Nature declares herself in her works. What exists beyond her domain, if anything, becomes necessarily a matter of faith or imagination; and yet the origin of the material universe presents a problem which neither the vagaries of the ancients nor the speculations of the moderns have been able to solve in a satisfactory manner.

In modern methods of logic, we reason from cause to effect, from the known to the unknown; but in attempting to penetrate the region of the unknown, we are often left without a reliable guide. Analogy may aid, but cannot assure us. The powers of the human mind, if not infinite, may admit of infinite culture. What is supposed to be "unknowable" may therefore become known. However this may be, there is no divine injunction which prescribes a limit to human possibilities.

Whatever we may think or believe, the volume of Nature contains nothing but truth; it is a divine record which is as inexhaustible in its wealth of knowledge as it is conclusive in its logic. Men of science, in attempting to read this unerring record, have advanced many plausible theories in relation to the processes by which the earth acquired its embodiment, and took its place among the golden orbs of heaven.

There are reasons for believing that matter has always existed in some form or other, and that it is infinite in extent as well as in duration. Nor need we hesitate to infer, from the knowledge we have of the various forms in which matter exists, that what is true of the earth in its processes of development is equally true of every other planet.

Whether the earth in its origin was a fragment thrown off from some exploded planet which had filled the measure of its destiny, or whether it arose from the gradual accretion of elementary substances diffused in infinite space, are questions which cannot be satisfactorily answered. Either method is not only plausible, but consistent with the known laws and operations of Nature.

It seems quite probable that those erratic bodies known as comets are but incipient planets, which continue, as they revolve in their mystical flight, to accumulate gaseous matter until they have acquired and condensed a sufficient amount to become orbs, or worlds; when, by the influence of physical forces, they take their places in some one or other of the existing planetary systems. It is thus perhaps that the law of development constructs a world with as much ease as it constructs a grain of sand; nor can we doubt that the processes of aggregation and dissolution are made reciprocal in their relations, and perpetual in their action.

In a philosophical sense, "life" and "death" are but conventional terms, meaning nothing more than a change of matter from one form of existence to another. Whatever changes may take place, matter can neither be increased nor diminished. Infinite space, being an immateriality, could never have been created and cannot therefore be limited or annihilated. In all probability it still is, and always has been, filled with the elements of matter,—too subtile, perhaps, to be perceived, yet destined in the course of eternal ages to be wrought and re-wrought into infinite varieties of corporeal existences, mineral, vegetal, and animal, ever progressing from the imperfect to the perfect. Thus Nature teaches us the lesson that in perfection dwells the central Life, the quickening power of the universe.

In accordance with this view, we may regard every particle of matter in the universe as the germ of a world. And yet what are called original elements may be such, or may not. Supposed monads, or simple unities, if they exist at all, may be capable of analysis by the application of physical agencies or forces as yet unknown to science. Though science has disclosed much that is wonderful in the mechanism of Nature, there still lies before us an infinite unknown. Whether ultimately the human mind will become so enlarged and extended in its powers as to comprehend the infinite, admits of no positive assurance; yet in the unrevealed design of the great future, such may be the result.

It is only in modern times that science has taken the advanced step, and led philosophy into the beautiful avenues of Nature, where, amid the infinite, she gazes at the universe, listens to the music of the spheres, and beholds the golden wealth of the infinite displayed on every side. It is thus that philosophy has become inspired with a desire to account for everything, and finds that Nature has written her own history in the hills and in the rocks, in the depths of the sea, and in the stars of heaven, leaving nothing for man to do except to read the record, and accept its truthful teachings. In fact, the material universe may be regarded as an outspoken revelation of the infinite.

The elementary substances which compose the earth and its atmosphere are essentially the same, and are not numerous, so far as ascertained. The leading vital principle is oxygen, which constitutes at least one half of all known matter. The earth's crust is estimated to be about fifty miles thick. This estimate is based on the fact that in penetrating the earth, the heat uniformly increases at a rate which would fuse all mineral substances at that depth.

Hence, the interior of the earth is believed to be a region of molten substances, fiery billows that roll impatient of restraint, and escape here and there in the form of volcanic eruptions. Volcanoes are, therefore, but the outposts of gigantic central forces, and earthquakes but the spasmodic trials of their strength. It would seem, go where we will, that "fiery billows" literally roll beneath our feet. What Nature's ultimate designs are, it is impossible to predict. But it is pretty certain that her internal fires are working out some mystical problem. A scientific German has recently ascertained that the surface of the earth is gradually becoming hotter, and that in five hundred millions of years it will attain to such a degree of heat as to destroy human life. And yet there are other scientists equally wise, perhaps, who assert that the earth's crust is gradually cooling and contracting, and therefore radiating less heat, the final result of which will be the destruction of all life and a return of the glacial period.

