Astonomical Discourses 1
A SKETCH OF THE MODERN ASTRONOMY.
" When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy
fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that
thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?" PSALM
viii. 3,4.
IN the reasonings of the Apostle Paul, we cannot fail to
observe, how studiously he accommodates his arguments to the pursuits or
principles or prejudices of the people whom he was addressing. He often made a
favourite opinion of their own the starting point of his explanation; and,
educing a dexterous but irresistible train of argument from some principle upon
which each of the parties had a common understanding, it was his practice to
force them out of all their opposition, by a weapon of their own choosing, -
nor did he scruple to avail himself of a Jewish peculiarity, or a heathen
superstition, or a quotation from Greek poetry, by which he might gain the
attention of those whom he laboured to convince, and by the skilful application
of which he might " shut them up unto the faith.
Now, when Paul was thus
addressing one class of an assembly, or congregation, another class might, for
the time, have been shut out of all direct benefit and application from his
arguments. When he wrote an Epistle to a mixed assembly of Christianized Jews
and Gentiles, he had often to direct such a process of argument to the former,
as the latter would neither require nor comprehend. Now, what should have been
the conduct of the Gentiles at the reading of that part of the Epistle which
bore almost am exclusive reference to the Jews? Should it be impatience at the
hearing of something for which they had no relish or understanding? Should it
be a fretful disappointment, because every thing that was said, was not said
for their edification? Should it be angry discontent with the Apostle, because,
leaving them in the dark, he had brought forward nothing for them, through the
whole extent of so many successive chapters? Some of them may have felt in this
way; but surely it would have been vastly more Christian to have sat with meek
and unfeigned patience, and to have rejoiced that the great Apostle had
undertaken the management of those obstinate prejudices, which kept back so
many human beings from the participation of the Gospel. And should Paul have
had reason to rejoice, that, by the success of his arguments, he had reconciled
one or any number of Jews to Christianity, then it was the part of these
Gentiles, though receiving no direct or personal benefit from the arguments, to
have blessed God, and rejoiced along with him.
Conceive that Paul were
at this moment alive, and zealously engaged in the work of pressing the
Christian religion on the acceptance of the various classes of society. Should
he not still have acted on the principle of being all things to all men? Should
he not have accommodated his discussion to the prevailing taste, and
literature, and philosophy of the times? Should he not have closed with the
people, whom he was addressing, on some favourite principle of their own; and,
in the prosecution of this principle, might he not have got completely beyond
the comprehension of a numerous class of zealous, humble, and devoted
Christians? Now, the question is not, how these would conduct themselves in
such circumstances? but, how should they do it? Would it he right in them to
sit with impatience, because the argument of the Apostle contained in it
nothing in the way of comfort or edification to themselves? Should not the
benevolence of the Gospel give a different direction to their feelings? And,
instead of that narrow, exclusive, and monopolising spirit, which I fear is too
characteristic of the more declared professors of the truth as it is in Jesus,
ought they not to be patient, and to rejoice, when to philosophers, and to men
of literary accomplishment, and to those who have the direction of the public
taste among the upper walks of society, such arguments are addressed as may
bring home to their acceptance also, " the words of this life ?" It is under
the impulse of these considerations that I have, with some hesitation,
prevailed upon myself to attempt an argument, which I think fitted to soften
and subdue those prejudices which lie at the bottom of what may be called
the infidelity of natural science; if possible to bring over to the
humility of the Gospel, those who expatiate with delight on the wonders and the
sublimities of creation; and to convince them, that a loftier wisdom still than
that even of their high and honourable acquirements, is the wisdom of him who
is resolved to know nothing but Jesus Christ and Him crucified.
It is
truly a most Christian exercise to extract a sentiment of piety from the works
and the appearances of nature. It has the authority of the Sacred Writers upon
its side, and even our Saviour himself gives it the weight and the solemnity of
his example. "Behold the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they
spin, yet your heavenly Father careth for them." He expatiates on the
beauty of a single flower, and draws from it the delightful argument of
confidence in God. He gives us to see that taste may be combined with piety,
and that the same heart may be occupied with all that is serious in the
contemplations of religion, and he at the same time alive to the charms and the
loveliness of nature.
