HIGH AND LOW.

BY GALEN H. OSBORNE.

WHENEVER the jolly old king, in the story,

Went forth to his parks on his rare hunting sprees; The more who were wont to go with him, the more he Contented himself in his glorious ease.

His princes and dukes, and lords and nobles

For his game the old monarch depended on these;
While he, as was fitting, forgot all his troubles,
And lazily 'loafed it,' long under the trees.

And then, when the jolly old king, in the story,

To his castle returned, from his rare hunting-sprees; Of the wondering crowd he would ask, in vain-glory, 'What other king ever slew trophies like these?'

I know an old man of an opposite nature,

Life's thorniest high-way thus far he has trod; His 'professional duties,' the world's nomenclature, Defines as the humblest-he carries a hod.

And daily, as over the city I wander,

I see the man staggering under his load; And watching his labors, I musingly ponder, If ever a pleasure lights up his abode.

'Augh! yer honor,' says he, 'sure no heart could be gladder Nor mine - for as much as I plaise I may shirk;

I've only to carry me bricks up the ladder,

An' him at the top 'll do all o' the work!'

The men at the top and the men at the bottom
How alike and yet what a great world lies between !
In story they live who were better forgotten;
Too oft are the works of the lowly unseen.

Though men may revile me, and call me a loafer,
My trust in the humble I ever shall put;
Whatever my round in Life's ladder, I go for
The poor individual down at the foot.

THE

MYSTERIES OF THE WORLDS.

MAN, being himself but an atom in creation, and as yet of few days, is too limited in his powers of observation and thought to comprehend the lengths and breadths and heights and depths of those vast fields of space and periods of duration which the Eternal Architect of the universe occupied in the construction of his works. Agencies, which to us appear inert and fixed in their character, being to our observation so slow in their operation, are nevertheless ever active and irresistibly potent; and it is only when we discover the results of their movements in the outer and changeable crust of our globe that we are able to note their progress at all. The report of man's personal observation of his surroundings is, 'All things continue as they were from the beginning of the Creation;' but when he is able to read the chronology written upon the rocks, he finds the unmistakable record of change, of progress and of development, requiring periods as vast in duration as the stellar regions are in extension — the one being measured by years, the other in miles.

The eye, aided by the telescope, has revealed to us depths of space so profound that the strongest intellectual power reels and totters and sinks exhausted in the contemplation- suns so remote that their light has been thousands of years in its passage from them to us, although travelling at the rate of twelve millions of miles in a minute; yet we know that this is but a part-probably a small part of that material organism which is moving around us in obedience to one Law, and guided and impelled by one Hand. But we have no instrument to aid us in penetrating, in running back, through the equally immeasurable periods of past duration. It is true that with HIM 'who inhabiteth eternity,' past, present and future are alike; but this truth is too wonderful for us; it is high, we cannot attain unto it; but all created things appear to be affected by progressive duration, whether flowers or rocks, insects or worlds. A tree, by its concentric laminæ, testifies as to the number of years it has existed; so the earth, by its rocky laminæ, tells us through how many periods it has passed. These periods cannot be measured by years, or by any means of computation that we possess. We perceive the analogy, and vaguely labor to assign to each mighty mutation a period long enough to effect it.

The whole creation is manifestly in a state of progress toward perfection, a slow progress, as we estimate speed; but what is our estimate when compared with an illimitable future? Both revelation and the rocks tell us of a period when the earth was without form and void;' without order, and destitute of either vegetable or animal life. The mass of the globe had been aggregated; but what is now solid was probably fluid from intense heat, and what is now liquid was vapor—a vast and confused surrounding, through which no ray of light could penetrate to the dark body of the globe. 'Darkness was upon the face of the deep.' It was at this condition of things that, according to Hugh Miller, the vision of creation, as presented to the mind of Moses, began.