Geological science, as well as revelation, impresses us with the belief that in the beginning "the earth was without form, and void,"—a chaos of atoms which were gathered, comet-like, from infinite space, and made to revolve in a globular mass by physical forces, until it became, by the condensation of its vapory atmosphere, submerged in a flood of dark and interminable waters. In consequence of the action of the waters on mineral substances, vast deposits of sediment accumulated, which, with the aid of pressure and chemical heat, gradually hardened into rocks, strata upon strata, like solid masonry, and varying in thickness from the fraction of a mile to thirty miles or more. Nature seems to have adopted this method of construction as a prerequisite to the severance of the land from the waters. In effecting this object, the explosive forces, long confined in the earth's interior, are supposed to have burst asunder the walls of their prison-house, suddenly upheaving continents and mountains from the depths of a dismal and shoreless ocean. It was then that the "dry land" made its first appearance, and was baptized in the pure sunlight of heaven.

The virgin soil of the earth, when thus exposed to the genial influence of the sun, soon produced vegetal life, and vegetal life animal life,—the one the food of the other. Thus Nature ever provides for her guests in advance of their reception. Yet in her formative processes she "makes haste slowly," though she may sometimes leap to conclusions. Her work never ceases. A million of years is to her as one day, and one day as a million of years. Hence everything has its age, and is lost in the ages. Of this fact we have reliable evidence in the strata of the rocks, and in the limited field of our own observation. There can be no doubt the earth has been many times baptized in fire and water, and its crust broken into fragments and thrown into strange angles and relations. These grand upheavals have occurred at dates vastly remote from each other, and are recognized by science as great geological periods.

The Ages of Nature, so far as relates to the earth, may be classed briefly as: the primary, or reign of fishes; the secondary, or reign of reptiles; the tertiary, or reign of mammals; and the modern, or reign of man. Each of these ages constitutes a grand chapter in the earth's history, which is easily read and understood by the masters of geological science. The same agencies which were employed in constructing the earth's crust are still employed in reconstructing it. In fact, the work of creation is still going on as in the beginning, if beginning there ever was in Nature's material processes. We see this illustrated in the changes which are produced on the earth's surface in our own time by the action of the rain, the wind, the frost, the flood, the glacier, the volcano, and the earthquake.

It is by these agencies that the hills and the mountains are graded down, and the detritus deposited in the valleys and in the sea; thus are valleys enriched and broadened, vast plains and deltas created, and continents enlarged. When the present hills and mountains have been reduced to plains, and the fertility of the soil exhausted, it is quite probable that another grand upheaval of the earth's foundations will occur,—the birth-power by which new hills and mountains are lifted up, and continents changed to ocean-beds, and ocean-beds to continents. It is these mighty changes and exchanges that prepare the way, and fit the earth for the production of higher orders of plants and animals, and perhaps a higher order of man.

In the course of unknown ages, Nature has enriched and extended the valley of the Nile hundreds of miles into the sea, by transporting thither the pulverized wealth of the Abyssinian mountains. Thus fertilized, Egypt has for many thousands of years sustained a dense population. Very justly has she been called not only the cradle of mankind, but the granary of the world. In like manner, the Ganges transports from the interior of India a sufficient amount of sediment annually to cover a township five miles square to the depth of ten feet, and by this means has extended the land hundreds of miles into the ocean. The Hoang-Ho, a river of China, by its deposits of alluvium in the sea has added an entire province to that country, comprising an area of ninety-six thousand square miles. Indeed, all rivers are tributaries to the sea, and all seas tributaries to the rivers. This exchange is effected mainly by the rains and the snows, the exhalations and the waterspouts. The clouds are but common carriers; this commerce is therefore a matter of mutual interest, and grows out of the positive necessities of sea and land. Though the elements appear to move in conflict, they really move in perfect harmony, and bring order out of seeming confusion.

In executing a gigantic work, no river has excelled the Mississippi. This "Father of Waters" has distinctly indicated in the record of his career the prehistorical age of the world, and the equally prehistorical advent of man. In his "march to the sea" he has left enduring landmarks, and with his battle-axe notched centuries long lost in the mighty past. The land which this majestic river has formed, by depositing sediment in the Gulf of Mexico, comprises an area of thirty thousand square miles. This deposit or delta has a depth exceeding one thousand feet; and the period required for its accumulation has been estimated by Mr. Lyell, the renowned geologist, at one hundred thousand years.

This estimate only embraces the deposits since the river ran in its present channel. The bluffs along the river rise in many places two hundred and fifty feet, and contain shells, with the remains of the mastodon, elephant, tapir, megalonyx, and other huge animals. It is evident that these bluffs must have belonged to an ancient plain or valley long anterior to the present level. In several sections of the valley as it now exists, excavations have been made deeper than the Gulf of Mexico, and successive growths of cypress-timber found, to the number of four or five distinct growths, the lowest lying at the depth of six hundred feet. Some of these trees are ten feet in diameter, and have from five to six thousand annual rings of growth.