The Psalmist takes a still loftier flight. He
leaves the world, and lifts his imagination to that mighty expanse which
spreads above it and around it. He wings his way through space, and wanders in
thought over its immeasurable regions. Instead of a dark and unpeopled
solitude, he sees it crowded with splendour, and filled with the energy of the
Divine presence. Creation rises in its immensity before him; and the world,
with all which it inherits, shrinks into littleness at a contemplation so vast
and so overpowering. He wonders that he ii not overlooked amid the grandeur and
the variety which are on every side of him; and passing upward from the majesty
of nature to the majesty of nature's Architect, he exclaims, "What is man,
that thou art mindful of him; or the son of man, that thou shouldest deign to
visit him ?"
It is not for us to say, whether inspiration revealed
to the Psalmist the wonders of the modern astronomy. But even though the mind
be a perfect stranger to the science of these enlightened times, the heavens
present a great and an elevating spectacle - an immense concave reposing upon
the circular boundary of the world, and the innumerable lights which are
suspended from on high, moving with solemn regularity along its surface. It
seems to have been at night that the piety of the Psalmist was awakened by this
contemplation, when the moon and the stars were visible, and not when the sun
had risen in his strength, and thrown a splendour around him, which bore down
and eclipsed all the lesser glories of the firmament. And there is much in the
scenery of a nocturnal sky, to lift the soul to pious contemplation. That moon,
and these stars, what are they? They are detached from the world, and they lift
us above it. We feel withdrawn from the earth, and rise in lofty abstraction
from this little theatre of human passions and human anxieties. The mind
abandons itself to reverie, and is transferred in the ecstasy of its thoughts,
to distant and unexplored regions. It sees nature in the simplicity of her
great elements, and it sees the God of nature invested with the high attributes
of wisdom and majesty.
But what can these lights be? The curiosity of
the human mind is insatiable; and the mechanism of these wonderful heavens has,
in all ages, been its subject and its employment. It has been reserved for
these latter times, to resolve this great and interesting question. The
sublimest powers of philosophy have been called to the exercise, and astronomy
may now be looked upon as the most certain and best established of the
sciences.
We all know that every visible object appears less in magnitude
as it recedes from the eye. The lofty vessel, as it retires from the coast,
shrinks into littleness, and at last appears in the form of a small speck on
the verge of the horizon. The eagle, with its expanded wings, is a noble
object; but when it takes its flight into the upper regions of the air, it
becomes less to the eye, and is seen like a dark spot upon the vault of heaven.
The same is true of all magnitude. The heavenly bodies appear small to the eye
of an inhabitant of this earth, only from the immensity of their distance. When
we talk of hundreds of millions of miles, it is not to be listened to as
incredible. For remember that we are talking of those bodies which are
scattered over the immensity of space, and that space knows no termination. The
conception is great and difficult, but the truth is unquestionable. By a
process of measurement which it is unnecessary at present to explain, we have
ascertained first the distance, and then the magnitude of some of those bodies
which roll in the firmament; that the sun which presents itself to the eye
under so diminutive a form, is really a globe, exceeding, by many thousands of
times, the dimensions of the earth which we inhabit; that the moon itself has
the magnitude of a world; and that even a few of those stars, which appear like
so many lucid points to the unassisted eye of the observer, expand into large
circles upon the application of the telescope, and are some of them much larger
than the ball which we tread upon, and to which we proudly apply the
denomination of the universe.
Now, what is the fair and obvious
presumption? The world in which we live, is a round ball of a determined
magnitude, and occupies its own place in the firmament. But when we explore the
unlimited tracts of that space, which is every where around us, we meet with
other balls of equal or superior magnitude, and from which our earth would
either be invisible, or appear as small as any of those twinkling stars which
are seen on the canopy of heaven. Why then suppose that this little spot,
little at least in the immensity which surrounds it, should be the exclusive
abode of life and of intelligence? What reason to think that those mightier
globes which roll in other parts of creation, and which we have discovered to
be worlds in magnitude, are not also worlds in use and in dignity? Why should
we think that the great Architect of nature, supreme in wisdom, as He is in
power, would call these stately mansions into existence and leave them
unoccupied?
