Lunar Landscape
Paley holds that astronomy does not afford such
striking proofs of a Divine intelligence, as the wonderful adaptation of
means to ends presented everywhere in the animal and vegetable kingdoms;
but that, a Divine intelligence being granted, no field presents such
impressive views of the grandeur and power of God. Every one must feel the
force of this observation when, in thought, he wanders over the barren
surface of the moon, and fails to discover such proofs of design as are
abundantly strewn over the surface of our globe.
It is the fact of life that furnishes those innumerable
adaptations which irresistibly impress the mind with a superintending
intelligence, and raises the devout heart to the contemplation of Him who
made and ruleth over all. Did we find life in the moon, we would, at the
same time, find inexhaustible and novel illustrations of a designing mind.
On our globe everything is delicately adjusted to the cosmical laws that
have sway over it as a member of the solar system. The very curve of the
snow-drop, as it bends its head, is regulated by the attractive power of
the globe. The flower could not thrive in a world which attracted more or
less. A slight change in the constitution of the atmosphere, or in the
alternation of night and day, would be fatal to many forms of life. Did a
comet come into collision with our earth, so as to change its axis, new
conditions, wholly destructive to a wide range of animal and vegetable
life, would be introduced. If life exists in the moon, there must be
special adaptations corresponding to its physical constitution. The fact
that bodies are more than five times lighter in the moon than on the
earth, would admit of their being on a much more colossal scale. Trees,
for example, on our globe, throw out their branches timidly, lest they
break with their own weight. They carefully keep within the breaking
point, and so nicely is this adjusted, that when, from any extraneous
cause, they become overloaded, they are apt to come away with a crash; as
in the case of the ancient forest in Italy, which, a few weeks ago, had
every tree stripped of its branches by the icicles with which they were
loaded. A slight wind was all that was necessary to convert into bare
poles the stately trees of a forest that had stood for ages. In the moon,
however, trees could safely throw out their branches to a much greater
extent, simply for the reason that they are so much lighter. It is a great
feat in architecture to construct a spire or factory chimney a few hundred
feet high, and when such structures exceed a certain height, there is
danger of their toppling over, or of being crushed by their own weight.
But in the moon, the colossal chimney of Glasgow would be altogether
dwarfed, standing side by side with the chimneys of the lunar factories.
Then, as to the alternation of day and night, how singularly constituted
must the forms of life be to bear a fortnight of unmitigated sunshine, and
then a long dreary night of similar length. Scorching is avoided, on our
globe, by our turning away from the central fire after twelve hours'
exposure. During the night we are agreeably cooled, and prepared once more
to hail the genial light and heat of the sun. But were our summer days
doubled in length, the heat would be intolerable, and all things would
languish and die. How strangely constituted must animal and vegetable life
be in the moon, to bear the long scorching of a day equal to fourteen of
the earth's days. Did we discover living creatures adapted to these and
the other strange conditions existing in the moon, we, no doubt, would be
filled with adoring wonder at such manifestations of God's wisdom and
goodness.
But is the survey of the moon's surface devoid of
interest, and does it fail to point to a Divine intelligence, because we
can discover none of these special adaptations that so abound on the
surface of our globe? Paley would answer that it is barren in theological
results, and that, unless we can establish a use, we cannot turn
that strangely-diversified surface to any account, as proving a Divine
intelligence. Natural theology has made an advance since Paley's time,
inasmuch as it recognises as proofs of intelligence, order, symmetry,
arrangement, type, as well as the adaptation of means to special ends. It
is not necessary to prove a use in order to recognise intelligence. It is
very much the fashion, at the present day, to disparage the argument of
Paley, and to resolve all into mere order. But it is by no means necessary
to do this, so that we may be able to recognise mere order as a proof of
intelligence. Paley's argument as to special ends will ever retain its
distinct, substantive character, while it, in no degree, interferes with
the argument from mere order or arrangement,
The necessity of extending the argument beyond that of
mere use was seen, when there were found, in the animal structure, parts
which appeared to serve no purpose, but were there merely as indicating a
general pattern, after which the class was constructed. In vertebrate
animals, there is discoverable a general type, amidst the infinite
diversity of form. There are undeveloped limbs which are of no use to the
particular animal in which they are found, but which point to a Divine
intelligence by indicating the fact, that all vertebrate animals were
constructed after the same general pattern. Owen imagines that we have
not, in this globe, all the diversities of which this general pattern or
archetype is susceptible, and that limbs, which are found only in an
undeveloped state in this world, may be fully developed in the other
planetary bodies.