As the valley of the river from age to age grew in elevation by deposits of sediment, a new growth of cypress was produced, and is now supervened by the live-oak plain, so called, which has had an existence, as estimated by the annual rings of the oaks, of fourteen thousand years.

In excavating for gas-works at New Orleans, a human skull was found beneath the roots of a cypress belonging to the fourth-forest level, in a good state of preservation, while the other bones of the skeleton crumbled to dust on exposure to the air. The type of the cranium was that of the aboriginal American. Now, if we take the period required to form the live-oak level, and add it to the time required to produce the next three subterranean growths of cypress, which overlie the fourth growth, in which the cranium was found, it clearly proves that the human race existed in the great valley of the Mississippi more than fifty-seven thousand years ago.

Not only in the valley of the Mississippi have fossil remains of man and animals been discovered at depths and in formations that prove their remote antiquity, but in many other parts of the world. Not many years ago, a human skull was found in Brazil, embedded in a sandstone rock overgrown with lofty trees. There is still preserved, in the museum at Quebec, a human skull which was excavated from the solid schist-rock on which the citadel now stands. Human skeletons have also been found in the island of Guadeloupe, embedded in a rock said to be as hard as the finest statuary marble. Even so recently as the year 1868, while sinking a well at the Antelope station, on the Union Pacific Railroad, the workmen penetrated a rock six feet thick, and at eighty feet below the rock discovered a human skeleton in such a state of preservation as to be readily recognized as such.

In another instance it is said that a human skull was discovered in Calaveras County, Cal., at the bottom of a shaft which had been sunk one hundred and thirty feet below the surface. It was found deposited in a bed of gravel with other organic remains, and beneath the eighth distinct geological layer of earth and gravel, where it must have lain, according to the estimate of Professor Whitney, the geologist, for a period of at least one hundred thousand years. This remote antiquity of man is also confirmed by discoveries in every part of the world of the fossil remains of domestic animals as well as of man, including implements of human invention, such as flint arrow-heads, stone axes, war-weapons, cooking-utensils, in localities which preclude the idea of their belonging to an age that has a written history.

It is not unfrequent that fossil remains of human bones and of animals are found embedded in the coral-reef limestone of Florida. In fact, says Professor Agassiz, the whole peninsula of Florida has been formed by successive growths of coral reefs and shells; he estimates the formation of the southern half of the peninsula as occupying a period of one hundred and thirty-five thousand years. The sea contains ingredients which feed innumerable animalcula, especially the polypes, or coral-builders, which have the power of secreting calcareous matter. These myriads of noiseless architects are ever busy in building for themselves fairy temples in the depths of the ocean, of the most delicate and beautiful workmanship, and in erecting pyramids and islands, and in extending continents.

In the mean time there are other agencies of a very different character continually at work, modifying the earth's surface, and preparing it for sustaining a still higher order of vegetal and animal life. As a result of these agencies, especially the volcanic, it often happens that serious calamities befall the human family. In the course of a century, not less than two thousand volcanic eruptions occur on the globe, equal to twenty a year, or one every eighteen days. The whole number of volcanoes known to be active at the present time exceeds three hundred; and doubtless many times that number have long since become extinct.

In Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, there are extensive tracts or belts of country which are volcanic in their character; and especially is this true of the entire American-Pacific coast, and the ocean-bed adjoining it. Often have long lines of this coast been elevated or depressed many feet, as if the whole continent were afloat, and tossing like a ship on a stormy sea. Neither in the past, nor in the present, has the earth seemed to rest on a sure foundation. Even in apparent security there is no positive safety.

Nature must and will exercise her sterner as well as her milder powers. In achieving gigantic works, she employs gigantic powers. Her forces are her own; and when she directs them to execute her mandates, she is promptly obeyed. She models and remodels the earth's exterior and interior at pleasure, but never without a beneficent design. Earthquakes break up the earth's crust. Internal fires melt it. Exploding gases lift it. Gravitation moulds it. The atmosphere cools it. The sun and the rain clothe it with verdure; and flowers crown it with beauty. In this way the earth's surface seems to have been prepared for the advent of man, and its interior supplied with coal-fields and reservoirs of oil and gas for his use.

Though Nature has made for man ample provision, she requires him not only to help himself, but to take care of himself. Nor does she give him formal notice to keep out of harm's way when she wishes to break up the earth's crust and re-cast it, but proceeds at once. She may sink or elevate a continent at a blow, or she may do it by slow degrees.