When we cast our eye over the broad sea, and look at the
country on the other side, we see nothing but the blue land stretching
obscurely over the distant horizon. We are too far away to perceive the
richness of its seenery, or to hear the sound of its population. Why not extend
this principle to the still more distant parts of the universe? What though,
from this remote point of observation, we can see nothing but the naked
roundness of yon planetary orbs? Are we therefore to say, that they are so many
vast and unpeopled solitudes; that desolation reigns in every part of the
universe but ours; that the whole energy of the divine attributes is expended
on one insignificant corner of these mighty works; and that to this earth alone
belongs the bloom of vegetation, or the blessedness of life, or the dignity of
rational and immortal existence?
But this is not all. We have something
more than the mere magnitude of the planets to allege in favour of the idea
that they are inhabited. We know that this earth turns round upon itself; and
we observe that all those celestial bodies, which are accessible to such an
observation, have the same movement. We know that the earth performs a yearly
revolution round the sun; and we can detect, in all the planets which compose
our system, a revolution of the same kind, and under the same circumstances.
They have the same succession of day and night. They have the same agreeable
vicissitude of the seasons. To them light and darkness succeed each other; and
the gaiety of summer is followed by the dreariness of winter. To each of them
the heavens present as varied and magnificent a spectacle; and this earth, the
encompassing of which would require the labour of years from one of its puny
inhabitants, is but one of the lesser lights which sparkle in their firmament.
To them, as well as to us, has God divided the light from the darkness, and he
has called the light day, and the darkness he has called night. He has said,
let there be lights in the firmament of their heaven, to divide the day from
the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and for
years; and let them be for lights in the firmament of heaven, to give light
upon their earth; and it was so. And God has also made to them graat
lights. To a11 of them he has given the sun to rule the day; and to many of
them has he given moons to rule the night. To them he has made the stars also.
And God has set them in the firmament of heaven, to give light upon their
earth; and to rule over the day, and over the night, and to divide the light
from the darkness; and God has seen that it was good.
In all these
greater arrangements of divine wisdom, we can see that God has done the same
things for the accommodation of the planets that he has done for the earth
which we inhabit. And shall we say, that the resemblance stops here, because we
are not in a situation to observe it? Shall we say, that this scene of
magnificence has been called into being merely for the amusement of a few
astronomers? Shall we measure the counsels of heaven by the narrow impotence of
the human faculties? or conceive, that silence and solitude reign throughout
the mighty empire of nature; that the greater part of creation is an empty
parade; and that not a worshipper of the Divinity is to be found through the
wide extent of yon vast immeasurable regions?
It lends a delightful
confirmation to the argument, when, from the growing perfection of our
instruments, we can discover a new point of resemblance between our Earth and
the other bodies of the planetary system. It is now ascertained, not merely
that all of them have their day and night, and that all of them have their
vicissitudes of seasons, and that some of them have their moons to rule their
night and alleviate the darkness of it; - we can see of one, that its surface
rises into inequalities, that it swells into mountains and stretches into
valleys; of another, that it is surrounded by an atmosphere which may support
the respiration of animals; of a third, that clouds are formed and suspended
over it, which may minister to it all the bloom and luxuriance of vegetation;
and of a fourth, that a white colour spreads over its northern regions, as its
winter advances, and that, on the approach of summer, this whiteness is
dissipated - giving room to suppose, that the element of water abounds in it,
that it rises by evaporation into its atmosphere, that it freezes upon the
application of cold, that it is precipitated in the form of snow, that it
covers the ground with a fleecy mantle, which melts away from the heat of a
more vertical sun; and that other worlds bear a resemblance to our own, in the
same yearly round of beneficent and interesting changes.
Who shall
assign a limit to the discoveries of future ages? Who can prescribe to science
her boundaries, or restrain the active and insatiable curiosity of man within
the circle of his present acquirements? We may guess with plausibility what we
cannot anticipate with confidence. The day may yet be coming, when our
instruments of observation shall be inconceivably more powerful They may
ascertain still more decisive points of resemblance. They may resolve the same
question by the evidence of sense, which is now so abundantly convincing by the
evidence of analogy. They may lay open to us the unquestionable vestiges of
art, and industry, and intelligence. We may see summer throwing its green
mantle over these mighty tracts, and we may see them left naked and colourless
after the flush of vegetation has disappeared.