We have not been able to discover any living forms in
the moon, and we cannot, therefore, say whether the pattern that prevails
here is also the lunar model. We can, however, detect on the surface of
the moon, a configuration that conforms to the plan on which the earth's
surface is modelled. We have undeveloped forms on our earth which we find
fully developed in the moon. There are terrestrial configurations the
meaning of which we could not understand, without studying the lunar
analogues.
It is to German thought that we owe very much of those
generalisations which have resulted in the recognition of typical forms in
nature. It appears very marvellous that men, possessed of very limited
acquaintance with science, and often grossly ignorant of its simplest
truths, should, as if by inspiration, obtain glimpses of general laws
which have escaped the scrutiny of the most diligent collectors of facts.
Oken records the very hour when, reclining on a green-sloping bank, and
gazing on the bleached skull of a deer, the truth suddenly flashed upon
him, that the bones of the skull were only the repetition of the
vertebrae; and this momentary inspiration revolutionised the science of
anatomy. But there is another remarkable anticipation of the same
philosopher, for which, as far as we know, he has not yet got credit. He
declared that the planets and the sun were mutually polar, and that this
held also in the case of satellites and their primaries. He gives no
intelligible reasons for holding that the sun and moon are magnets; but
quite recent investigations have proved the correctness of the oracular
dictum of this German dreamer. He died long before this verification
of science; but probably such testimony would move him little, as his own
transcendental grounds of belief were far more satisfactory to his mind,
than the empirical inductions of science. It was also a favourite idea of
Oken, that the earth is a great crystal, and that the moon also partakes
of this character. Science has, as yet, thrown no light on Oken's meaning.
Possibly all that is meant by a crystal is, that it is the symbol of form,
apart from organic structure. The notion of a crystal has been adopted by
most of the German cultivators of science from the ideal side. Thus Hegel
holds that the moon is a "material crystallisation, without atmosphere,
and without formative processes." He defines a crystal to be a "mute
life." Again, speaking of crystalline form, he says, "It is the silent
geometer in the interior of the body, which, independently of external
impulse, organises it within and without." By the "silent geometer," the
Christian means the Divine intelligence which shapes it into symmetry and
beauty. And, though we can discover no organic forms in the moon, yet the
footsteps of the Creator can be detected. Viewing the moon as an
individual crystal, we can detect symmetry, and, as one of a group, we can
recognise type. But, leaving these abstract views, let us now deal with
the reality.
When you first look at the moon through a telescope,
even though it be an excellent one, you can hardly fail to be
disappointed. No doubt, the surface of the moon will excite surprise by
its curious and novel aspect, but it will fail to give you any idea of
magnitude. You may tell the beholder that the little specks of light he
sees at the edge are mountains higher than Mont Blanc, but he has no
feeling of the reality. And many a one who has looked through a telescope
comes away as incredulous as ever. The objects descried through the
telescope are not seen to be mountains. It is only by a process of
thought that the mind is convinced that they are mountains. The maps in
relief, hung up in the hotels in Switzerland, though faithful models of
the Alps, do not convey the impression of magnitude. Even the gigantic
model in the library of Zurich, with its glass lakes, fails to give you
this impression. But look through the library windows at the actual
mountains before you, and you fully realise the magnitude, even though the
picture on the retina is larger, in the case of the model, than in that of
the actual mountains. Now, the perspective we have of the moon is such
that it produces only the effect of a model, and, when looking through a
telescope, we have the same difficulty in transmuting the stucco-like
prominences into mountains, as we would have in converting the hotel model
into a real Alpine range.
We must call in the aid of imagination, before the
landscape of the moon can stand out before us with the reality of a
terrestrial scene. Let the reader join us in a lunar excursion, and we
shall endeavour to trace out the points of resemblance and contrast in the
scenery of the earth and moon. Let us wing our flight from this globe, and
mark the changes in the aspect of the moon as we gradually approach. We
are soon able to discover a diversity of colour. From the earth's surface
the blaze of light is so great, that only difference of shade can be
discerned; but as we approach, things assume the aspect of real mountains,
valleys, and plains. We soon discover that the dark parts in the moon,
which fancy shapes into the eyes, nose, and mouth of the face-in-the-moon,
are vast plains. They are not, now, uniformly dark, for one region assumes
the aspect of ploughed fields, another that of a vast savanna. The
district known as the Sea of Serenity, and corresponding to the left eye
of the face, has a rich green, as if clothed with luxuriant grass, or
covered with vast forests of pine. We shall not alight upon the forest,
but shall choose rather the Sea of Showers —the darkest part of the moon's
surface, and corresponding to the right eye. We find here good footing,
for it is neither a forest nor a sea. For hundreds of miles on all sides
there is a dead flat. Here and there, solitary peaks, like that of
Teneriffe, start from the plain, unconnected with any mountain-range. They
rise from the vast prairie as abruptly as the pyramids do from the sands
of Egypt.
