God's glory in the heavens/The Moon—Is It Inhabited?
Gassendi.
II.
THE MOON—IS IT INHABITED?
In the more detailed survey which we mean to take of the heavens, as illustrative of God's glory, we shall first direct our attention to the moon, our nearest neighbour. The moon will form the first step in the ladder, by which we shall attempt to scale those heights, commanding the widest range of the marvellous works of the Almighty. Although we cannot by searching find out God—although baffled in our attempts to comprehend the Absolute, still, there are successive elevations in space which enable us to enlarge our view, and form a juster conception of the Infinite and Eternal. From the satellite, we step to the primary planet; from the planet, to the centre of the system; from system, to firmament; and, while new firmaments stretch out before us in marvellous form and grouping, we feel that we are yet far from the throne of the Eternal.
The dream of the poet has placed the special residence of the Godhead in some vast central body, round which all worlds, and systems, and firmaments circulate in lowly homage. The graver thoughts of science have, in connexion with speculations about light and heat, imagined a limit within which all the play of material action is confined—a vast globe of ethereal matter, within which all material bodies are embraced, and without which the activities of light, heat, electricity, magnetism, and gravitation, could not exist. These, however, arc but the feeble aspirations of humanity to grasp the incomprehensible. But why should we repine at our limited knowledge? would not knowledge cease to have charms, if we knew all? What is it that gives to profound study its fascinations? Is it not, that it brings us face to face with the unknown? If there was not, still, a beyond, our spirits would shrink within us, and we would feel as if our destiny were unfulfilled. The oft-quoted saying of Newton, that he felt he was only a child picking up pebbles on the margin of the ocean, is usually taken as merely illustrative of the modesty of genius; but, at the same time, no one can occupy a more enviable position than that, which gives him an unobstructed view of the great ocean of the unknown. Few get down to its brink at all: the many are satisfied with the little they can understand, and rather shrink from what reveals their ignorance or conceit.
In most other sciences, the mind is frequently so lost in details, that it is difficult to find a standpoint, where you may gaze freely out upon the unknown. In astronomy, however, you are brought, almost at once, to stand face to face with the Infinite. No doubt, you come at last to the unfathomable, when dealing with the molecular forces of matter—and the mind can be as much lost in atoms, as in suns and systems; still, the popular intellect can, more readily, deal with the infinitely great than the infinitely little; and the foot stands more firmly on systems of worlds than groups of molecules. The fact that the material universe presents no boundary-wall to limit inquiry, so far from being a ground for turning from astronomical inquiry, accounts for the charm which has ever surrounded this study.
The moon is, by far, our nearest neighbour. While Neptune is a mile distant, the moon is, on the same scale, only about six inches. And man, even when he could form no idea of the real distance, ever looked to the moon with a familiarity, which he could feel towards no other heavenly body. While bowing to the lordly sun in devout adoration, he endowed the moon with the feminine attributes of gentleness, love, and weakness. This idea of tenderness and familiarity, is well expressed in the lines of Wordsworth:—
" Wanderer, that stoop'st so low and comest so near
To human life's unsettled atmosphere;
Who lovest with night and silence to partake,
So might it seem, the cares of them that wake.
The most rude,
Cut off from home and country, may have stood,
Even till long gazing hath bedimm'd his eye,
Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh.
With some internal lights to memory dear,
Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast.
Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest;
Gentle awakenings, visitations meek,
A kindly influence whereof few will speak,
Though it can wet with tears the hardest cheek."
The charm of the moon over the infant mind, is described, by the same author, in the following lines: —
"Oh, still beloved, (for thine, meek power, are charms
That fascinate the very babe in arms.
While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright,
Spreading his palms in his glad mother's sight.)
Oh, still beloved, once worshipp'd."