In the progress of years
or of centuries, we may trace the hand of cultivation spreading a new aspect
over some portion of a planetary surface. Perhaps some large city, the
metropolis of a mighty empire, may expand into a visible spot by the powers of
some future telescope. Perhaps the glass of some observer, in a distant age,
may enable him to construct the map of another world, and to lay down the
surface of it in all in minute and topical varieties. But there is no end of
conjecture; and to the men of other times we leave the full assurance of what
we can assert with the highest probability, that von planetary orbs are so many
worlds, that they teem with life, and that the mighty Being who presides in
high authority over this scene of grandeur and astonishment, has there planted
the worshippers of His glory.
Did the discoveries of science stop here, we
have enough to justify the exclamation of the Psalmist, " What is man, that
thou art mindful of him; and the son of man, that thou shouldest deign to visit
him ?" They widen the empire of creation far beyond the limits which were
formerly assigned to it. They give us to see that yon sun, throned in the
centre of his planetary system, gives light, and warmth, and the vicissitude of
seasons, to an extent of surface several hundreds of times greater than that of
the earth which we inhabit. They lay open to us a number of worlds, rolling in
their respective circles around this vast luminary - and prove, that the ball
which we tread upon, with all its mighty burden of oceans and continents,
instead of being distinguished from the others, is among the least of them;
and, from some of the more distant planets, would not occupy a visible point in
the concave of their firmament. They let us know, that though this nuighty
earth, with all its myriads of people, were to sink into annihilation, there
are some worlds where an event so awful to us would be unnoticed and unknown,
and others where it would be nothing more than the disappearance of a little
star which had ceased from its twinkling. We should feel a sentiment of modesty
at this just but humiliating representation. We should learn not to look on our
earth as the universe of God, but one paltry and insignificant portion of it;
that it is only one of the many mansions which the Supreme Being has created
for the accommodation of His worshippers, and only one of the many worlds
rolling in that flood of light which the sun pours around him to the outer
limits of the planetary system.
But is there nothing beyond these
limits? The planetary system has its boundary, but space has none; and if we
wing our fancy there, do we only travel through dark and unoccupied regions?
There are only five, or at most six, of the planetary orbs visible to the naked
eye. What, then, is that multitude of other lights which sparkle in our
firmament, and fill the whole concave of heaven with Innumerable splendours?
The planets are all attached to the sun; and, in circling around him, they do
homage to that influence which binds them to perpetual attendance on this great
luminary. But the other stars do not own his dominion. They do not circle
around him. To all common observation, they remain immoveable; and each, like
the independent sovereign of his own territory, appears to occupy the same
inflexible position in the regions of immensity. What can we make of them?
Shall we take our adventurous flight to explore these dark and untravel1~d
dominions? What mean these innumerable fires lighted up m distant parts of the
universe? Are they only made to shed a feeble glimmering over this little spot
in the kingdom of nature? or do they serve a purpose worthier of themselves, to
light up other worlds, and give animation to other systems?
The first
thing which strikes a scientific observer of the fixed stars, is their
immeasurable distance. If the whole planetary system were lighted up into a
globe of fire, it would exceed, by many millions of times, the magnitude of
this world, and yet only appear a small lucid point from the nearest of them.
If a body were projected from the sun with the velocity of a cannon-ball, it
would take hundreds of thousands of years before it described that mighty
interval which separates the nearest of the fixed stars from our sun and from
our system. If this earth, which moves at more than the inconceivable velocity
of a million and a half miles a-day, were to be hurried from its orbit, and to
take the same rapid flight over this immense tract, it would not have arrived
at the termination of its journey, after taking all the time which has elapsed
since the creation of the world. These are great numbers, and great
calculations; and the mind feels its own impotency in attempting to grasp them.
We can state them in words. We can exhibit them in figures. We can demonstrate
them by the powers of a most rigid and infallible geometry. But no human fancy
can summon up a lively or an adequate conception - can roam in its ideal flight
over this immeasurable largeness - can take in this mighty space in all its
grandeur, and in all its immensity - can sweep the outer boundaries of such a
creation - or lift itself up to the majesty of that great and invisible arm on
which all is suspended.