But as we travel on, we descry mountain-ranges rising
in the horizon. Before alighting on the moon, we could distinctly note the
contour of these ranges. While some stretched for hundreds of miles in
nearly straight lines, there were others, and these the most numerous,
that formed a vast circle. We shall make for one of the most regular of
this last class, viz., Eratosthenes. But, before reaching the foot of this
range, we must pass over bright rays, radiating from the circular
mountain, Copernicus. These rays are one of the most marked features of
the moon, as seen through a telescope. Oken speaks of mountains as the
organs of a planet, and certainly these mountains may not inaptly be
represented by a star-fish with its diverging rays. But now we can examine
the mystery, and we find that the rays are trap-dikes, rising little, if
at all, above the level of the general surface. They appear as bright rays
through the telescope, merely because they reflect the light better than
the rest of the plain. No mould or verdure has covered them up, as the
lava of Vesuvius has been by the vine-clad slopes. Not even does the
lichen grow upon them, and hence they are clearly discernible from the
earth. We can even discover where one dike cuts another, and tell which is
the older of the two. We can thus draw up a chronological scale for the
convulsions of the moon.
But let us pursue our journey onwards to our
destination, Eratosthenes. This circular mountain, or rather range of
mountains, is thirty-seven miles in diameter; and we know its dimensions
more accurately than those of the mountains of our globe. The ascent is by
a comparatively easy slope. We do not feel the want of mules, for we
combine the strength of a man with the weight of a child. We can bound
from rock to rock more lightly than the chamois, and can leap across
chasms six and a half times broader than any we could venture to take on
the surface of the earth. Were it not for this convenient lightness, the
task would be impracticable. The rocks have all their natural angularity.
There has been no weathering to mitigate the roughness ; and chasms and
sharp peaks face us at every turn. We at last gain the summit, 7,500 feet
above the plain outside. An astounding spectacle presents itself when we
view the interior of this vast volcanic crater. The rise on the outside of
the rim is gradual, but in the inside it is almost perpendicular. As we
cautiously creep to the edge, we see plumb down 15,800 feet, which is the
height of Mont Blanc above the sea. Let us take a stone—a large block can
easily be lifted—and drop it over. How long it hovers in the air! It
descends so slowly—five times slower than upon the earth—and it has so far
to descend. Did we listen ever so long, we would hear no reverberation
from that profound depth. In many places around this circular mountain
wall, there are traces of terraces. In fact, the whole is a vast
amphitheatre seated with terraces. In the centre of this crater a mountain
rises many thousand feet in height. Let us transport ourselves to the
summit ; and, as you look around, you find yourself imprisoned within a
perpendicular wall, 15,800 feet in height, and eighteen miles distant on
all sides, with no possibility of egress. There is no gap in the wall, no
outlet by which you may escape. On the summit of the central cone on which
you stand, there is a lesser cavity, through which the ashes and lava, of
which the cone consists, were ejected. But all activity is past, and
eternal silence reigns. You stand on volcanic ashes, but you do not suffer
the inconvenience of ascending the cone of Vesuvius. Thanks to the weak
attraction of the moon, you can tread on the treacherous slope without
sinking.
Now this singular formation is not singular in the
moon. It is the grand feature of the lunar surface. That surface is
divided into the dark plains and the bright alpine regions, and, in the
latter, the grand characteristic is the circular form with the Central
cone. These craters are of various dimensions. Some are fifty or sixty
miles across, others are only a few hundred yards. Now, do we find
anything corresponding to this on the earth ? It is plain that our active
volcanoes only feebly represent the lunar craters. The volcanic apertures
on the earth are only small craters at the top of volcanic mountains of no
great dimensions, such as Vesuvius. The terrestrial approximations to the
typical form are only like the undeveloped limbs of animals, pointing to
the more perfect. Among the older formations, however, we find indications
of the lunar circularity. In Auvergne, for example, there are some
illustrations, and probably, at one time, they might have been very
numerous. Successive upheavals, however, and various denuding influences
have obliterated the distinctive features, and it is only in a few cases
that we can trace the typical form. Monte Venere, at Rome, presents a very
fair specimen, being the central cone of a large crater.