The earliest writers give us accounts of terrific earthquakes. Thucydides alludes to volcanic eruptions which occurred five hundred years before the Christian era. In the vicinity of volcanic mountains, it has happened that city after city, in the course of ages, has been engulfed, one upon another, in molten lava, or cinders, leaving no record behind them of their unhappy fate. Herculaneum lies buried a hundred feet deep beneath the modern city of Portici; and beneath Herculaneum, a city still more ancient has been discovered, whose name and history are entirely unknown. How many other cities lie buried at the foot of the old fire-crowned monarch of Italy, no one can tell; but doubtless there are several of them. What induced people to occupy a locality so perilous, it is difficult to say, unless it was the superior fertility of a volcanic soil.

No part of the world is exempt from sudden calamities of a similar character. The earthquake experienced by the city of Antioch in Syria, in the year 626, destroyed two hundred and fifty thousand people. The great eruption of Mount Etna, in 1669, overflowed fourteen towns, containing from three to four thousand inhabitants each. The stream of lava which issued from the mountain was half a mile wide and forty feet deep, and swept everything before it, until lost in the sea. The earthquake at Lisbon, in 1775, killed sixty thousand persons in six minutes; the shock was felt in Switzerland, in Scotland, in Massachusetts, and on the shore of Lake Ontario. In 1783, a large river in Iceland was sunk into the earth by volcanic action, and entirely obliterated. In 1792, an earthquake in the island of Java sunk a tract of land fifteen miles long and six miles wide, carrying down with it forty small villages. In our own country and in our own neighborhood, in 1811, several islands in the Mississippi River, near New Madrid, were sunk by an earthquake, and the course of the river driven back eighteen miles, causing it to overflow the adjacent lands; about half the county of New Madrid, as well as the village, was submerged. Several new lakes were created, one of which was sixty miles long and several miles wide. The earth's surface rose in undulations like the billows of the sea, and with terrific utterances, opened yawning chasms, from which vast columns of sand and water, and a substance resembling coke, were thrown out. The whole face of the country in that region was materially changed. And, what is a little singular, one of the lakes thus created by the earthquake extended to the river at a point nearly opposite the famous Island No. 10, thus affording a natural canal by which the Union forces in the late civil war approached and took the island.

It is not improbable that the entire chain of our great northwestern lakes, from Ontario to Superior, were created by the volcanic collapse of a mountain range that once occupied the same localities. Of this fact there are plausible, if not irresistible, evidences to be seen in the volcanic character of the rocks at various points along the entire coast. Nor can it be very well doubted that subsequent volcanic action has elevated much of the coast into several corresponding ridges, from one to two miles apart, which distinctly mark the successive boundaries of these inland seas.

Nature removes mountains, or creates them, at pleasure. She also makes and unmakes lakes and rivers, to say nothing of oceans and continents. In California, and doubtless in other parts of the world, there are as many dead as living rivers. The miners of California have already discovered the old channels of a dozen or more dead rivers, as they call them, encased and sealed up in the very heart of the mountain ranges, and extending in some instances hundreds of miles in the general direction of the ranges, and leaping from mountain to mountain at a common level or grade. These ancient channels are filled with sand, gravel, and small bowlders, evidently worn and polished by long attrition. Some of the channels are a mile wide, or more, and from ten to one hundred feet deep. In the angles or eddies, the sands are found to be exceedingly rich in gold, sometimes yielding fifty dollars or more to the cubic yard. It is estimated that over five hundred millions of dollars have already been taken from the sands of these dead rivers, and that they are now yielding at least ten millions a year. It is evident that these dead rivers must have been living rivers long before the volcanic era arrived, which elevated the ancient valleys into mountain ranges, and depressed the ancient mountain ranges into valleys.

In the South-American earthquake of August, 1868, thirty thousand lives were lost, several cities entirely obliterated, and three hundred millions of dollars' worth of property destroyed. A tidal wave, more than forty feet deep, swept over the land and deposited, high and dry, and beyond recovery, several first-class ships; the effect of this earthquake was felt along the coast for a distance of six to seven thousand miles. In October of the same year, the city of San Francisco was visited by an earthquake, which shattered many buildings, and destroyed several lives. It is supposed that this was but a prolongation of the South-American earthquake.

In some parts of California and South America, thunder and lightning seldom occur, while earthquakes are frequent; in regions like these, earthquakes would seem to be a substitute for thunder and lightning. In all probability both are but electrical phenomena, differing only in the fact that the one is an earthquake, the other a skyquake. It is in plains and valleys that earthquakes prove the most destructive. Doubtless the solid material composing the mountain ranges affords a better conductor of electricity than the alluvial soil of the plains and the valleys; hence, while the one serves as a lightning-rod, the other becomes the battleground of conflicting elements. It may be that electrical forces are generated in the earth's interior, as well as in the atmosphere, and that the earthquake is but the shock produced by the restoration of an equilibrium. The earth and the atmosphere are essentially the same in their elements, and are ever contributing of their substance to the requisitions of each other.