But what can those stars be which are seated so
far beyond the limits of our planetary system? They must be masses of immense
magnitude, or they could not be seen at the distance of place which they
occupy. The light which they give must proceed from themselves, for the feeble
reflection of light from some other quarter, would not carry through such
mighty tracts to the eye of an observer. A body may be visible in two ways. It
may be visible from its own light, as the flame of a candle, or the brightness
of a fire, or the brilliancy of yonder glorious sun, which lightens all below,
and is the lamp of the world. Or it may be visible from the light which falls
upon it, as the body which receives its light from a taper - or the whole
assemblage of objects on the surface of the earth, which appear only when, the
light of day rests upon them - or the moon, which, in that part of it that is
towards the sun, gives out a silvery whiteness to the eye of the observer,
while the other part forms a black and invisible space in the firmament - or as
the planets, which shine only because the sun shines upon them, and which, each
of them, present the appearance of a dark spot on the side that is turned away
from it.
Now apply this question to the fixed stars. Are they luminous
of themselves, or do they derive their light from the sun, like the bodies of
our planetary system? Think of their immense distance, and the solution of this
question becomes evident. The sun, like any other body, must dwindle into a
less apparent magnitude as you retire from it. At the prodigious distance even
of the very nearest of the fixed stars, it must have shrunk into a small
indivisible point. In short, it must have become a star itself and could shed
no more light than a single individual of those glimmering myriads, the whole
assemblage of which cannot dissipate and can scarcely alleviate the midnight
darkness of our world. These stars are visible to us, not because the sun
shines upon them, but because they shine of themselves, because they are so
many luminous bodies scattered over the tracts of immensity - in a word,
because they are so many suns, each throned in the centre of his own dominions,
and pouring a flood of light over his own portion of these unlimitable regions.
At such an immense distance for observation, it is not to be supposed,
that we can collect many points of resemblance between the fixed stars, and the
solar star which forms the centre of our planetary system. There is one point
of resemblance, however, which has not escaped the penetration of our
astronomers. We know that our sun turns round upon himself, in a regular period
of time. We also know that there are dark spots scattered over his surface,
which, though invisible to the naked eye, are perfectly noticeable by our
instruments. If these spots existed in greater quantity upon one side than upon
another, it would have the general effect of making that side darker; and the
revolution of the sun must, in such a case, give us a brighter and a fainter
side, by regular alternations. Now, there are some of the fixed stars which
present this appearance. They present us with periodical variations of light.
From the splendour of a star of the first or second magnitude, they fade away
into some of the inferior magnitudes - and one, by becoming invisible, might
give reason to apprehend that we had lost him altogether - but we can still
recognize him by the telescope, till at length he reappears in his own place,
and, after a regular lapse of so many days and hours, recovers his original
brightness.
Now, the fair inference from this is, that the fixed stars,
as they resemble our sun in being so many luminous masses of immense magnitude,
they resemble him in this also, that each of them turns round upon his own
axis; so that if any of them should have an inequality in the brightness of
their sides, this revolution is rendered evident, by the regular variations in
the degree of light which it undergoes. Shall we say, then, of these vast
luminaries, that they were created in vain? Were they called into existence for
no other purpose than to throw a tide of useless splendour over the solitudes
of immensity? Our sun is only one of these luminaries, and we know that he has
worlds in his train. Why should we strip the rest of this princely attendance?
Why may not each of them be the centre of his own system, and give light to his
own worlds? It is true that we see them not; but could the eye of man take its
flight into those distant regions, it would lose sight of our little world
before it reached the outer limits of our system - the greater planets would
disappear in their turn - before it had described a small portion of that abyss
which separates us from the fixed stars, the sun would decline into a little
spot, and all its splendid retinue of worlds be lost in the obscurity of
distance - he would at last shrink into a small indivisible atom, and all that
could be seen of this magnificent system, would be reduced to the glimmering of
a little star.
Why resist any longer the grand and interesting conclusion?