RUGGED EDGE OF THE MOON.
are diversities of shade, which allure us to form conjectures about their significance; and, in the crescent moon, we can readily discover that the concave side presents a rugged edge. It can hardly be surprising, then, that the instincts of genius should in this, as in other departments, anticipate the discoveries of science. Democritus propounded the idea of the spots on the moon being diversities of surface, consisting of mountains and valleys, seas and rivers. The Orphic Hymns went further, by ascribing cities with a teeming population. The power of the telescope was, however, required to bring out in relief the diversities of surface, which make the moon the counterpart of our own globe.
To those who have not had the opportunity of examining the moon through a telescope, the stereoscopic pictures of Mr Warren De la Rue form an admirable substitute. Indeed, to the unscientific eye, the stereoscopic picture gives a much truer idea of the configuration of the body. The reason is simple. We have not, in looking through the telescope, the aids of perspective, which we possess, when looking at any terrestrial object; and, consequently, there is difficulty in bringing out in relief the mountain ranges, peaks, and rims of craters. Sometimes, the moon, to the unpractised eye, appears a uniform level; at others, the relief is reversed, the mountain sinking into a cavity, and the sharp peak into a perforation. The stereoscopic views of the moon, however, remedy all this: the moon is seen with all its natural roundness, and every mountain projects as in a model, placed onlj a few inches from the eye. But how is it that a stereoscopic picture of the moon can be obtained? This, at first sight, appears impossible, as she always turns the same side to us. When a stereoscopic portrait is taken, two views of the party must be obtained, and this may be done in two ways. When one picture is taken, the camera is moved a little to one side and a second taken, the party sitting immovable all the time; or the camera may be fixed, and the party may turn his body a little round for the second picture. It is in this latter way, a stereoscopic picture of the moon is obtained. The camera, of course, cannot be moved sufficiently aside to take a picture from a different point of view, and it is therefore stationary. The moon, however, effects the object required by turning her face a very little round, so that a somewhat different perspective is obtained. This small movement is called her libration, and, though small, is quite sufficient to give the required stereoscopic effect. The moon always presents the same face to us, as she rotates on her axis in the same time that she revolves round the earth; but these two motions are not perfectly coincident during a revolution, and we are, therefore, permitted to see, a small way, round her globe. It is from this slight oscillation that the stereoscope gives us so perfect a representation of the lunar surface. If the student's first acquaintance with the moon be made in this way, he will be able to understand, much more readily, the revelations of the telescope.
As soon as we get a glimpse of the mountain ranges, volcanic craters, and vast plains of our satellite, the natural inquiry is—Is it inhabited? There is a sufficient general resemblance, at the first glance, to prompt the inquiry; but—Does minuter inspection countenance the hypothesis? We have not the more obvious proofs of habitableness. We do not find cities with ramifying streets, or such diversities of colour as would indicate cultivated districts, though we have telescopic power to discover such traces if they existed. If peopled with beings like ourselves, we might naturally expect single buildings, which would be quite discernible by the telescope; for, in the moon, blocks of stone could be raised by one man, that would require, in this globe, the united energies of six. Here, structures are very limited in magnitude by the tendency of the weight to crush the stone; but, there, from the lightness of the materials, the range would be much wider. No such buildings, however, no trace of cities, no proofs that the soil has been disturbed by the plough, or that yellow harvests alternate with green fields, have been discovered.
There is no necessity, however, that the inhabitants should be after the type of man's bodily constitution; we can conceive intellect united to a very different corporeal organisation; and we know that there is a very wide range, even in this globe, in the conditions necessary to sustain life. Still, we must start from some essential conditions of life in this globe, if we are to make our argument one of analogy. No doubt, it may be said that God could, in the case of the planetary bodies, make life dependent on totally different conditions. This is true, but it is a totally different question from that of analogy. The question is one, not of possibility but of probability, and the probability is to be derived from the existence of conditions in the moon, similar to those in the earth. While ignorant of the absence of air and water in the moon, the many other points of similarity would afford some presumption that the moon is inhabited. But these points of similarity militate against the presumption, now that the essential conditions of life on our globe are found to be wanting. If it be held that life may be sustained by totally different means, then the hypothesis is best sustained by finding points of difference instead of similarity.