When physical science shall be so far advanced as to explain the true causes of the earthquake, if it does not make man "master of the situation," it will doubtless place in his hands the power of avoiding, to some extent at least, the calamities which now so often befall life and property.

There can be no doubt that the earth is a physical necessity not yet fully developed; only about one-fourth part of its surface is land, the remainder water. Nearly three times more land lies north of the equator than south of it. Why this should be so, is not quite clear. In the course of the earth's future development, however, it is not improbable that additional continents and islands will appear, and the waters subside into narrower and deeper channels, thus giving to man, and to land-life generally, a wider domain. And yet the present seas were not made in vain, but have always abounded with plant-life and animal-life, though of an inferior order as compared with land-life. Life in itself is infinite, and appears in infinite varieties both on land and in the sea. Whether man needs more land for his use and future development, is difficult to say. At any rate, everything that exists has its mutual relations, and adapts itself to the ultimate aim of Nature,—the perfection of man.

In the Western Hemisphere, the mountains take the general direction of north and south; in the Eastern, the general direction of east and west. In the one hemisphere, the ranges essentially accord with the lines of longitude; in the other, with the lines of latitude. These mountain ranges are but continental watersheds, from which flows the elemental wealth that enriches the plains and the valleys. The rivers and their tributaries are the commercial agents. The rain and the frost are the miners whose labors will never cease until the mountains are levelled. The mountains also attract and guide the storms and modify their force, condense the mists, the raindrop, and the dewdrop, and thus aid in refreshing the valleys in connection with the heat of the sunbeams. In this way the seasons, as well as the elements of the soil, are so modified and vitalized as to give to man seedtime and harvest, and needful food to every "living and creeping thing."

In addition to the world of life that is visible, there is a world of life that is invisible,—a microscopic realm of animalcula, which "live and move and have their being" in every element of life, and in every life, and yet are so minute as to be imperceptible to the naked eye. These invisibles, or infusoria, abound everywhere and in everything. They pervade the sea, the land, the air. They swarm in every drop of water, and revel in every morsel of food. We can neither eat nor drink without infringing on their domain and consigning myriads of them, perhaps, to an unprovoked destruction. They are almost as various in grade, size, and shape, as they are numerous. Some are hideous, while others are comely. They feed on each other, the superior on the inferior, and are ever struggling for life and for the mastery. They engage in the "battle of life" to sustain life, and hold to the doctrine that "to the victors belong the spoils." It is an ascertained fact that a speck of potato-rot, the size of a pin-head, contains hundreds of these little ferocious animals, fighting and devouring each other without mercy and without cessation.

What seems still more surprising is that they probably have a perfect organization,—heart, lungs, stomach, circulation of blood, and are endowed, perhaps, with all the five senses. Infinite numbers of them, it is supposed, exist in so minute a form that no microscope, however great its power, can detect them. Nor need we doubt that even these living invisibles are beset with parasites vastly minuter than themselves, which feed and breed on their surfaces. In the very blood-circulation of the minutest, it is not improbable that other infusoria, still more minute, swim and prey upon each other. The uses for which this invisible world of life were created, though doubtless for a wise purpose, cannot be comprehended. Yet it is evident that every living thing, however minute, has a destiny of some sort, ever progressing, it may be, from a lower to a higher sphere,—from the material to the spiritual, from the finite to the infinite.

The atmosphere, supposed to extend sixty miles in height, surrounds the earth like an invisible ocean, and gives to it almost entirely its life-material. In fact, the atmosphere is the great reservoir of the vital elements, from which is derived the principal part, if not all, the material, solid or liquid, which enters into the composition of both plant and animal, whether it be a blade of grass, a leaf, or a tree; an insect, a fish, or a man. It is true, however, that animal-life is more directly the outgrowth of plant-life; and yet the vital forces of both are derived from the air, and return to the air by solar agencies. It is quite certain that all matter, as seen embodied in various forms, consists entirely of certain gases condensed or solidified by chemical laws. The atmosphere itself, and probably infinite space, are filled with matter in the gaseous form, or in some unknown form, destined to be condensed, dissolved, and recondensed in a series of changes as continuous as the infinite ages.

In this sense, not only the earth, but every other planet, contains within itself the seeds of its own dissolution. Yet matter, whatever its form, is still indestructible, and will forever retain its vital forces. It would seem that life is the soul of matter, and that electricity is the soul of life,—immaterial, it may be, and if so, then immortal. Where the material ends, or where the spiritual begins, it is impossible to say. We know that we are endowed with the five senses at birth. We also know that they are the media through which we receive all the impressions and perceptions of our environment; it is from their report that we learn what is agreeable or disagreeable to our physical needs. We choose the agreeable, and reject the disagreeable. Here reason begins, and pronounces judgment. Memory records facts and conclusions. The physical and the mental grow in strength from infancy to manhood; they are a living unit. The one is real, and the other ideal. Of spirit or soul we know nothing, nor can we prove their existence, unless we accept the proofs as furnished by revelation. It is certain, however, that our moral character survives us and continues to have an influence in the world for good or for evil "according to the deeds done in the body." This fact is something which we can comprehend as constituting the ideal of our spiritual existence. Nor need we doubt that in discharging our duties to our fellow-men, we discharge our duties to God.

