Fig. 6.—White Light resolved into Colors. not colors in themselves at all, but simply a different number of vibrations. Color is all in the eye. Violet has in different places from 716 to 765,000,000,000,000 of vibrations per second; red has, in different places, from 396 to 470,000,000,000,000 vibrations per second. None of these in any sense are color, but affect the eye differently, and we call these different effects color. They are simply various velocities of vibration. An object, like one kind of stripe in our flag, which absorbs all kinds of vibrations except those between 396 and 470,000,000,000,000, and reflects those, appears red to us. The field for the stars absorbs and destroys all but those vibrations numbering about 653,000,000,000,000 of vibrations per second. A color is a constant creation. Light makes momentary color in the flag. Drake might have written, in the continuous present as well as in the past,
"Freedom mingles with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldrick of the skies,
And stripes its pore celestial white
With streakings of the morning light."
Every little pansy, tender as fancy, pearled with evanescent dew, fresh as a new creation of sunbeams, has power to suppress in one part of its petals all vibrations we call red, in another those we call yellow, and purple, and reflect each of these in other parts of the same tender petal. "Pansies are for thoughts," even more thoughts than poor Ophelia knew. An evening cloud that is dense enough to absorb all the faster and weaker vibrations, leaving only the stronger to come through, will be said to be red; because the vibrations that produce the impression we have so named are the only ones that have vigor enough to get through. It is like an army charging upon a fortress. Under the deadly fire and fearful obstructions six-sevenths go down, but one-seventh comes through with the glory of victory upon its face.
Light comes in undulations to the eye, as tones of sound to the ear. Must not light also sing? The lowest tone we can hear is made by 16.5 vibrations of air per second; the highest, so shrill and "fine that nothing lives 'twixt it and silence," is made by 38,000 vibrations per second. Between these extremes lie eleven octaves; C of the G clef having 258-7/8 vibrations to the second, and its octave above 517-1/2. Not that sound vibrations cease at 38,000, but our organs are not fitted to hear beyond those limitations. If our ears were delicate enough, we could hear even up to the almost infinite vibrations of light. In one of those semi-inspirations we find in Shakspeare's works, he says—
"There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim.
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."
And that older poetry which is always highest truth says, "The morning stars sing together." We misconstrued another passage which we could not understand, and did not dare translate as it was written, till science crept up to a perception of the truth that had been standing there for ages, waiting a mind that could take it in. Now we read as it is written—"Thou makest the out-goings of the morning and evening to sing." Were our senses fine enough, we could hear the separate keynote of every individual star. Stars differ in glory and in power, and so in the volume and pitch of their song. Were our hearing sensitive enough, we could hear not only the separate key-notes but the infinite swelling harmony of these myriad stars of the sky, as they pour their mighty tide of united anthems in the ear of God:
"In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice.
Forever singing, as they shine,
The hand that made us is divine."
This music is not monotonous. Stars draw near each other, and make a light that is unapproachable by mortals; then the music swells beyond our ability to endure. They recede far away, making a light so dim that the music dies away, so near to silence that only spirits can perceive it. No wonder God rejoices in his works. They pour into his ear one ceaseless tide of rapturous song.
Our senses are limited—we have only five, but there is room for many more. Some time we shall be taken out of "this muddy vesture of decay," no longer see the universe through crevices of our prison-house, but shall range through wider fields, explore deeper mysteries, and discover new worlds, hints of which have never yet been blown across the wide Atlantic that rolls between them and men abiding in the flesh.