the
comet, perpetually weakened its tangential force; thus giving a
predominance to the centripetal; which, of course, drew the comet nearer
and nearer at each revolution, and would eventually precipitate it upon
the Sun.
All this was strictly logical—admitting the medium or ether; but this
ether was assumed, most illogically, on the ground that no _other_ mode
than the one spoken of could be discovered, of accounting for the
observed decrease in the orbit of the comet:—as if from the fact that we
could _discover_ no other mode of accounting for it, it followed, in any
respect, that no other mode of accounting for it existed. It is clear
that innumerable causes might operate, in combination, to diminish the
orbit, without even a possibility of our ever becoming acquainted with
one of them. In the meantime, it has never been fairly shown, perhaps,
why the retardation occasioned by the skirts of the Sun’s atmosphere,
through which the comet passes at perihelion, is not enough to account
for the phænomenon. That Enck’s comet will be absorbed into the Sun, is
probable; that all the comets of the system will be absorbed, is more
than merely possible; but, in such case, the principle of absorption
must be referred to eccentricity of orbit—to the close approximation to
the Sun, of the comets at their perihelia; and is a principle not
affecting, in any degree, the ponderous _spheres_, which are to be
regarded as the true material constituents of the Universe.—Touching
comets, in general, let me here suggest, in passing, that we cannot be
far wrong in looking upon them as the _lightning-flashes of the cosmical
Heaven_.
The idea of a retarding ether and, through it, of a final agglomeration
of all things, seemed at one time, however, to be confirmed by the
observation of a positive decrease in the orbit of the solid moon. By
reference to eclipses recorded 2500 years ago, it was found that the
velocity of the satellite’s revolution _then_ was considerably less than
it is _now_; that on the hypothesis that its motions in its orbit is
uniformly in accordance with Kepler’s law, and was accurately determined
_then_—2500 years ago—it is now in advance of the position it _should_
occupy, by nearly 9000 miles. The increase of velocity proved, of
course, a diminution of orbit; and astronomers were fast yielding to a
belief in an ether, as the sole mode of accounting for the phænomenon,
when Lagrange came to the rescue. He showed that, owing to the
configurations of the spheroids, the shorter axes of their ellipses are
subject to variation in length; the longer axes being permanent; and
that this variation is continuous and vibratory—so that every orbit is
in a state of transition, either from circle to ellipse, or from ellipse
to circle. In the case of the moon, where the shorter axis is
_de_creasing, the orbit is passing from circle to ellipse and,
consequently, is _de_creasing too; but, after a long series of ages, the
ultimate eccentricity will be attained; then the shorter axis will
proceed to _in_crease, until the orbit becomes a circle; when the
process of shortening will again take place;—and so on forever. In the
case of the Earth, the orbit is passing from ellipse to circle. The
facts thus demonstrated do away, of course, with all necessity for
supposing an ether, and with all apprehension of the system’s
instability—on the ether’s account.
It will be remembered that I have myself assumed what we may term _an
ether_. I have spoken of a subtle _influence_ which we know to be ever
in attendance upon matter, although becoming manifest only through
matter’s heterogeneity. To this _influence_—without daring to touch it
at all in any effort at explaining its awful _nature_—I have referred
the various phænomena of electricity, heat, light, magnetism; and
more—of vitality, consciousness, and thought—in a word, of spirituality.
It will be seen, at once, then, that the ether thus conceived is
radically distinct from the ether of the astronomers; inasmuch as theirs
is _matter_ and mine _not_.
With the idea of a material ether, seems, thus, to have departed
altogether the thought of that universal agglomeration so long
predetermined by the poetical fancy of mankind:—an agglomeration in
which a sound Philosophy might have been warranted in putting faith, at
least to a certain extent, if for no other reason than that by this
poetical fancy it _had_ been so predetermined. But so far as
Astronomy—so far as mere Physics have yet spoken, the cycles of the
Universe are perpetual—the Universe has no conceivable end. Had an end
been demonstrated, however, from so purely collateral a cause as an
ether, Man’s instinct of the Divine _capacity to adapt_, would have
rebelled against the demonstration. We should have been forced to regard
the Universe with some such sense of dissatisfaction as we experience in
contemplating an unnecessarily complex work of human art. Creation would
have affected us as an imperfect _plot_ in a romance, where the
_dénoûment_ is awkwardly brought about by interposed incidents external
and foreign to the main subject; instead of springing out of the bosom
of the thesis—out of the heart of the ruling idea—instead of arising as
a result of the primary proposition—as inseparable and inevitable part
and parcel of the fundamental conception of the book.
What I mean by the symmetry of mere surface will now be more clearly
understood. It is simply by the blandishment of this symmetry that we
have been beguiled into the general idea of which Mädler’s hypothesis is
but a part—the idea of the vorticial indrawing of the orbs. Dismissing
this nakedly physical conception, the symmetry of principle sees the end
of all things metaphysically involved in the thought of a beginning;
seeks and finds in this origin of all things the _rudiment_ of this end;
and perceives the impiety of supposing this end likely to be brought
about less simply—less directly—less obviously—less artistically—than
through _the rëaction of the originating Act_.
Recurring, then, to a previous suggestion, let us understand the
systems—let us understand each star, with its attendant planets—as but a
Titanic atom existing in space with precisely the same inclination for
Unity which characterized, in the beginning, the actual atoms after
their irradiation throughout the Universal sphere. As these original
atoms rushed towards each other in generally straight lines, so let us
conceive as at least generally rectilinear, the paths of the
system-atoms towards their respective centres of aggregation:—and in
this direct drawing together of the systems into clusters, with a
similar and simultaneous drawing together of the clusters themselves
while undergoing consolidation, we have at length attained the great
_Now_—the awful Present—the Existing Condition of the Universe.