Everywhere about us, and especially in atmospheric phenomena, we see an epitome of Nature's processes and marvellous formative power. Not a snowflake falls to the ground that does not bring with it a crystallization of the most beautiful specimens of artistic embroidery, far excelling the finest needle-work ever wrought by woman's hand. The same is true of the silver frostwork traced on the window-pane by the delicate touch of invisible fingers. In truth, every gem that glitters in the mine, every flower of the field, and every star in the sky, is but a crystallized expression of the beautiful, blended with a silent love that is pure and heartfelt, as if akin to us. In reality they are our kindred, and we are their kindred.

Nature seems to delight in creating the wonderful as well as the beautiful, and often combines both in the same exhibition. Hence she entertains us occasionally with a magnificent display of fireworks, known as Northern Lights; or with an apparent shower of falling stars; or with the sudden descent of an aËrolite, all ablaze, as if dropped from the fiery forge of the sun; or with a brilliant comet, which with its long and glittering trail sweeps in ladylike style the star-dust from the pavement of the sky. These singular occurrences, though sometimes regarded as ominous, are but a part of Nature's systematic operations. They cannot with any foundation in truth be attributed to accident; for it is impossible that accidents should happen in the workshops of Nature, or in the administration of her government.

How the various meteors are actually formed, or whence they come, is a mystery which has induced much speculation among scientific men. Some say they are volcanic fragments thrown from the moon, or from some distant planet, or perhaps from a crater of the sun; while others, with more reason, suppose that they are generated in space, or in the earth's atmosphere, and are nothing more than condensed gases which constitute the elements of solid matter, and which become in some instances so hardened by chemical action as to assume the solidity of stone or iron.

And hence it often happens that the latter class of these erratic strangers fall from the sky to the earth with a terrific explosion. In ancient times their appearance was regarded as portentous of national or individual calamities. The Chinese have records of meteoric showers, and the fall of aËrolites, which occurred more than six hundred and forty years before the Christian era. The Greeks and Romans observed and recorded similar phenomena. Between the years 903 and 1833, not less than nineteen periodical star-showers have been recorded. The regular period of their occurrence is once in every thirty-three years, or thereabout, and usually about the middle of November. But what are called sporadic meteors, or shooting-stars, are of frequent occurrence, and may be seen almost every evening in the year.

The most brilliant meteoric shower on record is that of 1833, when meteors fell at the rate of two hundred and forty thousand per hour, creating the impression that all the stars of heaven had been unsphered, and were falling like a sheet of fire to the earth, and threatening a universal conflagration. Occurring as it did at midnight, and continuing for two or more hours, thousands of people, who witnessed the scene with fear and trembling, supposed the day of judgment had come. In just thirty-three years after this, Nov. 14, 1866, occurred another periodical shower of a similar character, which, though less brilliant, was seen on a more extended scale in Europe than in the United States. Why this apparent storm of fire should occur every thirty-three years, is a mystery which science has not yet been able to explain. It may be a part of the machinery of our planetary system, and is perhaps as regular in its revolutions as the planets; or it may be a method of dissipating an over-accumulation in the earth's atmosphere, or in infinite space, of inflammable gaseous matter, which thus ignites spontaneously, and presents to the eye the appearance of burning sparks flying off, as it were, from the broad anvil and ponderous sledge employed in the great workshop of Nature. Be this as it may, meteoric showers, so far as known, have always proved harmless in their results.

But the aËrolite assumes a more formidable character. In outline it is a globular mass heated to intensity, and in its approach comes with a hissing sound, and usually explodes in the atmosphere or when it strikes the earth. Its fragments show that it is a solid body, composed mostly of a ferruginous material. The illumination it creates in its passage through the atmosphere is sometimes seen at the distance of five or six hundred miles. Erratic masses of this kind have been known to fall in all ages and in all countries, and are of frequent occurrence.

