The Creation of God - Jacob Hartmann (readict TXT) 📗

of Egypt and Assyria we gaze upon in silent wonder, and despair of being able to carry back our thoughts to a period so remote. Still, the human race must have existed and multiplied for ages before the Pyramids could have been erected. We estimate the duration of human history at 6,000 years; but vast as this time may appear to us, what is it in comparison with the period during which the earth bore successive series of rank plants and mighty animals, but no man? Periods during which, in our own neighborhood (Kœnigsberg) the amber tree bloomed and dropped its costly gum on the earth and in the sea; when in Europe and North America groves of tropical palms flourished, in which gigantic lizards, and after them elephants, whose mighty remains are still buried in the earth, found a home. Different geologists, proceeding from different premises, have sought to estimate the length of the above period, and they set it down from one to nine million of years. The time during which the earth has generated organic beings is again small, compared with the ages during which the world was a mass of molten rocks. The experiments of Bischoff upon basalt show that for our globe to cool down from 2,000° to 200° centigrade would require 350 millions of years. And with regard to the period during which the first nebulous masses condensed, so as to form our planetary system, conjecture must entirely cease. The history of man, therefore, is but a minute ripple in the infinite ocean of time. For a much longer period than that during which he has already occupied the world, the existence of a state of inorganic nature, favorable to man’s existence, seems to be secured; so that for ourselves, and for long generations after us, we have nothing to fear. But the same forces of air and water, and of the volcanic interior, which produced former geological revolutions, and buried one series of living forms after another, still act upon the earth’s crust. They, rather than those distant cosmical changes of which we have spoken, will end the human race, and perhaps compel us to make way for new and more complete forms of life, as the lizard and the mammoth have given way to us and our contemporaries.

“Grand, however, and marvelous as are these questions regarding the physical constitution of the sun, they are but a portion of the wonders connected with our luminary. His relationship to life is yet to be referred to. The earth’s atmosphere contains carbonic acid, and the earth’s surface bears living plants; the former is the nutriment of the latter. The plant seizes the combined carbon and oxygen and tears them asunder, storing the carbon and letting the oxygen go free. By no special force, different in quality from other forces, do plants exercise this power—the real magician here is the sun. We have seen how heat is consumed in forcing asunder the atoms and molecules of solids and liquids, converting itself into potential energy, which reappears as heat when the attractions of the separated atoms are again allowed to come into play. Precisely the same considerations which we then applied to heat we have now to apply to light; for it is at the expense of the solar light that the decomposition of the carbonic acid is effected. Without the sun the reduction cannot take place, and an amount of sunlight is consumed exactly equivalent to the molecular work accomplished. Thus trees are formed, thus meadows grow, thus the flowers bloom. Let the rays fall upon the surface of sand, the sand is heated, and finally radiates away as much as it receives; let the same rays fall upon a forest, the quantity of heat given back is less than that received, for the energy of a portion of the sunbeams is invested in building up the trees. I have here a bundle of cotton which I ignite; it bursts into flame, and yields a definite amount of heat; precisely that amount of heat was abstracted from the sun in order to form that bit of cotton. This is a representative case—every tree, plant, and flower, grows and flourishes by the grace and bounty of the sun.