Of the still more awful Future a not irrational analogy may guide us in
framing an hypothesis. The equilibrium between the centripetal and
centrifugal forces of each system, being necessarily destroyed upon
attainment of a certain proximity to the nucleus of the cluster to which
it belongs, there must occur, at once, a chaotic or seemingly chaotic
precipitation, of the moons upon the planets, of the planets upon the
suns, and of the suns upon the nuclei; and the general result of this
precipitation must be the gathering of the myriad now-existing stars of
the firmament into an almost infinitely less number of almost infinitely
superior spheres. In being immeasurably fewer, the worlds of that day
will be immeasurably greater than our own. Then, indeed, amid
unfathomable abysses, will be glaring unimaginable suns. But all this
will be merely a climacic magnificence foreboding the great End. Of this
End the new genesis described, can be but a very partial postponement.
While undergoing consolidation, the clusters themselves, with a speed
prodigiously accumulative, have been rushing towards their own general
centre—and now, with a thousand-fold electric velocity, commensurate
only with their material grandeur and with the spiritual passion of
their appetite for oneness, the majestic remnants of the tribe of Stars
flash, at length, into a common embrace. The inevitable catastrophe is
at hand.
But this catastrophe—what is it? We have seen accomplished the
ingathering of the orbs. Henceforward, are we not to understand _one
material globe of globes_ as constituting and comprehending the
Universe? Such a fancy would be altogether at war with every assumption
and consideration of this Discourse.
I have already alluded to that absolute _reciprocity of adaptation_
which is the idiosyncrasy of the divine Art—stamping it divine. Up to
this point of our reflections, we have been regarding the electrical
influence as a something by dint of whose repulsion alone Matter is
enabled to exist in that state of diffusion demanded for the fulfilment
of its purposes:—so far, in a word, we have been considering the
influence in question as ordained for Matter’s sake—to subserve the
objects of matter. With a perfectly legitimate reciprocity, we are now
permitted to look at Matter, as created _solely for the sake of this
influence_—solely to serve the objects of this spiritual Ether. Through
the aid—by the means—through the agency of Matter, and by dint of its
heterogeneity—is this Ether manifested—is _Spirit individualized_. It is
merely in the development of this Ether, through heterogeneity, that
particular masses of Matter become animate—sensitive—and in the ratio of
their heterogeneity;—some reaching a degree of sensitiveness involving
what we call _Thought_ and thus attaining Conscious Intelligence.
In this view, we are enabled to perceive Matter as a Means—not as an
End. Its purposes are thus seen to have been comprehended in its
diffusion; and with the return into Unity these purposes cease. The
absolutely consolidated globe of globes would be _objectless_:—therefore
not for a moment could it continue to exist. Matter, created for an end,
would unquestionably, on fulfilment of that end, be Matter no longer.
Let us endeavor to understand that it would disappear, and that God
would remain all in all.
That every work of Divine conception must cöexist and cöexpire with its
particular design, seems to me especially obvious; and I make no doubt
that, on perceiving the final globe of globes to be _objectless_, the
majority of my readers will be satisfied with my “_therefore_ it cannot
continue to exist.” Nevertheless, as the startling thought of its
instantaneous disappearance is one which the most powerful intellect
cannot be expected readily to entertain on grounds so decidedly
abstract, let us endeavor to look at the idea from some other and more
ordinary point of view:—let us see how thoroughly and beautifully it is
corroborated in an _à posteriori_ consideration of Matter as we actually
find it.
I have before said that “Attraction and Repulsion being undeniably the
sole properties by which Matter is manifested to Mind, we are justified
in assuming that Matter _exists_ only as Attraction and Repulsion—in
other words 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.”[14]
[14] Page 37.
Now the very definition of Attraction implies particularity—the
existence of parts, particles, or atoms; for we define it as the
tendency of “each atom &c. to every other atom” &c. according to a
certain law. Of course where there are _no_ parts—where there is
absolute Unity—where the tendency to oneness is satisfied—there can be
no Attraction:—this has been fully shown, and all Philosophy admits it.
When, on fulfilment of its purposes, then, Matter shall have returned
into its original condition of _One_—a condition which presupposes the
expulsion of the separative ether, whose province and whose capacity are
limited to keeping the atoms apart until that great day when, this ether
being no longer needed, the overwhelming pressure of the finally
collective Attraction shall at length just sufficiently predominate[15]
and expel it:—when, I say, Matter, finally, expelling the Ether, shall
have returned into absolute Unity,—it will then (to speak paradoxically
for the moment) be Matter without Attraction and without Repulsion—in
other words, Matter without Matter—in other words, again, _Matter no
more_. In sinking into Unity, it will sink at once into that Nothingness
which, to all Finite Perception, Unity must be—into that Material
Nihility from which alone we can conceive it to have been evoked—to have
been _created_ by the Volition of God.
[15] “Gravity, therefore, must be the strongest of forces.”—See
page 39.
I repeat then—Let us endeavor to comprehend that the final globe of
globes will instantaneously disappear, and that God will remain all in
all.
But are we here to pause? Not so. On the Universal agglomeration and
dissolution, we can readily conceive that a new and perhaps totally
different series of conditions may ensue—another creation and
irradiation, returning into itself—another action and rëaction of the
Divine Will. Guiding our imaginations by that omniprevalent law of laws,
the law of periodicity, are we not, indeed, more than justified in
entertaining a belief—let us say, rather, in indulging a hope—that the
processes we have here ventured to contemplate will be renewed forever,
and forever, and forever; a novel Universe swelling into existence, and
then subsiding into nothingness, at every throb of the Heart Divine?