Each of these stars may be the token of a system as vast and as splendid as the
one which we inhabit. Worlds roll in these distant regions; and these worlds
must be the mansions of life and of intelligence. In you gilded canopy of
heaven, we see the broad aspect of the universe, where each shining point
presents us with a sun, and each sun with a system of worlds - where the
Divinity reigns in all the grandeur of His attributes - where He peoples
immensity with His wonders; and travels in the greatness of His strength
through the dommions of one vast and unlimited monarchy.
The
contemplation has no limits. If we ask the number of suns and of systems, the
unassisted eye of man can take in a thousand, and the best telescope which the
genius of man has constructed can take in eighty millions. But why subject the
dominions of the universe to the eye of man, or to the powers of his genius?
Fancy may take its flight far beyond the ken of eye or of telescope. It may
expatiate in the outer regions of all that is visible - and shall we have the
boldness to say, that there is nothing there? That the wonders of the Almighty
are at an end, because we can no longer trace His footsteps? That his
omnipotence is exhausted, because human art can no longer follow Him? That the
creative energy of God has sunk into repose, because the imagination is
enfeebled by the magnitude of its efforts, and can keep no longer on the wing
through those mighty tracts, which shoot far beyond what eye hath seen, or the
heart of man hath conceived - which sweep endlessly along, and merge into an
awful and mysterious infinity?
Before bringing to a close this rapid
and imperfect sketch of our modern astronomy, it may be right to advert to two
points of interesting speculation, both of which serve to magnify our
conceptions of the universe, and, of course, to give us a more affecting sense
of the comparative insignificance of this our world. The first is suggested by
the consideration, that if a body be struck in the direction of its centre, it
obtains, from this impulse, a progressive motion, but without any movement of
revolution being at the same time impressed upon it. It simply goes forward,
hut does not turn round upon itself. But, again, should the stroke not be in
the direction of the centre - should the line which joins the point of
percussion to the centre, make an angle with that line in which the impulse was
communicated, then the body is both made to go forward in space, and also to
wheel upon its axis. In this way, each of our planets may have had its compound
motion communicated to it by one single impulse; and, on the other hand, if
ever the rotatory motion be comumicated by one blow, then the progressive
motion must go along with it. In order to have the firat rotation without the
second, there must be a two - fold force applied to the body in opposite
directions. It must be set a- going in the same way as a spinning-top, so as to
revolve about an axis, and to keep unchanged its situation in space.
The planets have both motions; and, therefore, may have received them
by one and the same impulse. The sun, we are certain, has one of these motions.
He has a movement of revolution. If spun round his axis by two opposite forces,
one on each side of him, he may have this movement, and retain an inflexible
position in space. But if this movement was given him by one stroke, he must
have a progressive motion along with a whirling motion; or, in other words, he
is moving forward; he is describiug a tract in space; and, in so doing, carries
all his planets and all their secondaries along him.
But, at this
stage of the argument, the matter only remains a conjectural speculation. The
sun may have had his rotation impressed upon him by a spinning impulse; or,
without recurring to secondary causes at all, this movement may be coeval with
his being, and he may have derived both the one and the other from an immediate
fiat of the Creator. But there is an actually observed phenomenon of the
heavens, which advances the conjecture into a probability. In the course of
ages, the stars in one quarter of the celestial sphere are apparently receding
from each other; and, in the opposite quarter, they are apparently drawing
nearer to each other. If the sun be approaching the former quarter, and
receding from the latter, this phenomenon admits of an easy explanation; and we
are furnished with a magnificent step in the scale of the Creator's
workmanship. In the same manner as the planets, with their satellites, revolve
round the sun, may the sun, with all his tributaries, be moving, in common with
other stars, around some distant centre, from which there emanates an influence
to bind and to subordinate them all.
They may be kept from approaching
each other, by a centrifugal force; without which, the laws of attraction might
consolidate, into one stupendous mass, all the distinct globes of which the
universe is composed. Our sun may, therefore, be only one member of a higher
family - taking his part, along with millions of others, in some loftier system
of mechanism, which they are all subjected to one law, and to one arrangement -
describing the sweep of such an orbit in space, and completing the mighty
revolution in such a period of time, as to reduce our planetary seasons, and
our planetary movements, to a very humble and fractionary rank in the scale of
a higher astronomy. There is room for all this immensity; and there is even
argument for all this, in the records of actual observation; and, from the
whole of this speculation, do we gather a new emphasis to the lesson, how
minute is the place, and how secondary is the importance of our world, amid the
glories of such a surrounding magnificence.