Suppose that at the time when the earth was enveloped in this ocean of

vapor, an observer, possessed of the same powers and appliances of observation as are possessed by an astronomer of the present day, had viewed it from Venus, measured its diameter, and calculated its density, what would have been his report? A brilliant and beautiful planet, reflecting white light, the diameter of which would probably have been about sixteen thousand miles, and the density equal to that of water, being the same, in the latter particular, that our astronomers bring us of Jupiter. Or, possibly, the diameter might have been double that here supposed, and the density that of cork, thus conforming to the present condition of Saturn.

Moses speaks of 'the waters.' 'The spirit of GoD moved upon the face of the waters.' And again, GOD, by interposing 'the firmament,' divided the waters from the waters. At that time all the water of the globe was in a state of vapor. Whatever might condense and fall upon the hot surface of the earth would be instantly reconverted into steam, but only at the expense of so much of the original heat of the planet.

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But a movement began to take place in the gaseous ocean. The atmosphere began to exert its power. The spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.' Here was agitation, the operation of like seeking like, the watery particles combining, and all aëriform existences seeking their affinities. The effect would be vast cataracts of rain, as far exceeding the heaviest rains of the present day as these last exceed the dew of a summer evening-to be quickly returned in vapor from the ardent bosom of the earth, to be again condensed and precipitated upon it. How long did the spirit of God thus move upon the waters? A day? Yes, one of the days of eternity—a day unmeasured by any of our chronometers.

Thus slowly, as we esteem slowness, did the surface of the earth become cool enough to allow of water to lie upon it. Then, for the first time, did the atmosphere 'the firmament stretch itself abroad as it is at this day, and the waters that were above it, in a yet ocean of cloud, were separated or divided from those which had condensed and fallen upon the earth and remained there, a shallow, boiling sea. At the close of this period of separation and condensation, the entire surface of the globe would be covered with water a universal ocean, somewhat more, probably, than one mile in depth. The cool and rigid crust of the globe would be thin and weak compared with what it now is. 'And,' says the inspired writer, 'GOD said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear.' The agents in this stupendous operation are yet in existence, and occasionally shake the earth slightly, causing consternation to the inhabitants, and sometimes great calamity; but what are these to those mighty risings and sinkings which threw up the continents and mountains, and hollowed out the profound beds of the oceans! Until the waters lay in great quantity upon the earth, and urged their way, by the force of gravity, through the chinks in its brittle and contracting surface, there would be no earthquakes; but when they found their way deep down into its yet molten mass, tremendous agitations would take place, and the divine fiat would be accomplished through the agency of a natural cause, with which we are very familiar. How striking is the harmony be

tween the inspired record and the teachers of the soundest inductive philosophy! The very place which Moses assigns to the 'gathering together of the waters,' and the appearance of the dry land, in the order of the stupendous phenomena mentioned in the first chapter of the Bible, is the very one in which it must naturally have occurred, when an ocean of water on the surface of the earth was brought into the closest and most fearful proximity with its antagonistic element. The cause was adequate to the effect; the effect was commensurate with the cause.

This brings us to the end of the third day of Moses, and of the third geologic period.

Still no direct ray of the sun had penetrated to the earth. There was light, but it was the light of a cloudy day; and there was abundance of heat, for the earth itself was yet warm, and the sea was warm; and no sooner was the earth elevated above the waters of the ocean, than, in obedience to that mighty POWER whose will is the law of nature, it brought forth these gigantic forms of primitive vegetation, the remains of which, dear reader, are perchance at this moment glowing in your grate. This original warmth of the earth, the sea, and of course the atmosphere, accounts for the fact that the remains of ultra-tropical plants and animals have been found even in the polar regions.