“But we cannot stop at vegetable life; for this is the source, mediate or immediate, of all animal life. In the animal body vegetable substances are brought again into contact with their beloved oxygen, and they burn within as a fire burns in a grate. This is the source of all animal power; and the forces in play are the same, in kind, as those which operate in inorganic nature. In the plant the clock is wound up, in the animal it runs down. In the plant the atoms are separated, in the animal they recombine. And as surely as the force which moves a clock’s hands is derived from the arm which winds the clock, so surely is all terrestrial power drawn from the sun. Leaving out of account the eruption of volcanoes and the ebb and flow of the tides, every mechanical action on the earth’s surface, every manifestation of power, organic and inorganic, vital or physical, is produced by the sun. His warmth keeps the sea liquid, and the atmosphere a gas, and all the storms which agitate both are blown by the mechanical force of the sun. He lifts the rivers and glaciers up the mountains; and thus the cataract and avalanche shoot with an energy derived immediately from him. Thunder and lightning are also his transmuted strength. Every fire that burns and every flame that glows dispenses light and heat which originally belonged to the sun. In these days, unhappily, the news of battle is familiar to us, but every shock, and every charge, is an application or misapplication of the mechanical force of the sun. He blows the trumpet, he urges the projectile, he bursts the bomb. And remember this is not poetry, but rigid mechanical truth. He rears, as I have said, the whole vegetable world, and through it the animal; the lilies of the field are his workmanship, the verdure of the meadows, and the cattle upon a thousand hills. He forms the muscle, he urges the blood, he builds the brain. His fleetness is in the lion’s foot; he springs in the panther, he soars in the eagle, he slides in the snake. He builds the forest, and hews it down, the power which raised the tree and that which wields the axe being one and the same. The clover sprouts and blossoms, and the scythe of the mower swings, by the operation of the same force. The sun digs the ore from our mines, he rolls the iron, he rivets the plates, he boils the water, he draws the train. He not only grows the cotton, but he spins the fiber and weaves the web. There is not a hammer raised, a wheel turned, or a shuttle thrown, that is not raised, and turned, and thrown by the sun. His energy is poured freely into space, but our world is a halting-place where the energy is conditioned. Here the Proteus works his spells; the self-same essence takes a million of shapes and hues, and finally dissolves into its primitive and almost formless form. The sun comes to us as heat; he quits us as heat; and between his entrance and departure the multiform powers of our globe appear. They are all special forms of solar power—the molds into which his strength is temporarily poured, in passing from its source through infinitude.

“Presented rightly to the mind, the discoveries and generalizations of modern science constitute a poem more sublime than has yet been addressed to the intellect and imagination of man. The natural philosopher of to-day may dwell amid conceptions which beggar those of Milton. So great and grand are they, that in the contemplation of them a certain force of character is requisite to preserve us from bewilderment. Look at the integrated energies of the world—the stored power of our coal fields; our winds and rivers; our fleets, armies, and guns; what are they? They are all generated by a portion of the sun’s energy, which does not amount to 1⁄2300000000​th of the whole. This, in fact, is the entire fraction of the sun’s force intercepted by the earth, and, in reality, we convert but a small fraction of that fraction into mechanical energy. Multiplying all our powers by millions of millions, we do not reach the sun’s expenditure. And still, notwithstanding this enormous drain, in the lapse of human history we are unable to detect a diminution of his store; measured by our largest terrestrial standards, such a reservoir of power is infinite; but it is our privilege to rise above these standards and to regard the sun himself as a speck in infinite extension—a mere drop in the universal sea. We analyze the space in which he is immersed, and which is the vehicle of his power. We pass to other systems and other suns, each pouring forth energy like our own, but still without infringement of the law, which reveals immutability in the midst of change, which recognizes incessant transference and conversion, but neither final gain nor loss. This law generalizes the aphorism of Solomon that there is nothing new under the sun, by teaching us to detect everywhere, under its infinite variety of appearances, the same primeval force. To nature nothing can be added; from nature nothing can be taken away; the sum of her energies is constant, and the utmost that man can do in the pursuit of physical truth, or in the application of physical knowledge, is to shift the constituents of the never-varying total, and out of one of them to form another. The law of conservation rigidly excludes both creation and annihilation. Waves may change into ripples, and ripples into waves—magnitude may be substituted for number, and number for magnitude—asteroids may aggregate to suns, and suns may resolve themselves into flora and fauna, and flora and fauna melt in air—the flux of power is eternally the same. It rolls in music through the ages, and all the terrestrial energy—the manifestations of life, as well as the display of phenomena, are but the modulations of the rhythm” (Tyndall Lecture XII).