But there is still another
very interesting tract of speculation, which has been opened up to us by the
more recent observations of astronomy. What we allude to, is the discovery of
the nebulae.We allow that it is but a dim and indistinct light which
this discovery has thrown upon the structure of the universe; but still it has
spread before the eye of the mind a field of very wide and lofty contemplation.
Anterior to this discovery, the universe might appear to have been composed of
an indefinite number of suns, about equidistant from each other, uniformly
scattered over space, and each encompassed by such a planetary attendance as
takes place in our own system. But, we. have now reason to think, that instead
of lying uniformly, and in a state of equidistance from each other, they are
arranged into distinct clusters - that, in the same manner as the distance of
the nearest fixed stars sO inconceivably superior to that of our planets from
each other, marks the separation of the solar systems, so the distance of two
contignous clusters may be so inconceivably superior to the reciprocal distance
of those fixed stars which belong to the same cluster, as to mark an equally
distinct separation of the clusters, and to constitute each of them an
individual member of some higher and more extended arrangement. This carries us
upwards through another ascending step in the scale of magnificence, and there
leaves us in the uncertainty, whether even here the wonderful progression is
ended; and, at all events, fixes the assured conclusion in our minds, that, to
an eye which could spread itself over the whole, the mansion which accommodates
our species might be so very small as to lie wrapped in microscopical
concealment; and, in reference to the only Being who possesses this universal
eye, well might we say, " What is man, that thou art mindful of him; or the
son of man, that thou shouldest deign to visit him ?"
And, after
all, though it be a mighty and difficult conception, yet who can question it?
What is seen may be nothing to what is unseen; for what is seen is limited by
the range of our instruments. What is unseen has no limit; and, though all
which the eye of man can take in, or his fancy can grasp, were swept away,
there might still remain as ample a field, over which the Divinity may
expatiate, and which He may have peopled with innumerable worlds. If the whole
visible creation were to disappear, it would leave a solitude behind it. - but
to the Infinite Mind that can take in the whole system of nature, this solitude
might be nothing; a small unoccupied point in that immensity which surrounds
it, and which he may have filled with the wonders of his omnipotence. Though
this earth were to be burned up, though the trumpet of its dissolution were
sounded, though yon sky were to pass away as a scroll, and every visible glory,
which the finger of the Divinity has inscribed on it, were to be put out for
ever - an event, so awful to us, and to every world in our vicinity, by which
so many suns would be extinguished, and so many varied scenes of life and of
population would rush into forgetfulness - what is it in the high scale of The
Almighty's workmanship? a mere shred, which though scattered into nothing,
would leave the universe of God one entire scene of greatness and af majesty.
Though this earth, and these heavens, were to disappear, there are
other worlds which roll afar; the light of other suns shines upon them; and the
sky which mantles them, is garnished with other stars. Is it presumption to
say, that the moral world extends to these distant and unknown regions? that
they are occupied with people? that the charities of home and of neighbourhood
flourish there? that the praises of God are there lifted up, and his goodness
rejoiced in? that piety has there its temples and its offerings? and the
richness of the divine attributes is there felt and admired by intelligent
worshippers?
And what is this world in the immensity which teems with
them - and what are they who occupy it? The universe at large would suffer as
little, in its splendour and variety, by the destruction of our planet, as the
verdure and sublime magnitude of a forest would suffer by the fall of a single
leaf. The leaf quivers on the branch which supports it. It lies at the mercy of
the slightest accident. A breath of wind tears it from its stem, and it lights
on the stream of water which passes underneath. In a moment of time, the life
which we know, by the microscope, it teems with, is extinguished; and an
occurrence so insignificant in the eye of man, and on the scale of his
observation, carries in it, to the myriads which people this little leaf, an
event as terrible and as decisive as the destruction of a world. Now, on the
grand scale of the universe, we, the occupiers of this ball, which performs its
little round among the suns and the systems that astronomy has unfolded - we
may feel the same littleness, and the same insecurity. We differ from the leaf
only in this circumstance, that it would require the operation of greater
elements to destroy us. But these elements exist. The fire which rages within,
may lift its devouring energy to the surface of our planet, and transform it
into one wide and wasting volcano. The sudden formation of elastic matter in
the bowels of the earth - and it lies within the agency of known substances to
accomplish this - may explode it into fragments. The exhalation of noxious air
from below, may impart a virulence to the air that is around us; it may affect
the delicate proportion of its ingredients; and the whole of animated nature
may wither and die under the malignity of a tainted atmosphere. A blazing comet
may cross this fated planet in its orbit, and realize all the terrors which
superstition has conceived of it.