As in the morphology of plants, we detect, amidst
diversity, the same typical form of the leaf, so we find in the moon
endless repetitions of the typical crater with the central cone. There
are, for example, walled plains of vast extent, some of them being as much
as 150 miles in diameter. They differ from the typical crater only in
this, that the enclosed part is a plain, instead of a concavity, and that
there is no central peak. Again, extensive ranges of mountains assume a
semicircular form, and when the vast dark plains were regarded
these semicircular forms were called bays or gulfs. But this
semicircular form evidently points to the circular typical form. Again,
some of the craters are without any walls or rims, and, in others, the
floor of the crater is convex, though in all cases it is sunk below the
level of the surrounding country. But it is not merely the more prominent
features that conform to the crater type. On minute inspection, we find
that the whole surface has a crateriform structure. When you take a large
crystal of calc spar, and break it into numerous pieces, you find that the
large rhomboid is made up of innumerable small ones. So, in the case of
the lunar craters, you find the large ones studded over with small ones,
and these, again, have craters of a third order of smallness. If you throw
successive handfuls of pebbles into a pond, you will see, at the same
time, circles interlacing with one another, and smaller ones diversfying,
in every imaginable way, the larger ones. Precisely such a spectacle is
presented by the structure of the moon. Theories of volcanic action have
been proposed to explain all this; but we cannot linger longer on the
summit of the central peak, and as there is no other mode of egress, we
shall take an imaginary flight over the encircling wall, and again alight
on the vast savanna from which we ascended.
We studiously avoided making any remarks upon the
nature of this surface when we previously passed over it, as we could
really offer no plausible account of it. But so rapid is the advance of
science, even in the department of astronomy, that, in the interval
between the ascent and descent we have learned that Father Secchi, of the
observatory at Rome, has made a curious discovery on the subject. Surfaces
reveal their nature, to a certain extent, by reflecting certain colours in
preference to others, but they also give a clue to their character by the
various ways in which they polarise light. Now, Secchi has found equally
polarised light in the whole smooth, dark plains of the moon, whatever be
the inclination of the incident and reflected rays. The only substance we
are acquainted with that gives practically the same result, is glass
paper, used in the arts for polishing, and he thinks that this may be made
to explain the corona encircling the moon in total eclipses. This, after
all, does not give a very definite notion of the nature of the surface,
but it dissipates the idea that Arago had lately revived, that these dark
plains were really seas, so shallow that the unevenness of the bottom
might be detected through the transparent water.
Let us direct our steps to the lunar Alps, a very lofty
range of mountains skirting the Mare Imbrium. In passing along the plain,
we come to interruptions like the crevasses in a glacier, only they are
much wider, more regularly formed, and of unfathomable depth. They present
exactly the appearance a trap-dike would do, if quarried out. These rents,
or rills, as they are termed, cross each other in such a way as to
produce fantastic forms. In one plain the letter H can be plainly
detected, and in another Z. There are, besides, many Chinese-like
characters. The first observers imagined that they were roads or canals.
The most probable explanation is, that they are rents in the moon's
surface, which have never been filled up with lava. They correspond to the
white radiating streams which we have already noticed, and which are
universally held to be pushed up through the rents. We can readily
conceive the cracking of the surface without a subsequent filling up. The
trap-dikes in the crust of the earth, in many cases, plainly indicate that
the lava with which they are filled up was not the disruptive power by
which the rents were caused.
With our newly-acquired buoyancy, we may attempt to
clear the rill, as it is a small one ; and, now that we are on the other
side, we pursue our journey to the base of the Alps, and the first thing
that strikes us is, that the cliffs, fronting the plain, rise, almost
perpendicularly, from the base. When, however, we go round, and take them
in the rear, we find that the ascent is comparatively easy. This leads us
at once to a remarkable analogy. On the surface of the earth we find that
the precipitous sides of all great mountain-ranges face the sea. The
terrestrial Alps, for example, have their steep side towards the
Mediterranean. Those who have crossed the Alps, for example, by the St
Gothard, will remember the long, gradual ascent from Fluelen, through the
canton of Uri, and the sudden descent and terrific zig-zags down the Val
Tremola to the plains of Italy. All the ranges in the moon have their
steep sides, in like manner, towards the so-called seas. If we cannot
admit that they are seas now, is it not probable that they may have once
been seas? If all our seas and oceans were drained, the surface of the
earth would present precisely the same spectacle that the moon does. But
do we know of any draining cause ? The reader will remember that, in our
last article, we saw that science had clearly established the fact, that
if any water existed on the nearest side of the moon, it would necessarily
flow to the other side. Let us only suppose that the centres of figure and
gravity were at one time coincident, that it was internal convulsions, of
which we have such numerous proofs, that, at a subsequent epoch, changed
the centre of gravity, and we have at once a cause adequate to the effect.
Short as our survey has been, we have seen enough to
reveal the "silent Geometer within"— the supreme Intelligence, who
manifests His presence in symmetry and type, as well as in the special
adaptation of means to ends. We reserve the direct uses of the moon to a
future occasion.