We next read in the Book that God called into existence 'the moving creature that hath life;' and the rocks, the coral islands, seas paved with shells, and continents covered with organic remains, attest in mute but overpowering eloquence the fulfilment of the command of the CREATOR: 'Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life.' At first the animal organisms were simple in the extreme; but as period succeeded to period, and order to confusion, and the earth became better fitted to be the dwelling-place of higher, more complex, sensitive and delicate organisms, we find them coming successively into existence, until at last man is created. Thus does the highest, the soberest and severest philosophy find in the most ancient of records a torch to light her way through the most profound investigation upon which the human mind can enter, and thus is the truth of that record attested by the immediate hand of the ALMIGHTY.

Here ends the Past, so far as these great changes go. Our Present, geologically speaking, embraces all human history. What further changes await this earth of ours is only known to HIM who sees the end from the beginning; but, judging from the records inscribed upon its rocks, and corroborated as they are by the words of inspired truth, we may confidently conclude that an unending series of steps toward perfection is in reserve.

We have traced the revelations of geology thus far only as a guide to another inquiry, namely, the present condition of the several members of our system. The question, 'Are there more worlds than one?' has occupied the thoughts and employed the pens of some of the first minds of this generation; but no satisfactory solution has been reached. The planetary bodies of the system are too remote to admit of observation sufficiently close to settle the question of their habitability, the moon only excepted; and it is generally agreed that that small secondary planet is destitute of all forms of life known

to us.

That it will ever remain so, is what we may not confidently assume; for there was a time when no living thing existed on this earth, and even then it was a bright and beautiful planet. The moon, it is true, appears to lack some of the essential elements of life; for it is believed to be destitute both of water and of an atmosphere. The correctness of this supposition being admitted, who dare say that these will or will not ever be supplied?

The sun, although the most obvious and important body in our system, is, from the very nature of its structure, the least understood. Its bulk, when compared with the globe which we inhabit, is so vast as to put all comprehension at fault. Probably the strongest point of view in which we can place it is this suppose the centre of the sun to be where the centre of the earth is, its surface would lie more than two hundred miles beyond the moon.

But immense as the sun is, and great as is its gravitating power, its density, computed by its apparent diameter, is less than one-third of that of the earth. This, however, is easily accounted for. What we see — - its luminous surface is nearly nine hundred thousand miles in diameter; whereas, the solid central globe is probably less than five hundred thousand, assuming that its density is only a little greater than that of the earth. Most likely, however, its density is more nearly that of Mercury, which is greater than that of iron. This, if true, would reduce the solid globe to less than three hundred thousand miles in diameter. The remaining six hundred thousand must therefore be made up of an atmospheric ocean three hundred thousand miles in depth, the incandescent surface of which is all we see or can see. From that brilliant outer surface to the surface of the central globe is, therefore, a distance considerably greater than that between the earth and the moon. What a field is here for the play of the imagination! Observation terminates at the surface of this ocean, and analogy can bear us but feebly onward; but we may contemplate it as the vast laboratory wherein is prepared that gaseous fuel the combustion of which sends light and heat and life to the extremities of the planetary system; ascending in one form and descending in another, like the vapor and the rain of earth, or like the vital fluid in the animal system. We may rationally imagine this immense ocean of aëriform matter to be composed of stratum overlying stratum, each performing its appropriate part in the magnificent economy of the sun, whether furnishing supplies to the luminous stratum, or shading with watery clouds the stupendous world lying beneath them. We can easily conceive of atmospheric strata so opaque, so non-conducting, that, instead of the great inner sphere being exposed to a degree of heat which, if unmitigated, would quickly convert the most infusible substances that we are acquainted with into vapor, there may be a temperature and a degree of light in that world adapted to the most sentient and delicate of animal organizations. We can imagine light transmitted from every part of the heavens, soft and gloriously variable, beyond any thing ever seen in this stormy sphere. Certain it is 'there is no night there,' nor summer, nor winter, nor starry skies. No knowledge can originate there, from observation, of other worlds, or suns, or systems.

Is the sun a habitable globe? We cannot tell; but there is nothing at all absurd in the hypothesis; for certain it is that were the heat which exists at

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