We cannot anticipate with precision
the consequences of an event which every astronomer must know to lie within the
limits of chance and probability. It may hurry our globe towards the sun. - or
drag it to the outer regions of the planetary system - or give it a new axis of
revolution: and the effect, which I shall simply announce, without explaining
it, would be to change the place of the ocean, and bring another mighty flood
upon our islands and continents. These are changes which may happen m a single
instant of time, and against which nothing known in the resent system of things
provides us with any security. They might not annihilate the earth, but they
would unpeople it; and we who tread its surface with such firm and assured
footsteps, are at the mercy of devouring elements, which, if let loose upon us
by the, hand of the Almighty, would spread solitude, and silence, and death,
over the dominions of the world.
Now, it is this littleness, and this
insecurity, which make the protection of the Almighty so dear to us, and bring,
with such emphasis, to every pious bosom, the holy lessons of humility and
gratitude. The God who sitteth above, and presides in high authority over all
worlds, is mindful of man; and though at this moment His energy is felt in the
remotest provinces of creation, we may feel the same security in His
providence, as if we were the objects of His undivided care. It is not for us
to bring our minds up to this mysterious agency. But such is the
incomprehensible fact, that the same Being, whose eye is abroad over the whole
universe, gives vegetation to every blade of grass, and motion to every
particle of blood which circulates through the veins of the minutest animal;
that, though His mind takes into its comprehenave grasp immensity and all its
wonders, I am as much known to Him as if I were the single object of His
attention; that He marks all my thoughts; that He gives birth to every feeling
and every movement within me; and that, with an exercise of power which I can
neither describe nor comprehend, the same God who sits in the highest heaven,
and reigns over the glories of the firmament, is at my right hand, to give me
every breath which I draw, and every comfort which I enjoy.
But this
very reflection has been appropriated to the use of Infidelity, and the very
language of the text has been made to bear an application of hostility to the
faith. " What is man, that God should be mindful of him; or the son of man,
that he should deign to visit him ?" Is it likely, says the Infidel, that
God would send his eternal Son, to die for the puny occupiers of so
insignificant a province in the mighty field of his creation? Are we the
befitting objects of so great and so signal an interposition? Does not the
largeness of that field which astronomy lays open to the view of modern
science, throw a suspicion over the truth of the gospel history? and how shall
we reconcile the greatness of that wonderful movement which was made in heaven
for the redemption of fallen man, with the comparative meanness and obscurity
of our species? This is a popular argument against Christianity, not much dwelt
upon in books, but, we believe, a good deal insinuated in conversation, and
having no small influence On the amateurs of a superficial philosophy. At all
events, it is right that every such argument should be met, and manfully
confronted; nor do we know a more discreditable surrender of our religion, than
to act as if she had any thing to fear from the ingenuity of her most
accomplished adversaries. The author of the following treatise engages in his
present undertaking, under the full impression that a something may be found
with which to combat Infidelity in all its forms; that the truth of God and of
his message admits a noble and decisive manifestation, through every mist which
the pride, or the prejudice, or the sophistry of man may throw around it; and
elevated as the wisdom of him may be, who has ascended the heights of science,
and poured the light of demonstration over the most wondrous of nature's
mysteries, that even out of his own principles it may be proved, how much more
elevated is the wisdom of him who sits with the docility of a little child to
his Bible, and casts down to its authority all his lofty imaginations.
Preached at Tron Church, Glasgow on Thursday 23rd. November 1815. The
remaining discourses occupied all of 1816, and the works were published in
1817.
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