So recent as the year 1867, an aËrolite of large dimensions fell in Tennessee, penetrating a hillside of rocky formation to the depth of twenty feet. It was seen at a great distance, and came hissing on its way like a planet on fire, and when it struck the earth, produced a shock like that of an earthquake. So intensely heated was it, that for three days after it fell it generated and sent up from the moist earth a dense column of steam, which rose and floated away like a cloud in the sky. When excavated, its mass was found to be composed principally of iron, and measured seven feet from apex to base, and ten feet in circumference. Fragments of it have been preserved, and may be seen at Washington, and in several collections of minerals belonging to scientific individuals. But where did it come from? Did it come from the sun, the moon, the earth, or from some exploded planet? or was it generated in the atmosphere? Though the question has not been satisfactorily answered, there are plausible reasons for believing that aËrolites, and meteors generally, are the spontaneous production of atmospherical agencies. Physical forces are at work all over the earth, charging the atmosphere with the identical materials that compose the meteoric stone, or aËrolite. Volcanoes emit their gases, and hurl with terrific force burning fragments of rock into the depths of the sky. The tornado, or land-spout, takes up in its grasp sand, with other solid material, and rotates it with such violence as to produce fusion of the mass, giving it a globular form and hurling it to an invisible height, and then leaving it to gravitate brilliantly and rapidly until it reaches the earth. This theory is confirmed by many facts, and especially by the occurrence of a land-spout near the village of Ossonval in France, where, on the 6th of July, 1822, some broken clouds, coming from different directions, and collecting over the sandy plain, formed a single cloud, which covered the heavens, when an elongated nether portion of it descended, presenting its vortex downward, and having its base in the cloud. It then became violent in its revolutions, and being driven by the wind, overturned buildings, uprooted trees, twirling them in the air with liberal quantities of sand and water, which it had scooped up in its course, when from its centre, amid sulphurous vapors, globes of fire were seen to issue, as if projected from an engine of terrific power, attended with a sound like that of heavy cannon discharged in the distance. Throughout its entire course it left the fearful traces of its devastation. The globes of fire which were projected from its centre, it may well be supposed, possessed all the characteristics of veritable aËrolites, and were thus manufactured by electrical heat and fusion out of the earth-material lifted from the plain.

Not long since, there fell near Romney, Ind., an aËrolite in a liquid, or molten state, which flew into fragments the moment it struck the earth's surface. The spot where it fell was deeply indented and scorched; and the material of which it was composed was found scattered about in the vicinity, having the appearance of cinders, yet moulded into the form of small spherical bodies varying in size from a buckshot to that of a cannon-ball. It is somewhat remarkable that in subjecting fractured portions of the cinders to intense heat, no perceptible odor was emitted, neither was the color nor weight changed. The fact that these cinders descended in spherical bodies would seem to indicate that the parent mass approached the earth in a state of fusion, projecting from its surface, as it revolved, detached fragments, which, taking a rotatory impulse, became its attendant satellites in accordance with planetary laws.

Among many other aËrolites that have fallen in different parts of our country, one of considerable magnitude was seen to fall near Concord, Muskingum County, Ohio, on the 1st of May, 1860; it approached the earth with a brilliancy as vivid as the sun, and exploded when it struck. Several fragments of it were excavated while quite hot, one of which, weighing eleven pounds, has been deposited in the Historical Rooms at Cleveland. It is composed of ferruginous matter, and seems almost as heavy as pure iron.

It is impossible for us to comprehend, from the standpoint we occupy in this life, our real relations either to the past or to the present, much less to the future. Earth has her manifold wonders, yet they are but few when compared with the infinite wonders of the heavens. Vast as our solar system truly is, it may still be regarded as but a chandelier suspended in the entrance-hall of Nature's great temple. When we consider that infinite space has neither centre nor circumference, and that it is filled with stars, and that every star is a world inhabited like our own, and that there are still infinite numbers of stars whose light, though travelling at the rate of one hundred and eighty-five thousand miles a second ever since the dawn of creation, has not yet reached the earth, we are lost,—lost in wonder and amazement, lost in thought, still wanting a thought broad enough and strong enough to grasp the infinite. Who is there that would not, if he could, explore the untrodden yet brilliant domains of infinite space,—the garden of God, ever blossoming with golden flowers,—and thus acquire for himself divine wisdom? If we would become as gods, and walk with God, we must learn to partake the food, and drink the beverage, of the gods.

In physical science there is much that has a direct influence on the growth and vigor of moral science. In fact, Nature does much more for the welfare and education of man than he does for himself. The mountains elevate his thoughts, and teach him moral sublimity. The vast ocean, apparently shoreless, suggests to him the idea of eternity and a future life. The earthquake, the hurricane, and the lightning inspire him with a belief in the existence of a supreme Power, a divine Governor of the universe. Thus impressed with a sense of his own weakness and dependence, man naturally implores protection, and trusts in the beneficence and in the clemency of the great Invisible. Hence his faith, his hope, his aspirations. In this way was laid the primitive foundation of his creed and religious tendencies. And yet his weakest passion would seem to be his strongest,—a desire not only to perpetuate himself beyond this life, but to acquire superhuman power. It is for this that he struggles, erects altars, and solicits aid from visionary as well as from divine sources.