Let us take one of the most essential conditions of life on our globe, the existence of air: air is less essential to some creatures than to others, but we have no reason to believe that, under a total deprivation of it, any creature can exist on our globe. It may be argued, that God could create beings capable of existing without air, and that life may exist in the moon, even though no atmosphere should be discovered. The question is, however, not, What is within the compass of God's power? but, What has likely been the exercise of His power in the moon, from our knowledge of His power in our globe? And, to have any ground of probability to stand upon, the astronomical argument must prove, that the conditions essential to life here are also found in the moon; or, at least, that the existence of such conditions is probable.
Every possible test has been applied, but no trace whatever of air has been found in the moon. Eclipses and occultations have been watched with the utmost care, but all in vain; some of the tests are so delicate, that if there was an atmosphere capable of raising the mercury one-sixtieth of an inch in the barometer, it would have been detected. If there is an atmosphere after all, how evanescent it must be compared with ours, which raises the mercury to about thirty inches. Could we conceive living creatures to exist in the moon without air, how strange must be the conditions of life! Let us only imagine that life moves on very much as it does here, with the only difference, that there is no air, and we shall at once see how wondrously our nature is adapted to the physical conditions in which we are placed. Most people probably think little of the functions of the atmosphere, except when it is pressed on their attention by the danger of suffocation, or by witnessing the terrible mechanical effects of the storm. But think how strange life must be in the moon without an atmospheric medium. Eternal silence must reign there. A huge rock may be precipitated from the lofty lunar cliffs, but no sound is heard—it falls noiselessly as a flock of wool. The inhabitants can converse only by signs. The musician in vain attempts to elicit sweet music from his stringed instrument; no note ever reaches the ear. Armies in battle array do not hear the boom of the cannon, though rifled arms, from the low trajectory of the ball, must acquire a fatal precision and range. No moving thing can live aloft; the eagle flaps its wings against the rocks, and in vain attempts to rise. The balloon, instead of raising the car, crushes it with the weight of its imprisoned gas.
Again, the inhabitants, having no atmosphere to shelter them from the sun and store up its heat, must recoil with terror from its fierce rays. During the long lunar day, the ground must become as burning marl, from which the scorched feet shrink with pain; during the equally long night, it must be colder than frozen mercury. No fuel will burn to mitigate the rigour of the cold, and none but the electric light can avail to dispel the darkness.
Then as to light, how strange are the conditions! At noon-day the sky is as black as pitch, except in the region of the sun; and the stars shine out as at midnight. When the sun disappears in the horizon, darkness is as sudden as the darkness of an eclipse, or the extinguishing of a candle in a room. The inhabitants, on the shady side of a range of mountains, must be in almost total darkness, though the sun is above the horizon; and a room, lighted by windows in the roof, must be in the same predicament, except when the sun shines directly down. No clouds float overhead; and the murky atmosphere, and the dense clouds of smoke hanging over our manufacturing towns, must be incomprehensible to the Lunarians, as they watch our globe rapidly rotating on its axis, but immovably fixed in the heavens. These are a few of the consequences involved in the want of an atmosphere, apart altogether from the incompatibility of such want with life. We are, every moment, bathed in this fluid, which ministers to our wants in a thousand ways 5 and, yet, how little are we conscious of its benefits! How seldom do we think of Him who has so wondrously adapted the medium, in which we move, to the necessities of our nature!
It will be then said, that the moon must be abandoned as an argument for the plurality of worlds, seeing that it fails to exhibit the prime condition of life. The advocates of this doctrine, after fruitless endeavour to educe an argument, gave it up in despair. A recent discovery has, however, entirely changed the aspect of things; and the moon may now be appealed to, as furnishing a theatre for the display of all the activities of animated and intelligent beings. This discovery, while curious in reference to its bearing on this question, also presents one of the most brilliant achievements of science in modern times.