page 5 of 6 . . . .
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 "nebulae" -- 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 phaenomenon 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 FR 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 "nebulae" which,
on casting our eyes FR the Universal belt, we perceive at all
points of the firmament -- so, I say, are these scattered "nebulae" 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, a 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." * 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.
* See prevous paragraph, "Now, to what does so partial a
consideration tend..."
We comprehend, then, the insulation of our Universe. We perceive the
isolation of that -- of 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
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
phaenomena 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 Alcmaeon.
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 a posteriori to have an
actual existence, led Newton to account for them by the hypothesis
of Gravitation, and, finally, to demonstrate them a 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, Astraea, 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 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 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 LA0 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
phaenomenon 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, traveling 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
Lyrae, 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 Lyrae, 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 Lyrae 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 Lyrae, 159 -- miles: -- that
is to say, I had assigned to Alpha Lyrae, in my first statement of the
case, only the 5280th part of that distance which is the least
distance possible at which it can actually lie.
To proceed: However distant a mere PL0,0, 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 Lyrae 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 Lyrae
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 Lyrae.
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 "nebulae" 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 Herschel, and in reference merely to those comparatively
proximate clusters within the scope of his own telescope. There
are "nebulae," 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 phaenomenon, 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 aera 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
PL0, 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 frenzy takes a very determinate turn -- whose genius, to speak
more reverentially, has a strongly-pronounced washer-womanish 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
Madler -- 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
phaenomena 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. Madler, 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 Madler 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 is it so must prove to all a priori philosophers.