Whether the perfection of mankind be the end and aim of Nature, need not be questioned. It is evident that she regards man as a favorite, and for this reason solicits him to accept the lessons of wisdom which are ever falling from her lips. In the plenitude of her love she attempts to lead him upward into a broader and a holier sphere. If man was able to trace his descent and ascertain his origin, do you think he would find it in the ape, as Darwin affirms, or in the dust of the earth? Revelation replies, In the dust; and a sound philosophy confirms the fact.

Nature never stultifies herself, nor does she develop a new species of animal or plant from an existing species, but doubtless encourages "natural selection" in the line of each distinct species, and by so doing promotes progress in her grand scheme of attaining perfection; nor can it be doubted that from new conditions a new species may appear. In fact, every living thing is born of its appropriate conditions, and will continue to propagate its kind so long as its appropriate conditions exist. When conditions change, results change. In this way a new species of plant or animal may be, and perhaps often is, generated. The process is simply one of change in the relation of the requisite life-elements,—a process which results from the unceasing operation of a great natural law. In Nature there is nothing constant but change.

Life, in all its varieties, whether vegetal or animal, has a rudimental origin, traceable perhaps to a minute egg, cell, or spore, call it what you will, from which is evolved in due time a perfect plant or animal. But if asked whence is derived the egg, cell, or spore, we can only reply that they have their origin in certain primitive life-elements, which are brought into contact in a way so subtile as to elude the investigations of science. This life-law, whatever it may be, acts in reference to kind, and produces its kind. Nearly all forms of life have resemblances; and though we accept the doctrine of evolution, it does not follow that man was developed from an ape, or the bird from a flying-fish.

Everything that lives, whether plant or animal, has its leading characteristics. Nearly all plants, as well as animals, evince a degree of intelligence in their choice of nutriment and in their methods of obtaining it. Some plants, like animals, shrink at the touch; while others have the power of locomotion. Some seek the sunlight; while others prefer the shade. Some imprison and appropriate insects as food; while others extend themselves in this or that direction in search of favorite companionship. It is doubtless true that plants, as well as animals, however low their grade, have sensation, perhaps consciousness, and if so, a ray of reason. It would seem that mind is but an outgrowth of matter, and that every living thing has a degree of intelligence. Indeed, every particle of matter, organic or inorganic, has motive power, and is therefore endowed with a living principle, however sluggish or inert it may appear. An intelligent vitality seems to pervade the entire material of the universe. Hence it has been said with some degree of plausibility that "matter thinks." However this may be, it is certain that its motive power acts in reference to adapting means to ends, and is therefore controlled by reason,—a reason that is infinitely superior to human reason. In other words, all matter is the subject of law. The one is manifestly the condition of the other. The law cannot exist without the matter, nor can the matter exist without the law. Both are therefore co-existent, and doubtless co-eternal.

Nature is ever active in working "wonders in the heavens and in the earth." Her domain includes both. In the beam of every star she sends us a messenger revealing the fact that the stars are constructed of the same materials as the earth. In like manner we have assurance that the same is true of the nebulous masses, which seem to float, like continents, in infinite space, awaiting the slow processes which are destined to mould them into golden orbs. And thus from the depths of the infinite comes world after world, system after system, ever sweeping onward in the "eternal dances of the sky," until lost in the infinite. And thus it is that the work of creation has neither beginning nor ending, but is ever progressing in its subtile methods of combining, dissolving, and recombining the entire matter of the universe. Everything, whether orb or atom, moves in a circle, because there is a divinity that stirs within it.

Philosophize as we may, it is certain that we are surrounded by the infinite, and are of the infinite. All that is terrestrial in us, all individualities, are evanescent, passing from one form into another. Nothing remains identical. Yet in her experiments, Nature never fails of success. In dissolving pearls, she creates others of higher value; in extinguishing stars, she lights up others of greater brilliancy and magnitude. And yet nothing becomes extinct; elements never die. Every plant and every animal is but the fruitage of the inherent life that pervades the material world.

In some form or other we always have existed and always will exist. It has been well said that man in his nature is "half dust and half deity." His life does not begin with his birth, nor does it end with his death; he is immortal. And so is everything, whether animate or inanimate, immortal. Even death survives itself. Nor is there a particle of matter in the universe that has not lived and breathed; nor is there a drop of water in the ocean that has not slaked the thirst of some living thing. Every star that glitters in the fathomless depths of space swarms with life, and every life achieves its aim. In a word, everything is infinite, and subserves an infinite purpose. We need neither go nor come to reach heaven. It is here; it is everywhere,—not a place, but a state. It is only the moral atmosphere of our social and individual life that requires purification,—a work that must begin in the head and in the heart in order to be effective. When this purification has been achieved, then with our earth-life will come moral elevation, and with moral elevation, harmony with heaven. The God of Nature is the God in Nature, who not only reveals himself in her lessons, but takes us by the hand, and with the love and patience of a parent leads us onward and upward—

EDUCATION OF THE MASSES.